“Charles Washburn,” he said. “They call you Two Small, right? With a number two. That’s clever. Was that you who came up with that?”

He looked up from the bag to Washburn, who didn’t reply. Bosch looked back down at the evidence bag and shook his head.

“Well, we’ve got a problem here, Two Small. You know what the problem is?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Well, you know what I’m not seeing in this bag?”

“Don’t matter to me.”

“I’m not seeing a pipe or even any papers. And then you got this big wad of cash in here with the reefer. You know what all that adds up to now, don’t you?”

“It adds up to you letting me call my lawyer. And don’t bother talking to me ’cause I got nothin’ to say to your ass. Just bring me the phone and I call my guy up.”

Through the bag Bosch pushed the main button on 2 Small’s phone, and the screen came to life. As he expected, the phone was password protected.

“Oops, you need a password.”

Bosch held it up for Washburn to see.

“Give it to me and I’ll call your lawyer for you.”

“No, that’s okay. Put me back in the tank and I’ll use the pay phone in there.”

“Why not this one? You probably have your guy on speed dial, don’t you?”

“’Cause that ain’t my phone and I don’t know the password.”

Bosch knew the phone probably had call information and contact lists that could lead to further trouble for Washburn. Two Small had no choice but to deny ownership, even if it was laughable.

“Really? That’s sort of strange, since this came out of your pocket. Along with the weed and the money.”

“You people put that shit on me. I want to call a lawyer.”

Bosch nodded and turned to Gant and addressed him. He was strolling along a very thin constitutional line here.

“You know what that means, Jordy?”

“Tell me.”

“It means this guy had a controlled substance in one pocket and a wad of cash in the other. See, not carrying a pipe was a mistake. Because without carrying a means of personal consumption, the law views that as possession with intent to sell. And that bumps it up to a felony. His lawyer will probably tell him all of that.”

“What are you talking about, man?” Washburn protested. “That idn’t even half a lid. I ain’t selling it and you fucking know it.”

Bosch looked back at him.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked. “Because you just told me you wanted a lawyer, and when you say that, I gotta shut it down. You want to talk to me now?”

“All I’m sayin’ is I wasn’t sellin’ shit.”

“Do you want to talk to me?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you if it gets this bullshit taken care of.”

“Well, then, we gotta do it right.”

Bosch pulled the rights waiver out of his jacket pocket and had Washburn sign it. Bosch doubted his play would stand up to Supreme Court scrutiny but he didn’t think it would ever come to that.