The concrete blonde - By Michael Connelly Page 0,102

he realized he was the one who was a little bit scared. As if by simply saying the words he had taken on a great responsibility. It was scary yet exciting. He thought of himself in the mirror, smiling.

She held herself pressed against him and he could feel her breath against his neck. In a short while her breathing became more measured as she fell asleep.

Lying awake, Bosch held her like that until well into the night. Now sleep would not come to him and with the insomnia came realities that robbed him of the good feelings he had only minutes before. He had thought about what she had said about betrayal and trust. And he knew that the pledges they spoke to each other this night would founder if built on deception. He knew what she had said was true. He would have to tell her who he was, what he was, if the words he had spoken were ever to be more than words. He thought about what Judge Keyes had said about words being beautiful and ugly on their own. Bosch had spoken the word love. He knew now that he must make it either ugly or beautiful.

The bedroom's windows were on the east side of the house and the light of dawn was just beginning to cling to the edges of the blinds when Bosch finally closed his eyes and slept.

22

Bosch looked rumpled and worn-out when he entered the courtroom Friday morning. Belk was already there, scribbling on his yellow pad. He looked up and appraised him as Bosch sat down.

“You look like shit and smell like an ashtray. And the jury will know that's the same suit and tie you wore yesterday.”

“A clear sign I'm guilty.”

“Don't be such a smartass. You never know what may turn a juror one way or the other.”

“I don't really care. Besides, you're the one who has to look good today, right, Belk?”

This was not an encouraging thing to say to a man at least eighty pounds overweight who broke out in flop sweat every time the judge looked at him.

“What the hell do you mean you don't care? Everything is on the line today and you waltz in looking like you slept in your car and say you don't care.”

“I'm relaxed, Belk. I call it Zen and the art of not giving a shit.”

“Why now, Bosch, when I could have settled this for five figures two weeks ago?”

“Because I realize now that there are things more important than what twelve of my so-called peers think. Even if, as peers, they wouldn't give me the time of day on the street.”

Belk looked at his watch and said, “Leave me alone, Bosch. We start in ten minutes and I want to be ready. I'm still working on my argument. I'm going to go shorter than even Keyes demanded.”

Earlier in the trial, the judge had determined that closing arguments would be no longer than a half hour for each side. This was to be divided, with the plaintiff—in the person of Chandler—arguing for twenty minutes followed by the defendant's lawyer—Belk—delivering his entire thirty-minute argument. The plaintiff would then be allowed the last ten minutes. Chandler would have first and last word, another sign, Bosch believed, that the system was stacked against him.

Bosch looked over at the plaintiff's table and saw Deborah Church sitting there by herself, eyes focused straight ahead. The two daughters were in the first row of the gallery behind her. Chandler was not there but there were files and yellow pads laid out on the table. She was around.

“You work on your speech,” he said to Belk. “I'll leave you alone.”

“Don't be late coming back. Not again, please.”

As he had hoped, Chandler was outside smoking by the statue. She gave him a cold glance, said nothing and then took a few steps away from the ash can in order to ignore him. She had on her blue suit—it was probably her lucky suit—and the one tress of blonde hair was loose from the braid at the back of her neck.

“Rehearsing?” Bosch asked.

“I don't need to rehearse. This is the easy part.”

“I suppose.”

“What's that mean?”

“I don't know. I suppose you're freer from the constraints of law during the arguments. Not as many rules of what you can and can't say. I think that's when you'd be in your element.”

“Very perceptive.”

That was all she said. There was no indication that she knew her arrangement with Edgar had been discovered. Bosch had