the long gray hair and apparently without name. Mr. Sawley claimed not to know him, but you have told us that you believe he is a former brothel keeper by the name of Robinson. Mr. Sawley says that he had not met this man before-this Mr. Robinson-that he simply turned up on his doorstep and offered him these papers.”
The jury’s attention had been captured again by Rathbone’s interjection. One rather rotund gentleman took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Their eyes moved from Drew to Gavinton and back again.
Warne still looked slightly unhappy.
Gavinton was deliberately, exaggeratedly careful.
“I do not ever imply that Mr. Sawley was telling us less than the exact truth. The story is so extraordinary, how could he have imagined it?” Drew looked up at Rathbone, challenge and loathing in his face, open and unmistakable.
“Indeed.” Gavinton swiveled very slightly to face the jury. “Gentlemen, I assume my client to be innocent, as I am sure the court does, unless and until proved otherwise. That is every man’s right, is it not? That is the basis of the law. His lordship, you may not know, was the lawyer who so brilliantly defended Jericho Phillips-not because he admired the man, or wished him to escape justice, but because above all other things, he serves the law. He holds it sacred that everyone, no matter who, no matter the crime, is entitled to defend himself.”
Warne closed his eyes, his face tight, lips drawn into a grimace. Rathbone realized that Warne had not known it was Rathbone who defended Phillips. And why should he! Why would he study the past cases of a judge, from a time before that judge was on the bench? Surely only his decisions since appointment were relevant?
Or did everything matter?
Rathbone was furious. He felt so cornered that for a moment he lost his temper. “What are you looking for, Mr. Gavinton? A round of applause? Please continue to your point, which I believe had something to do with Mr. Sawley and how he acquired the evidence of fraud-other than by simply opening the door to Mr. Robinson.”
“Indeed I can, my lord,” Gavinton said, his voice soft, his composure regained. He had pricked Rathbone and he knew it.
In that moment Rathbone felt fear, not of Gavinton, but of failing his own responsibility. He must not allow himself to be provoked again.
It was difficult. Gavinton led Robertson Drew carefully, question after question into destroying Gethen Sawley. It was always to do with the papers, however obliquely. Warne objected that it was irrelevant, and Rathbone was obliged to overrule him. The thread of connection was thin at times, but it existed.
Gavinton asked about the history of Sawley’s relationships with members of the congregation, always finding the weak spot, the conversation that could be misinterpreted. He savored the tales of times Sawley took offense where it was not intended and afterward apologized too much, appearing to be emotionally erratic, too eager to please. Drew very subtly held him up to ridicule, questioning his judgment, even his honesty in small things.
Warne objected again.
Rathbone upheld him, but the damage had been done.
“But his religious views were the same as your own, and those of Mr. Taft?” Gavinton persisted.
Warne was on his feet again. “My lord, Mr. Sawley’s religious beliefs are his own concern. He is not required to explain them to us, or to anyone.”
“They are relevant to his persecution of Mr. Taft, my lord,” Gavinton replied with elaborate patience. “If they had been the same as those of Mr. Taft and Mr. Drew, then he would have rejoiced in the opportunity to give to the desperately poor. He would have seen it as Christ’s work on earth.”
Warne was furious. “My lord, a man has the right to interpret Christ’s work on earth in any way he 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 unreliable men, 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 not recall 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.
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 Rathbone had ever even seen them.
Rathbone looked at Drew again and was certain-almost.
It was not yet half past three in the afternoon. Too early to adjourn. He could think of no excuse to halt the proceedings until tomorrow. Nevertheless, as soon as Drew had finished his long and rather rambling answer to Gavinton’s last question, without excuse or giving any reason, Rathbone adjourned the court until the following morning.
Amid whisperings, questions, looks of confusion, the assembly rose and left. Outside in the hallways little groups huddled together earnestly. As he passed one of them, Rathbone was close enough to overhear the urgent questions as to what had happened. What had suddenly changed?
