William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

his hatred of it. Rathbone found himself looking at Phillips with anew interest, something almost like respect. Was it possible that he deliberately forced himself to face his phobia, live with it, test himself against it every day? That would be a strength few men possessed, and a discipline most would very definitely avoid. Perhaps he had assumed a great deal about Jericho Phillips that he should not have.
    “I will look into your accommodation closely,” he promised. “Now let us put our attention to what we have so far.”
    Two weeks later, when the morning of the trial came, Rathbone was as ready as it was possible to be. The excitement of the eve of battle fluttered inside him, tightening his muscles, making his stomach knot, burning within him like a fire. He was afraid of failure, full of doubts as to whether the wild plan he had in mind could work—and even in darker moments, whether it ought to. And yet the hunger to try was compulsive, consuming. It would be a landmark in history if he succeeded in gaining an acquittal for a man like Phillips, because the procedure was flawed, well-motivated but essentially dishonest, drawn by emotion, not fact. That path, no matter how understandable in the individual instance, would in the end only lead to injustice, and therefore sooner or later to the hanging of an innocent man, which was the ultimate failure of the law.
    He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.
    He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove Rathbone, and possibly a desire to know if there were facts to do with someone else's guilt that were being held from him. It was that second possibility that above all compelled him to give Phillips the finest defense he could.
    There was a discreet knock on the door. It was the usher to tell him that it was time.
    The trial began with all the ceremony the Old Bailey commanded. Lord Justice Sullivan was presiding, a man in his late fifties with a handsome nose and very slightly receding chin. His shock of dark hair was hidden beneath his heavy, full-bottomed wig, but his bristling brows accentuated the somewhat tense expression of his face. He conducted the opening procedures with dispatch. A jury was sworn, the charges were read, and Richard Tremayne, Q.C., began the case for Her Majesty against Jericho Phillips.
    Tremayne was a little older than Rathbone, a man with a curious face, full of humor and imagination. He would have appeared much more at home in a poet's loose-sleeved shirt and extravagant cravat. Rathbone in fact had seen him wear exactly that, one evening at a party in his large house whose lawn backed on to the Thames. They had been playing croquet, and losing an inordinate number of balls. The late sun was setting, falling in reds and peaches on the water, bees were buzzing lazily in the lilies, and nobody knew or cared who won.
    And yet despite this lack of competition, Rathbone knew that Tremayne both loved and understood the law. Rathbone was not sure at all whether he was a fortunate choice, or an unfortunate one as his opponent.
    The first witness he called was Walters of the Thames River Police, a solid man with a mild manner and buttons that had such a high polish they shone in the light. He climbed the steep, curving steps to the witness box and was sworn in.
    In the dock, higher up opposite the judge's bench, and sideways to the jury, Jericho Phillips sat between two blank-faced guards. He looked very sober, almost as if he might be frightened. Was that to impress the jury, or did he really believe Rathbone would fail? Rathbone hoped it was the latter, because then Phillips would maintain his appearance without the chance of it slipping and betraying him.
    Rathbone listened to see what the river policeman would say. It would be foolish for him to question any of the facts; that was not the tactic he proposed to use. Now all he needed to do was take note.
    Tremayne was intelligent, charming, born to privilege, and perhaps a little lazy. He