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March 25 - March 30, 2018
He believed that every case had a black box. A piece of evidence, a person, a positioning of facts that brought a certain understanding and helped explain what had happened and why.
The firearms report gave Bosch the name Rufus Coleman, forty-one years old and a hard-core member of the Rolling 60s Crips gang. He was currently incarcerated for murder in the California State Penitentiary at San Quentin.
These were young men fired in the anti-cop cauldron of South L.A. They were seasoned by racism, drugs, societal indifference, and the erosion of traditional family and education structures, then put out on the street, where they could make more in a day than their mothers made in a month. They were cheered on in this lifestyle from every boom box and car stereo by a rap message that said fuck the police and the rest of society.
His daughter had already loaded the tray with five of his favorite discs. Frank Morgan, George Cables, Art Pepper, Ron Carter, and Thelonious Monk.
His daughter was making him a birthday dinner and that would be his priority. There could be nothing better in the world than to have her full attention.
“You know you’re the most paranoid guy I know.” Bosch narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Who told you that?” Jackson laughed.
“Grissett’s been putting out his own stuff,” he continued. “I recommend a disc called Form. It’s not his latest, but it’s worth a listen. Neo-bop stuff. He’s got a great tenor on there you’d like. Seamus Blake. Check the solo on ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance.’ It’s tight.”
She had read about shoot/don’t shoot situations in a book by Malcolm Gladwell,
He also knew that if he waited, somehow he would see, that there was lost light in all places of darkness, and if he found it, it would save him.
