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.
The next day Rathbone 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 do what 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 the brave promises, he had nothing.
Wystan rose to his feet. He looked infinitely satisfied. Not that he must have ever doubted that in the end he would win.
“No questions, my lord,” he said simply, and sat down again. Apparently he did not feel he needed to add anything more. Victory was in his hands. He could afford to be casual.
“I call Richard Athlone,” Brancaster said loudly.
A couple of the jurors stirred to attention. Several of the others looked embarrassed, as if decency required that the end be swifter than this.
York sighed.
The usher repeated the call, and after a few more seconds a tall, lean man with receding hair emerged from the doors into the hall, walked across the floor, and climbed to the witness stand. He was duly sworn, and he faced Brancaster.
The man had a thin, intelligent face, deeply lined but good humored. Rathbone tried to place him, and failed.
Brancaster walked out onto the floor and looked up at Athlone with a slight smile.
“You are a professor of law, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Athlone agreed.
“And as well as the law itself, you have made a speciality of studying most of the more famous cases that are recent-shall we say, within the last thirty years?”
“Yes, sir,” Athlone replied.
York shifted his position and glanced at Wystan.
Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution is happy to stipulate that Sir Oliver has been an outstanding lawyer and won remarkably many cases. Indeed, we would state it positively. It is part of our own case that his extraordinary success has led to his arrogance, and is at the very least a witness to his supreme ambition. He must win at all costs, even the cost of loyalty to his wife and her family and, beyond that, to honor and to the principles of the law. That is the heart of the case against him.”
“If you believe the law is as important as you say,” Brancaster retorted instantly, “then you will allow that the accused is entitled to the best defense he is able to find.”
Wystan rolled his eyes, unusually expressively for him. “If this is the best defense you can find, then by all means, make it, sir!”
Brancaster bowed. “Thank you.” He turned back to Athlone.
“Professor, perhaps we might pick two or three of Sir Oliver’s most remarkable cases and mention, very briefly indeed, some of the truths that he uncovered in court, so that justice was done where it had previously appeared that the truth was the exact opposite of what had actually transpired. Shall we say one for the defense, one for the prosecution? And so that we do not exhaust the patience of the court, let us keep it to not more than five minutes each?”
“By all means,” Athlone agreed. Then he proceeded to tell the story of how Rathbone had defended a man who appeared to be unquestionably guilty but, by brilliant questioning, Rathbone had left no doubt at all, either with the jury or with the public in general, that another completely different person was in fact to blame.
Athlone recounted it with wit and a considerable flair for drama. Not a single member of the jury moved his eyes from him while he spoke. The people in the gallery sat motionless, silently staring at the witness box.
Athlone started with the second account, this time a case where Rathbone had appeared for the prosecution. The crime was particularly unpleasant and the proof slight. The defense was brilliant, and it seemed inevitable that, at least legally, there was reasonable doubt. This time Rathbone had found a witness who was able to discredit the accused totally, and within the space of minutes the entire trial turned the other way. The man was convicted.
At the end of his account several people in the gallery actually cheered. Even the jury looked impressed.
“That is an excellent example, Professor Athlone, but I rather expected you to cite the case of Mr. Wilton Jones.”
Athlone looked slightly puzzled. “Wilton Jones? Remind me, sir.”
“A man of great skill, and villainy,” Brancaster replied. “But his violence was always well concealed. Frequently he corrupted others to do his worst work. He presented himself as a gentleman, but he was greedy, cruel, and totally ruthless. That case was one of Sir Oliver’s greatest victories.”
“Ah. Yes.” Athlone smiled. “I believe I recall the case now. Was that not the one where another gentleman of excellent family, and rather a lot of influence, swore to Wilton Jones’s innocence, how he was misunderstood, misrepresented by lesser men envious of him …?”
Brancaster nodded and smiled.
“Yes, indeed,” Athlone picked up the thread. “Sir Oliver turned this witness against Wilton Jones. As I recall, he tripped him on a statement as to where he was at a particular time, and suddenly the witness changed his entire testimony. Instead of defending the accused, he condemned him. I believe Jones was found guilty and must still be in prison.” Athlone smiled, as though he were pleased to have been of use. “A brilliant piece of work,” he added.
“Justice was served.” Brancaster apparently could not resist adding the point. Then he turned to offer the witness to Wystan.
Wystan rose to his feet and all but swaggered out onto the floor before looking up at Athlone.
