William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

not sure,” he replied. “I failed to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Phillips killed Figgis, and the crown didn't charge him with blackmail, pornography, or extortion. Obviously I can't reopen the first, no matter what proof I might find, but the others are still available.”
    Rathbone smiled bleakly “I hope you are not looking for me to assist you in that.”
    Monk opened his eyes wide. “Would that be against the law?”
    “It would be against the spirit of it,” Rathbone replied. “If not illegal, then certainly unethical.”
    Monk smiled, aware that it was a bleak, even sarcastic expression.
    “Towards whom? Jericho Phillips, or the man who paid you to defend him?”
    Rathbone paled very slightly. “Phillips is despicable,” he said. “And if you can prosecute him successfully then you must do so. It would be a service to society. But my part in the due legal process is to prosecute or defend, as I am employed to do, but never to judge—Jericho Phillips or anyone else. We are equal before the law, Monk; that is the essence of any kind of justice.”
    He stood near the mantel shelf, leaning his weight rather more on one foot than the other. “If we are not, then justice is destroyed. If we charge a man, usually we are right, but not always. The defense is there to safeguard us all against those times when we are wrong. Sometimes mistakes have been made, lies told where we do not expect them, evidence tampered with or misused. Personal hatred or prejudice can be exercised, fears, favors, or self-interest can govern the testimony. Every case must be tested; if it breaks under the pressure, then it is unsafe to convict, and unforgivable to punish.”
    Monk did not interrupt him.
    “You loathe Phillips,” Rathbone continued, a little more at ease now. “So do I. I imagine every decent man and woman in the courtroom did. Then there is all the more necessity that we must be fair. If we, of all people, allow our revulsion to control our dealing with justice, what hope is there for anyone else?”
    “An excellent speech.” Monk applauded. “And absolutely true in every regard. But incomplete. The trial is over. I have already conceded that we were slipshod. We were so certain Phillips was guilty that we left loopholes for you to use, which you did. We can now never try him again for Fig's murder. Any new case would be separate. Are you warning me that you would defend him again, either by choice, or from some kind of necessity, because you owe him, or someone else who has his interests at heart?” Monk changed his position deliberately.
    “Or possibly you, or your principal,” he continued, “are bribed, coerced, or threatened by Phillips, and feel you have no choice but to defend him in any issue whatever?” It was a bold, even brutal question, and the moment he had said it, he doubted himself.
    Rathbone was now very pale. There was no trace of friendship in his eyes. “Did you say ‘bribed’?” he asked.
    “I included it as a possibility,” Monk replied, keeping his eyes and his voice steady. “I don't know the man, or woman, who paid you to defend Phillips. You do. Are you certain you know why?”
    Something in Rathbone's stance changed. It was so slight Monk could not identify it, but he knew that a new idea had suddenly occurred to Rathbone, and it was one that troubled him, possibly only very little, but he was uncomfortable nevertheless.
    “You may speculate as you please,” Rathbone answered him, his voice almost as level as before, almost as assured. “But you must be aware that I cannot comment. My advice to other people is as confidential as is my advice to you.”
    “Of course,” Monk said drily. “And what is your advice to me? I am commander of the River Police at Wapping. I need to prevent the crimes of violence, abuse, and extortion, of pornography and child murder that happen on my beat. I made a mess of Phillips murdering Figgis. How do I prevent the next one, and the one after?”
    Rathbone did not answer, but he made no attempt to hide the fact that he gave the matter consideration.
    He walked over to his desk.
    “Our loyalties are different, Monk,” he said at last. “Mine is to the law, and therefore is larger than yours. And I do not mean by that that it is better, simply that the law moves slowly, and its changes can stand for generations. Your loyalty is to your job, to the people on the river today, to their immediate danger or suffering. The simple