William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

relaxing a little in relief.
    Sullivan sat forward a little at his high bench, turning first to Rathbone, then to Tremayne, then back again.
    Rathbone moved on. “Did you see these—obscene—photo graphs?”
    “Yes. They were in Durban's papers.” Monk could not prevent the violence of his disgust from showing. He tried to; he knew he should keep control. This was evidence. Only facts should matter, but still hisbody was shaking, and he felt sweat break out on his skin. “The faces were perfectly clear, even three of the burns. We found two of them on the same places.”
    “And the third?” Rathbone asked very gently.
    “That part of him had been eaten away.” Monk's voice trembled, thick with the horror and misery of Durban's words on the page in jagged writing, creating a picture of disintegration and loss.
    “The vision of tragedy, of bestiality, that you call up, is almost beyond bearing,” Rathbone acknowledged. “I do not wonder that you find it hard to speak of, or that Mr. Durban put in endless hours of his own time, and indeed also his own money, to bring to justice whoever did this. Would it be true to say that you felt just as deeply as he did?” He shrugged very slightly. “Or perhaps you did not?”
    There was only one answer possible. Rathbone had chosen his words with an artist's precision. Every eye in the court was on Monk.
    “Of course I felt as deeply,” he said.
    “Commander Durban had given his life to save others,” Rathbone went on with some reverence. “And he had recommended you to take over his position. That is perhaps the highest mark of trust one man can offer another. Would it be true to say that you owe him a debt of both honor and gratitude?”
    Again, there was only one possible reply.
    “Yes, I do.”
    There was a sigh and a rustle of agreement around the room.
    “And you will do everything you can to honor it, and bring pride to the men of the River Police who are now in your command, and earn their loyalty, as Durban did?” Rathbone asked, although it was barely a question. The answer spoke for itself.
    “Of course.”
    “Especially completing this task of Durban's, in the way he would have wished. Perhaps you would even give him the credit for its solution?”
    “Yes,” Monk said without hesitation.
    Rathbone was satisfied. He thanked Monk and returned to his seat with a gesture of invitation to Tremayne.
    Tremayne hesitated, only too clearly seeking any way to regain the balance. Then he declined. Perhaps he thought that anything Monk might add would only raise the emotion still higher, which would make it even worse. Monk was excused.
    In the early afternoon Tremayne gave the prosecution's summary. His movements were graceful, his voice smooth and confident, but Monk knew it was a superb piece of acting. The man should have been on the stage. He even had the striking looks for it. But he was laboring against the tide, and he had to know it.
    He mentioned Durban's original deductions only in passing, concentrating on Monk's taking up of the trail again. He avoided the horror of it whenever he could, telling instead the detail of Monk's piecing together the proof of Fig's identity, and the links that connected him to Jericho Phillips and the trade in exploitation and pornography. He could not mention the photographs because they had not been produced, only referred to by Monk. As evidence they did not exist, as Rathbone would have instantly pointed out.
    He also spoke of Hester's part in connecting Phillips to the trade that satisfies the sexual appetites of those with money to pay for whatever they wanted, using the poor, willing or unwilling, who had no other way to survive. When he finally sat down, the jury was wrung with emotions of anger and pity, and would clearly have been willing themselves to tie a noose around Phillips's neck.
    Rathbone stood up. He looked very somber, as if he too were shaken by what he had heard.
    “What happened to this boy is appalling,” he began. There was absolute silence in the room, and he had no need to raise his voice. “It should shock all of us, and I believe it has.” He stood very still, awed by the horror of it. “The fact that he was a child of poverty and ignorance is completely irrelevant. The fact that he may have made his living at first by begging or stealing, then was very probably forced into acts of the utmost degradation by men in the grip of deviant appetites is also irrelevant. Every human