A Darkness More Than Night

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.

Chapter 7
    By the time McCaleb got to the Farmers’ Market he was thirty minutes late for the meeting with Jaye Winston. He and Buddy had made the crossing in an hour and a half and McCaleb had called the sheriff’s detective after they tied up at Cabrillo Marina. They arranged to meet but then he found the battery in the Cherokee dead because the car hadn’t been used in two weeks. He had to get Buddy to give him a jump from his old Taurus and that had taken up the time.
    He walked into Dupar’s, the corner restaurant in the market, but didn’t see Winston at any of the tables or the counter. He hoped she hadn’t come and gone. He chose an unoccupied booth that afforded the most privacy and sat down. He didn’t need to look at a menu. They had chosen the Farmer’s Market to meet because it was near Edward Gunn’s apartment and because McCaleb wanted to eat breakfast at Dupar’s. He had told Winston that more than anything else about Los Angeles, he missed the pancakes at Dupar’s. Often when he and Graciela and the children made their once-a-month trip overtown to buy clothing and supplies not available on Catalina, they ate a meal at Dupar’s. It didn’t matter whether it was breakfast, lunch or dinner, McCaleb always ordered pancakes. Raymond did, too. But he was boysenberry while McCaleb was traditional maple.
    McCaleb told the waitress he was waiting for another party but ordered a large orange juice and a glass of water. After she brought the two glasses he opened his leather bag and took out the plastic pill box. He kept a week’s supply of his pills on the boat and another couple days’ worth in the glove box of the Cherokee. He’d