William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

feel very strongly about this case in particular?”
    “I do find it peculiarly distasteful to see one of the witnesses for the defense mocking and humiliating people I believed to be both honest and unusually vulnerable,” Warne answered, looking straight back at Wystan.
    “To the degree that you were very upset indeed when you thought you would lose the case?” There was the very slight suggestion of a sneer on Wystan’s face.
    “A prosecutor who does not care is not worthy of the trust placed in him by the people,” Warne answered.
    Wystan was annoyed.
    At any other time, without his own future in the balance, Rathbone would have enjoyed the exchange. With some detached part of his mind he noticed the jurors’ attention sharpen.
    “That is not what I asked, Mr. Warne,” Wystan said tartly. “As you well know. You are playing to the gallery, sir, and it is most unbecoming. Just because you have escaped prosecution for your part in this miserable and disgraceful affair, does not entitle you to attempt wit at the expense of the proceedings.”
    Warne’s face flushed, and Rathbone was struck with a fear that just as Brancaster had baited Gavinton with indiscretion, Wystan could do the same to Warne. Why was Brancaster not objecting? Rathbone longed to stand up and shout at him.
    Brancaster rose to his feet at last.
    “My lord, that accusation is unfair and—”
    Before he could finish, York cut him off.
    “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Brancaster. Please sit down, and do not interrupt again unless you have some point of law to make.”
    Brancaster sat down as commanded. If he was annoyed he did not show it. Perhaps he had not expected to be upheld. He had succeeded in breaking Wystan’s rhythm, and Warne had regained his self-control. That might have been all he had wished for.
    “I repeat my question, Mr. Warne,” Wystan said.
    “It isn’t necessary, sir,” Warne interrupted him. “I was upset when I thought I would lose the case. I always am if I believe profoundly that the accused is guilty and that if not found so, will almost certainly continue to commit the same crime against more people.”
    York leaned forward. “You could not know that, Mr. Warne. Please stick with the facts.”
    Brancaster was on his feet. “My lord, with the greatest respect, Mr. Warne did not say the accused would reoffend, he said such was his belief and the reason he was upset at the prospect of an acquittal.”
    York drew in his breath, then changed his mind and let it out again. But Rathbone knew from his face that he would not forget. Brancaster might have the jury on his side at the moment, and certainly the gallery, but he had irrevocably alienated the judge. It was a very risky tactic indeed. He must be desperate even to have considered it.
    Wystan took up the thread again.
    “Up to the point of your showing the photograph to the witness, Mr. Warne, did you believe you were losing?”
    “Yes, I did,” Warne admitted.
    “So this was a last, desperate attempt to win?”
    “I would not have chosen the word ‘desperate,’ but I had no other tactic,” Warne conceded.
    “And this obscene photograph, why did you not use it before?” Wystan pressed on. “In fact, why did you not show it to the defense, as the law requires? Were you afraid that if they looked into its provenance they would find it far from satisfactory? In fact sufficiently unsatisfactory that it could be excluded from evidence?”
    “No, I did not!” Warne said sharply.
    “Then why did you not produce it before, as you should have?”
    Rathbone had seen the question coming. It was like watching a train crash, but so slowly that you could see the wheels spin and the carriages rear up before they toppled over and the sound of breaking glass reached your ears.
    “I did not have it before,” Warne replied.
    “Indeed?” Wystan affected surprise. “How did you come by it, then, in what appears to have been the middle of the night, Mr. Warne?”
    “Sir Oliver Rathbone gave it to me.” Warne might have considered lying, or protesting privilege and refusing to answer, but it was clear that the truth was known, and it would add weight to the apparent misdeed if he gave the information only when forced to. Perhaps it was better to do it now, with some dignity.
    If the jurors had known or guessed before, they still looked stunned. With Warne’s admission it became an irrefutable fact.
    “Sir Oliver Rathbone gave it to you,” Wystan