William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

pleases! And he should be free to give help as he pleases—or not! And as his own means allow. To suggest otherwise is preposterous!”
    “Of course,” Gavinton said with a shrug and that flashing smile with too many teeth. “And Mr. Bicknor was free to give or not. He chose to give, and when he had misjudged his own finances and got himself into debt, he blamed not his own inaccuracies, but Mr. Taft, and set about trying to stir up a wave of accusation against him. I am seeking only to show that Mr. Bicknor—and Mr. Sawley—are unreliablemen, motivated by their own embarrassment and inadequacies, not by a love of truth, or a pity for the unfortunate. This whole farrago of lies that this creature Robinson dug up is a pathetic man’s revenge, no more than that. In Mr. Taft’s defense, I must be allowed to demonstrate that this is the case.”
    Rathbone was seething, but he could not stop him. Morally and legally Gavinton was right.
    Gavinton continued, very carefully, always just within the rules of evidence, always relevant to the accounting proof Squeaky Robinson had given. But piece by piece he also dismantled Bicknor’s reputation, creating the impression that Bicknor was weak and indecisive, someone who had acted foolishly and then, when caught out, had descended into spite.
    It was an agonizing spectacle to watch and Rathbone longed to intervene, but Gavinton was far too careful to give him grounds to do so.
    The case against Taft was slipping away, and Rathbone felt it go. He could see it in the jurors’ faces. He looked at Warne, hoping for some retaliation, but nothing came. He looked at Robertson Drew and read the satisfaction in his eyes, his smile, the victory that glowed in his very presence. And as he did so, Rathbone became more and more convinced that it was victory. It was not just defense of a man he was closely associated with, very possibly a long-standing friend, but something more.
    A memory flashed across his mind as he watched Drew. He had seen him somewhere else. He tried to recall where it had been. For Drew this was a very personal issue, Rathbone was now sure of it, although he could not have said why he thought so.
    But why? Rathbone racked his memory but he still could not recall having met Drew in any other circumstance. Yet, it was clear the man disliked him. What cause could there be for a grudge? He doubted they would’ve crossed paths socially; perhaps he had encountered him in the courtroom, on a different case?
    He looked at Drew on the stand as he continued to tear apart and denigrate one prosecution witness after another. Rathbone could notrecall seeing him there before. He tried picturing him differently dressed and couldn’t.
    His search was drawing his attention from the proceedings, but they were droning on. The heat in the room was oppressive. People in the gallery fidgeted. The jury sat glassy-eyed and uncomfortable. This was Drew’s second day on the stand. He was not saying anything different; Gavinton was simply moving to the next witness. The jury believed him. Rathbone could see it in their faces. He could also see that Warne had nothing in reserve. His expression was a mask carefully maintained to conceal his defeat. Rathbone had worn the same expression often enough himself to recognize it in another.
    Where
had he seen Drew before? It could not be merely that his name was involved with a case in which Rathbone had either prosecuted or defended. He must have been present in court because Rathbone remembered his face. They had been looking at each other. They must have been introduced in some way.
    Then all at once it came to him. He had seen Robertson Drew in one of Ballinger’s photographs—fornicating with a small boy on Jericho Phillips’s boat. That explained where the hatred came from: it had been Rathbone, with Monk’s help, and Hester’s, who had finally brought about Phillips’s death and the end of that particular part of the trade in children. That was why Drew was so pleased to blacken Hester’s name, make her appear foolish, overemotional, a meddling woman with more pity than sense.
    Of course he had posed for the photograph. That was the piece of wild, unnecessary risk-taking that was the price of admission to the club. Drew must’ve known that Ballinger had possessed it, especially if he had been one of those Ballinger had blackmailed. But he could not know that Ballinger had bequeathed the photos to Rathbone, or indeed that