William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

despicable criminals I’ve ever prosecuted.”
    There was anger and hurt in Warne’s face that made Monk think of him in a new light. Perhaps in his own way he was as much a crusader as Rathbone had been. He was now seeing the downfall of a man he had spent years trying to emulate. Perhaps he also had known people like the victims of Taft: simple, ordinary people who went to church every Sunday and gave what they could to the charities that helped others, people whose faith was central to their lives. It was trust in those who led them that made the losses and injustices of life bearable.
    “It was a just case,” Monk agreed. “Was it a good one legally?”
    Warne sighed. “I thought it was, to begin with. I had no doubt that for all his smoothness, Taft was guilty. But as it went on, and Robertson Drew made my witnesses look pathetic and then ridiculous, I felt it slip out of my grasp. I think without the photograph Taft would have been acquitted. Somehow I didn’t even consider not using it. The only question in my mind was how to get it in without putting Rathbone in a place where he had to grant a mistrial. I couldn’t risk that; they might not have brought the case again. It wasn’t as if anyone had died, at that time.”
    “But now they have,” Monk pointed out. “That makes it different, in the public perception, if not in law.”
    Warne gritted his teeth. “The jury is drawn from the public,” he pointed out. “And that will play into the hands of whoever tries the case against Rathbone. There isn’t going to be much mercy for him among their lordships on the bench. He’s brought them into public disrepute. They’ll all be watched a good deal closer from now on.” He gave his head a little shake, a sharp jerky movement. “What can I do to help?”
    Monk was surprised at Warne’s eagerness. He was beginning to realize how deeply Warne felt, not only because of his past admiration for Rathbone. Warne’s feelings were also fueled by his contempt for Taft and perhaps a certain conviction that emotion, as much as legal knowledge, was an integral part of prosecution.
    “Tell me as much as you can about the evidence,” Monk replied. “Including your opinions of the people.”
    “With pleasure,” Warne replied. “Please heaven you can see something in it that will provide a way out. With all the people Rathbone has convicted in his career, I’d be surprised if he lasted more than a few months in prison.”
    Monk caught his breath. For a moment he was not certain what Warne meant, then he saw the fear in his eyes, and he understood. It was his own worst dread put into words. He did not reply, simply took out his notebook ready to write down anything he might forget. He knew the violence in prison, the accidents, the deaths that no one saw happen. There was never proof, only tragedy.
    S CUFF ALSO KNEW VIOLENCE , and how suddenly and easily it could occur. He knew what could happen to Oliver Rathbone, and he had no belief at all that he could be protected if he went to prison. He knew, too, that if they were to help him, they needed to be very careful.
    Nevertheless he left Paradise Place with a spring in his step. He did not have to go to school. Not that he didn’t like it. It could even be interesting, but it was a bit cramping at times. Do as everybody else does, listen, and remember. We’ll question you on it later. You can’t just answer. You’ll have to write it down, and spell properly. There is only one right way.
    Now he was going to do what really mattered: help Monk and Hester—and Sir Oliver, of course. There might be only one right way for that too. He must not make even the smallest mistake. It was not as if he were the only one who would pay.
    He had already thought to leave his good jacket at home. His boots were better than many people’s, but he could scuff them a bit, get them dusty, and no one would notice. He needed to step back into the person he had been two years ago, cunning, hungry, willing to do most things for a cup of tea and a bun.
    Monk had asked him to find out about the Taft family, specificallythe wife and daughters. That was what he was going to do. He thought about it hard as he took a ferry across the river and sat in the stern, like a grown-up, and watched the sun bright on the water. As usual, the breeze was a bit chilly. He had known the river smell all his life, and he was used to cold.
    How was he going to find out about the Tafts? Obviously