William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

looked at them only once when he first received them. The sight revolted him to nausea. What if that was why Taft had taken his own life? He might’ve thought that if Warne had the pictures of Drew he might have others. Even so, why kill his wife and daughters? With him dead no one would have reason to expose the picture.
    Could someone see his actions as coercion? He had given the picture to Warne without telling him what to do with it. He had left it up to him what to decide. Or had Warne felt the pressure implicit? Rathbone was a judge, and as such, a man of unique power and responsibility. Is that how the police would see it? Could it be Warne who had spoken to them?
    Hardly. Warne had received the photograph under privilege, and he had used it. That made him as guilty as Rathbone, morally if not legally.
    But it was the law they were concerned with.
    Gavinton? It made the most sense—except he could not know that it was Rathbone who had given the picture to Warne. Deduction! From the story Hester had told, it was not a great leap of reasoning. It was no secret that Rathbone had not only been the lawyer to represent Ballinger when he came to trial, he had been his son-in-law. Yes, that made sense.
    But what else could he have done once he remembered that he had seen Robertson Drew in the photograph? Silence was unacceptable. Should he have recused himself?
    Of course he should’ve. As soon as he recognized Drew. But that would have taken from him the power to … what? The power to make certain that justice was done?
    How monstrously arrogant! As if he thought nobody else was capable enough, or honorable enough, to do that. Hundreds of people were! It was terrible, and ridiculous to suggest otherwise.
    Legally, he should have recused himself. He was caught—guilty.
    “Eh! Mr. Fancypants!” one of the prisoners in a cell opposite yelled out. “Wot are you doin’ in ’ere wi’ the likes of us, then? Pick someone’s pocket, did yer?”
    There was laughter from beside the taunter, although Rathbone could not see the other occupants of the cell.
    Rathbone smiled bitterly. “Sir Fancypants to you,” he corrected with a twisted smile.
    There was another guffaw of laughter.
    “We got a right comic ’ere!” the prisoner opposite told his fellows. He made an elaborate bow, sweeping his arm up in the air before bending low. “We’re goin’ ter ’ave some proper entertainment, fellers. Something ter keep us from dyin’ o’ boredom in the long days. Eh! Fancypants! Can yer dance, then? Or sing, mebbe?”
    “No,” Rathbone told him. “Can you?”
    “We can teach yer,” the man replied. “Can’t we, fellers? Teach yer ter sing real ’igh. And mebbe dance real fast too, an’ light on yer feet, if yer try.”
    This was met by an even more raucous bellow of laughter.
    Rathbone wanted to reply with something witty and brave, but his mouth was suddenly dry as dust. He knew what they meant by “sing” and “dance.” He had not realized before how afraid he was of physical pain. Would he even survive this?
    But it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. At worst he was guilty of misjudgment,not a crime. He would pay whatever fine was necessary, sell the house. It was no real asset to him now, without Margaret, and there wouldn’t be any family to need it.
    If he were found guilty of this, his career was finished anyway. That was a new thought. Even if he survived prison and came out alive and whole—no broken arms or legs, no knives in the back or other injuries of prison violence, no disease—his life would be irrevocably different.
    “Hey! Fancypants! Gone deaf, ’ave yer? Too good ter speak to the likes of us, then?” The voice was jeering now, on the edge of anger.
    “Sorry. Did you speak to me?” Rathbone kept his voice almost steady, his tone neither afraid nor aggressive. It was not easy.
    “I said—can yer dance?” came the reply.
    “Oh, yes, moderately. But I like a space a little larger than this. Cramped, don’t you think?” There was a ring of bravado in his words. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
    “Yer know, Fancypants, yer might be worth keepin’ alive. I like you.”
    “Thank you,” Rathbone answered, not at all sure if the idea was good or bad.
    At that point the jailer came back and walked over to Rathbone’s cell, but he did not open the door. Instead he spoke to him through the bars.
    “Anyone as we should tell you’re ’ere?” he asked. “If yer go