Harry Bosch raised his briefcase like a shield and used it to push his way through the crowd of reporters and cameras gathered outside the doors of the courtroom.
“Let me through, please, let me through.”
Most of them didn’t move until he used the briefcase to lever them out of the way. They were desperately crowding in and reaching tape recorders and cameras toward the center of the human knot where the defense lawyer was holding court.
Bosch finally made it to the door, where a sheriff’s deputy was pressed against the handle. He recognized Bosch and stepped sideways so he could open the door.
“You know,” Bosch said to the deputy, “this is going to happen every day. This guy has more to say outside court than inside. You might want to think about setting up some rules so people can get in and out.”
As Bosch went through the door, he heard the deputy tell him to talk to the judge about it.
Bosch walked down the center aisle and then through the gate to the prosecution table. He was the first to arrive. He pulled the third chair out and sat down. He opened his briefcase on the table, took out the heavy blue binder and put it to the side. He then closed and snapped the briefcase locks and put it down on the floor next to his chair.
Bosch was ready. He leaned forward and folded his arms on top of the binder. The courtroom was still, almost empty except for the judge’s clerk and a court reporter who were getting ready for the day. Bosch liked these times. The quiet before the storm. And he knew without a doubt that a storm was surely coming. He nodded to himself. He was ready, ready to dance with the devil once more. He realized that his mission in life was all about moments like these. Moments that should be savored and remembered but that always caused a tight fisting of his guts.
There was a loud metallic clacking sound and the door to the side holding cell opened. Two deputies led a man through the door. He was young and still tanned somehow despite almost three months in lockup. He wore a suit that would easily take the weekly paychecks of the men on either side of him. His hands were cuffed at his sides to a waist chain which looked incongruous with the perfect blue suit. In one hand he clasped an artist’s sketch pad. The other held a black felt-tip pen, the only kind of writing instrument allowed in lockdown.
The man was led to the defense table and positioned in front of the middle seat. He smiled and looked forward as the cuffs and the chain were removed. A deputy put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him down into the seat. The deputies then moved back and took positions in chairs to the man’s rear.
The man immediately leaned forward and opened the sketch pad and went to work with his pen. Bosch watched. He could hear the point of the pen scratching furiously on the paper.
“They don’t allow me a charcoal, Bosch. Do you believe that? What threat could a piece of charcoal possibly be?”
He hadn’t looked at Bosch as he said it. Bosch didn’t reply.
“It’s the little things like that that bother me the most,” the man said.
“Better get used to it,” Bosch said.
The man laughed but still did not look at Bosch.
“You know, somehow I knew that was exactly what you were going to say.”
Bosch was quiet.
“You see, you are so predictable Bosch. All of you are.”
The rear courtroom door opened and Bosch turned his eyes away from the defendant. The attorneys were coming in now. They were about to start.