The man in the black mask groaned in pain as they cuffed his hands behind his back.

“My hand! Jesus, you assholes, my hand is broken!”

I climbed to my feet and saw several men in black windbreakers moving about like ants on a hill. Some of the plastic raid jackets said LAPD on them but most had FBI printed across the back. Soon a helicopter came overhead and lit the entire parking clearing with a spotlight.

Bosch stepped over to the FBI agents huddling over the man in the mask.

“Was he hit?” he asked.

“There is no wound,” an agent said. “The round must have hit the gun, but that still hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Where is the gun?”

“We’re still looking,” the agent said.

“It may have gone over the side,” another agent said.

“If we don’t find it tonight, we find it in daylight,” said a third.

They pulled the man up into a standing position. Two of the FBI agents stood on either side of him, holding him at the elbows.

“Let’s see who we’ve got,” Bosch said.

The ski mask was unceremoniously yanked off and a flashlight was aimed point-blank at the man’s face. Bosch turned and looked back at me.

“Juror number seven,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Juror number seven from the trial. He didn’t show up today and the Sheriff’s Department was looking for him.”

Bosch turned back to the man I knew was named David McSweeney.

“Hold him right there.”

He then turned and signaled to me to follow him. He walked out of the circle of activity and into the parking clearing near my car. He stopped and turned back to me. But I got my question in first.

“What just happened?”

“What just happened was we just saved your life. He was going to push you over the side.”

“I know that, but what happened? Where did you and everybody else come from? You said you would let people go at night after I was tucked in. Where did all of these cops come from? And what’s the FBI doing here?”

“Things were different tonight. Things happened.”

“What things happened? What changed?”

“We can go over that later. Let’s talk about what we’ve got here first.”

“I don’t know what we’ve got here.”

“Tell me about juror number seven. Why didn’t he show up today?”

“Well, you should probably ask him that. All I can tell you is that this morning the judge called us into chambers and said he got an anonymous letter saying number seven was a phony and he lied about having a record. The judge planned to question him but he didn’t show up. The sheriffs were sent to his house and his job and they brought back a guy who wasn’t juror number seven.”

Bosch raised his hand like a traffic cop.