2

It was almost noon by the time the door opened and Coleman was led in by two prison guards. He was locked with his arms behind his back into the seat across the table from Bosch. The guards warned him that they would be watching and then left the two of them staring at each other across the table.

“You a cop, right?” Coleman said. “You know what puttin’ me in a room with a cop could do to me, if one a these hacks put word ’round?”

Bosch didn’t answer. He studied the man across from him. He had seen mug shots but they only framed Coleman’s face. He knew Coleman was big—he was a known Rolling 60s enforcer—but not this big. He had a heavily muscled and sculpted physique, a neck wider than his head—including his ears. Sixteen years of pushups and sit ups and whatever exercises he could manage in his cell had given him a chest that easily extended beyond his chin, and biceps-triceps vises that looked like they could crush walnuts to powder. In the mug shots, his hair had always had a stylized fade. Now his head was clean-shaven and he had used his dome as a canvas for the Lord. On either side he had blue prison-ink crosses wrapped in barbed wire. Bosch wondered if that was part of the lobbying effort with the parole board. I’m saved. It says so right here on my cranium.

“Yes, I’m a cop,” Bosch finally said. “Up from L.A.”

“Sher’ff’s or PD?”

“LAPD. My name’s Bosch. And Rufus, this is going to be the single luckiest or unluckiest day of your life. The cool thing is you’re going to get to pick which one of those days it is. Most of us, we never get the chance to choose between good luck and bad luck. One or the other of them just sort of happens. It’s fate. But this time you do, Rufus. You get to choose. Right now.”

“Yeah, how’s that? You the man with all the luck in your pockets?”

Bosch nodded.

“Today I am.”

Bosch had placed a file folder on the table before Coleman was brought in. He now opened it and lifted out two letters. He left the envelope, which was addressed and already stamped, in the file, just far enough away that Coleman wouldn’t be able to read it.

“So, next month you’re taking your second shot at parole, I hear,” Bosch said.

“That’s right,” Coleman said, a slight tone of curiosity and concern in his voice.

“Well, I don’t know if you know how it works but the same two board members who heard your first hearing two years ago come back for your second. So you got two guys coming who already turned you down once. That means you’re going to need help, Rufus.”

“I already got the Lord on my side.”

He leaned forward and turned his head from side to side so Bosch could get a good look at the tattooed crosses. They reminded Harry of the team logo on the side of a football helmet.