William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

considerable number of witnesses for the prosecution,” Wystan observed. “What manner of people were they?”
    Brancaster stirred, as if to object, and then changed his mind.
    Wystan smiled at that and turned back to Gavinton on the stand, waiting for his reply.
    “Ordinary, decent people,” Gavinton replied. “As far as I know, the only thing they had in common was that they were members of Taft’s religious congregation, and they were generous, regardless of their means. Too generous, perhaps. They had all given more than they were subsequently able to afford and were distressed by the consequences.”
    “Were they good witnesses for the prosecution, Mr. Gavinton?” Wystan pressed. “And I am not looking for a generous opinion of their honesty or goodwill. I need your professional judgment as to their value to the prosecution, their effect on the jury.”
    Gavinton’s lips tightened as if he were suddenly acutely unhappy. “No,” he said quietly. “I was able to … to expose in each of them a naïveté—a gullibility, if you like—and it made them appear financially incompetent.”
    “More than that, Mr. Gavinton, were you not able to show in each of them a need to be liked, to be accepted and appear to be more generous, and of greater means than was actually the case?”
    Gavinton looked uncomfortable as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. Rathbone saw this as an affectation and had no pity for him at all. He still found him self-regarding.
    “I had no pleasure in it, but yes, that is true,” Gavinton said.
    “Did it profit your case?”
    Again Brancaster moved a little, but did not rise to object.
    Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his body. Why not? Did Brancasterhave no idea what to do? Did he not have the heart or the courage to fight at all? He could have objected to that. It was a call for a personal opinion, not a fact.
    Why was he doing nothing? He had said he would fight all the way.
    “I believe so,” Gavinton replied. “I intended to make them seem both financially and emotionally incompetent, and I believe I did so.”
    “How did you accomplish that, Mr. Gavinton?” Wystan pursued. “Did you cross-question each one and expose his weaknesses to the court?”
    “No. I had one witness who knew them all, and knew both Mr. Taft himself and also the financial dealings of the church and all the members of the congregation. I was able to draw from him all that I needed.”
    “And that witness’s name?”
    Gavinton was clearly uncomfortable now. He moved his head as if his collar were too tight, even touching it with one hand, and then changing his mind.
    “Robertson Drew,” he replied.
    “Did you in fact win the case?”
    Gavinton made a slight, rueful gesture perhaps intended to be self-deprecating. “I doubt it, but the verdict was never returned.”
    “Why not?”
    This time Gavinton paused, and the effect, intended or not, was highly dramatic.
    “The defendant, Abel Taft, took his own life.”
    Rathbone looked at the jury and instantly regretted it. They looked grim and slightly embarrassed, perhaps at being spectators, albeit unwillingly, at such a tragedy.
    “My sympathy,” Wystan said quietly. “That must have been terrible for you and everyone else concerned. Do you know why he did such a thing? Did you see him that day, or did he leave a letter?”
    “I saw him,” Gavinton replied. “He was devastated. He felt totally betrayed by the fact that Robertson Drew had changed all his testimony under cross-examination. I had no doubt that the verdict the following day would have been one of guilty.”
    Wystan looked puzzled. “Do you know why Mr. Drew so radically altered his testimony? Did he give you any warning that he would do such a thing?”
    Gavinton’s face tightened. Suddenly the charm was gone, and his expression was bleak, even dangerous.
    “He gave me no warning. He had no opportunity to. He was on the stand being questioned by Mr. Dillon Warne, counsel for the prosecution, when Mr. Warne produced a photograph and showed it to Mr. Drew. Mr. Drew was clearly profoundly shocked by it. He seemed almost to collapse on the stand. Naturally I demanded to see the photograph myself, and when I did so I requested that we speak to the judge in his chambers, immediately.”
    “And the judge in question was Sir Oliver Rathbone?”
    Gavinton’s mouth was a thin line. “Yes.”
    “Please explain to the gentlemen of the jury why you made such a