Regret and contrition filled Ballinger's face. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I hope I have not placed you in a position where you will have to question the judgment of a man you like and respect.”

“Liking Monk has nothing to do with defending someone he has arrested!” Rathbone said hotly, realizing exactly how much it could, if he allowed it to. “Do you imagine that my acquaintance with the police, the prosecution, or the judge, for that matter, will have any effect on my conduct of a case? Any case?”

“No, my dear chap, of course I don't,” Ballinger said with profound feeling. “That is exactly why my client chose you, and why I fully concurred with his judgment. Jericho Phillips will receive the fairest trial possible if you speak for him, and even if he is found guilty and hanged, we will all be easy at heart that justice has been done. We will never need to waken in the night with doubt or guilt that perhaps we hanged him because his style of life, his occupation, or his personal repulsiveness moved us more than honest judgment. If we are fair to the likes of him, then we are fair to all.” He rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Thank you, Oliver. Margaret is justly proud of you. I see her happiness in her face, and know that it will always be so.”

Rathbone had no choice but to take Ballinger's hand and clasp it, still with a faint trace of self-consciousness because he was not accustomed to such frankness in matters of emotion.

But after Ballinger had gone, he was also pleased. This would be a supreme challenge, and he would not like losing, but it was an honorable thing Ballinger had asked him to do-obliquely, dangerously honorable. And it would be intensely precious to have Margaret truly proud of him.

It was several more days before Rathbone actually went to Newgate Prison to meet with Jericho Phillips. By this time he had a much greater knowledge of both the specific crime he was charged with and-far more worrying to him-Phillips's general pattern of life.

Even so, he was still unprepared for the acute distaste he felt when they met. It was in a small, stone room with no furniture other than a table and two chairs. The single window was high in the wall and let in daylight, but there was nothing to see beyond it but the sky. The motionless air inside smelled stale, as if it held a century's sweat of fear that all the carbolic in the world could not wash away.

Phillips himself was little above average height, but the leanness of his body and the angular way he stood made him look taller. He possessed no grace at all, and yet there was a suggestion of power in him in even the simple act of rising to his feet as Rathbone came in and the guard closed the door behind him.

“Mornin’, Sir Oliver,” Phillips said civilly. His voice was rasping, as if his throat were sore. He made no move to offer his hand, for which Rathbone was grateful.

“Good morning, Mr. Phillips,” he replied. “Please sit down. Our time is limited, so let us use it to the full.” He was slightly uncomfortable already. He felt an unease almost like a brush of physical fear. And yet Phillips was no threat to him at all. As far as he knew, to Phillips he was the one man on his side.

Phillips obeyed, moving stiffly. It was the only thing that betrayed his fear. His hands were perfectly still, and he did not stammer or shake.

“Yes, sir,” he said obediently.

Rathbone looked at him. Phillips had sharp features and the pallid skin of one who lives largely away from the sunlight, but there was nothing soft in him, from his spiky hair to his glittering eyes, his strong hands, and his narrow, bony shoulders. He had the physical build of poverty-thin chest, slightly crooked legs-and yet he had learned not to show the usual limp of deformity.

“Your attorney informs me that you wish to plead ‘not guilty,’ “Rathbone began. “The evidence against you is good, but not conclusive. Our greatest difficulty will be your reputation. Jurors will weigh the facts, but they will also be moved by emotion, whether they are aware of it or not.” He watched Phillips's face to judge whether he understood. He saw the instant flash of intelligence, and something that could almost have been mistaken for humor, were the situation not so desperate.

“‘Course they will,” Phillips agreed with the faintest smile. “Feeling's where we get ‘em, ‘cause yer see Mr. Durban weren't anything like the good man they think ‘e were. ‘E ‘ated me for a long time, an’ ‘e made it ‘is life's work ter see me ‘ang, whether I done anything for it or not. An’ Mr. Monk took over from ‘im just like ‘e stepped into a dead man's shoes, an’ ‘is coat and trousers as well. Careless, they were, both of ‘em. An’ from wot Mr. Ballinger says, yer clever enough an’ straight enough ter show it, if it's true, whether they were yer friends or not.”

Rathbone became uncomfortably aware that just as he was studying Phillips, so Phillips in turn was studying him equally as closely, and probably with just as acute a judgment. He did everything he could to keep all expression from his face.

“I see. I shall look at the evidence in that light, not only for its validity, but as to how it was obtained. If there were errors it may work to our advantage.”

Phillips shivered involuntarily, struggled to conceal it, and failed.

The room was chilly because the damp never seemed to entirely leave it, in spite of the August heat outside.

“Are you cold, Mr. Phillips?” Rathbone forced himself to remember that this man was his client, and innocent of the crime he was charged with until such time as he was proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

Something flared in Phillips's eyes: memory, fear. “No,” he lied. Then he changed his mind. “It's just this room.” His voice changed and became hoarser. “It's wet. In my cell I can hear… dripping.” His body went rigid. “I hate dripping.”

And yet the man chose to live on the river. He must never be away from the slap of the waves and the shifting of the tide. It was only in here, where the walls sweated and dripped, that he could not control his hatred of it. Rathbone found himself looking at Phillips with a new interest, something almost like respect. Was it possible that he deliberately forced himself to face his phobia, live with it, test himself against it every day? That would be a strength few men possessed, and a discipline most would very definitely avoid. Perhaps he had assumed a great deal about Jericho Phillips that he should not have.

“I will look into your accommodation closely,” he promised. “Now let us put our attention to what we have so far.”

Two weeks later, when the morning of the trial came, Rathbone was as ready as it was possible to be. The excitement of the eve of battle fluttered inside him, tightening his muscles, making his stomach knot, burning within him like a fire. He was afraid of failure, full of doubts as to whether the wild plan he had in mind could work-and even in darker moments, whether it ought to. And yet the hunger to try was compulsive, consuming. It would be a landmark in history if he succeeded in gaining an acquittal for a man like Phillips, because the procedure was flawed, well-motivated but essentially dishonest, drawn by emotion, not fact. That path, no matter how understandable in the individual instance, would in the end only lead to injustice, and therefore sooner or later to the hanging of an innocent man, which was the ultimate failure of the law.

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.