Page 36 of Resurrection Walk

“Nothing.”

I held his eyes for a moment and then entered the house. Bosch passed by them next.

“You still look like police,” the tall one said.

Bosch didn’t reply. He just walked into the house, and Muriel closed the door.

“I will get Eric,” she said.

“Un momento,Muriel,” I said. “Who are those guys and how did they know we were coming?”

“The one who spoke to you is my son Carlos — Lucinda’s little brother. Cesar is her cousin.”

“You told them we were coming to talk to Eric?”

“They were here when you called to say you were coming.”

“They live here?”

“No, they live down the street. But they come by.”

I nodded and now had a firsthand understanding of Lucinda’s urgency: she had to win her freedom so she could rescue her son from a future in a gang.

Muriel led us to the living room and said she would go get Eric from his room. We heard muffled words while we waited and then finally Muriel returned holding Eric Sanz’s hand. He wore green shorts and a white polo shirt and red-and-black gym shoes. I immediately saw the unmistakable continuance of genetic heritage. The dark eyes, light brown skin, and hairline were all there. In a matter of a few hours I had seen three generations of this family. But the boy seemed smaller and more delicate than I’d imagined he would be at thirteen. His shirt was at least two sizes too big and hung off his bony shoulders.

I started to regret asking Lucinda to allow us to talk to this small boy about the death of his father and the conviction of his mother, because he looked so fragile. Bosch and I had worked things out on our final approach to Boyle Heights and decided that he would handle the questioning after an introduction from me. I hoped that Harry would get the same vibe I’d gotten and go gently with the interview.

The living room was overcrowded with furniture and family pictures on the walls and tables. There were many of Lucinda and of Eric as a younger child. It seemed to me that the photos would not be on display if Eric had grown up believing in his mother’s guilt.

Bosch and I sat on a chocolate-brown couch with worn and out-of-shape cushions, while Eric and his grandmother sat across from us on a matching chair wide enough for them both. Muriel had not offered us coffee, water, or anything besides an audience with our client’s son.

“Eric, my name is Mickey Haller,” I began. “I am your mother’s lawyer. And this is Harry Bosch, an investigator. We are trying to get your mother home to you. We want to take her case into court and prove to the judge that she did not do the thing they say she did. You understand, Eric?”

“Yes,” he said. The boy’s voice was small and tentative.

“We know this is difficult for you,” I said. “So if at any point you feel like you want a break or want to stop, just say so and we’ll stop. Is that okay with you?”

“Okay.”

“Good, Eric. Because we really want to try to help your mother if we can. I’m sure you wish she could be home with you.”

“Yes.”

“Good. So now I’ll let Harry take over. Thank you for talking to us, Eric. Harry?”

I looked over and saw that Bosch had a pen and notepad out and ready.

“Harry, no notes,” I said. “Let’s just talk.”

Bosch nodded, probably thinking my instruction came from a desire to be less formal with the boy. I would explain to him later that written notes could end up in the opposition’s hands through discovery requests. It was one of the rules I operated by — no notes, no discovery. Bosch would need to adjust his methods if he stuck with defense work.

“Okay, Eric,” Bosch said, “I want to start with a few basic questions. You are thirteen years old?”

“Yes.”

“And which school do you go to?”

“Home school.”

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