William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

suggesting mysterious undue influence.
    Rathbone looked away and suddenly saw Beata York, the light catching her pale hair. He froze. There was nobody he wanted to look at more. She idealized the gentleness, the strength, and the humor that he understood now was what he hungered for. There was a beauty in her that he thought he had seen in Margaret, a courage, a generosity of heart and mind.
    He had run away from Hester because she would always have challenged him. She might also have made him happy.
    Was that what he saw in Beata—another chance at least to know and care for a woman uniquely beautiful in such a way? It could never be more than friendship, but even that would have been precious.
    Then as if she had felt his gaze on her, she turned her head and looked up at him. She gave a sad little smile, not cold, not condescending, but as if she felt for his distress. She hesitated only a moment, long enough for their eyes to meet, then she turned back to the witness, as if she did not want to draw attention and prompt others to stare.
    He felt his face burning, a rage of conflicting emotions inside him. What had she meant? How much was his imagination making her expression into what he had wished it to be? Maybe he was replacing regret with something gentler that he would find easier to bear: sympathy for a man in pain, rather than pity for someone who had been given so much and wasted it.
    Wystan was rambling on and on. The afternoon seemed endless.
    Rathbone did not look at Beata York again. Nor did he look to find Henry Rathbone. To see his distress was more than he could handle. He needed to keep some composure.
    At last Wystan closed the case for the prosecution, eloquent and satisfied. York adjourned the court until the next day.
    Rathbone waited in the hope that Brancaster would visit him, at least to discuss the progress of the case and tell him what he planned to do next; but the silence dragged on, and there was nothing but the briefest message from Brancaster telling him to keep hope.
    The long prison night seemed like the worst in his life.
    T HE NEXT DAY R ATHBONE was led back to the dock, still without having seen Brancaster. He felt numb, as if his body belonged to someone else. He stumbled and banged his elbow sharply against the wall. Even the pain of it barely registered. He was like a pig on a roasting spit, stripped of all moral and emotional dignity, stared at, talked about, and unable to do anything but listen.
    The fight over his future, his reputation, his life, went on anyway, with or without him.
    If ever he were able to practice law again, he vowed never to dowhat Brancaster was doing to him; from now on he would talk to his clients, tell them what he planned and why, what he hoped to achieve. At the very least he would make them feel part of the proceedings and let them know that he cared, that he understood what they were experiencing and how they felt.
    But it was too late for that now. He wouldn’t practice law again. It was all pointless and too late.
    Rufus Brancaster rose to begin his defense. The jury watched him, but their faces suggested good manners rather than interest.
    Brancaster called Josiah Taylor.
    Rathbone struggled to remember who he was and what on earth he might have to do with the Taft case. Was he one of the parishioners Rathbone had forgotten?
    Taylor was sworn in. His occupation was apparently as an accountant in a small business. His face looked vaguely familiar, but Rathbone struggled in vain to think from where or when.
    Brancaster seemed to ramble on, asking questions that appeared pointless, but Wystan sat smiling, never raising any objection. York looked more and more irritated.
    Then Rathbone recalled how he knew Taylor. He had been an expert witness in a case of embezzlement some three or four years ago. What on earth did Brancaster hope to get from him? All he could offer was that Rathbone had won that particular case, and done it with some skill, according to Taylor, and with an unusual degree of consideration for the witnesses, and for the victim of the crime. In Taylor’s view, Rathbone’s courtesy and honor were exemplary. He was a character witness, no more.
    Rathbone had studied juries all his professional life. He knew that most of this jury had lost interest now.
    York was becoming quite openly restive when Brancaster drew to a close.
    Rathbone knew that this was the moment when Brancaster gave up. After all the hope, absurd as it was, and