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“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 h
imself 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.
He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove Rathbone, and possibly a desire to know if there were facts to do with someone else's guilt that were being held from him. It was that second possibility that above all compelled him to give Phillips the finest defense he could.
There was a discreet knock on the door. It was the usher to tell him that it was time.
The trial began with all the ceremony the Old Bailey commanded. Lord Justice Sullivan was presiding, a man in his late fifties with a handsome nose and very slightly receding chin. His shock of dark hair was hidden beneath his heavy, full-bottomed wig, but his bristling brows accentuated the somewhat tense expression of his face. He conducted the opening procedures with dispatch. A jury was sworn, the charges were read, and Richard Tremayne, Q.C., began the case for Her Majesty against Jericho Phillips.
Tremayne was a little older than Rathbone, a man with a curious face, full of humor and imagination. He would have appeared much more at home in a poet's loose-sleeved shirt and extravagant cravat. Rathbone in fact had seen him wear exactly that, one evening at a party in his large house whose lawn backed on to the Thames. They had been playing croquet, and losing an inordinate number of balls. The late sun was setting, falling in reds and peaches on the water, bees were buzzing lazily in the lilies, and nobody knew or cared who won.
And yet despite this lack of competition, Rathbone knew that Tremayne both loved and understood the law. Rathbone was not sure at all whether he was a fortunate choice, or an unfortunate one as his opponent.
The first witness he called was Walters of the Thames River Police, a solid man with a mild manner and buttons that had such a high polish they shone in the light. He climbed the steep, curving steps to the witness box and was sworn in.
In the dock, higher up opposite the judge's bench, and sideways to the jury, Jericho Phillips sat between two blank-faced guards. He looked very sober, almost as if he might be frightened. Was that to impress the jury, or did he really believe Rathbone would fail? Rathbone hoped it was the latter, because then Phillips would maintain his appearance without the chance of it slipping and betraying him.
Rathbone listened to see what the river policeman would say. It would be foolish for him to question any of the facts; that was not the tactic he proposed to use. Now all he needed to do was take note.
Tremayne was intelligent, charming, born to privilege, and perhaps a little lazy. He was due for an unpleasant surprise.
“The message came to us at the Wapping Station,” Walters was saying. “Lightermen'd found a body, an’ they reckoned as we should go and look at it.”
“Is that usual, Mr. Walters?” Tremayne asked. “I presume there are tragically many bodies found in the river.”
“Yes, sir, there are. But this one weren't an accident. Poor beggar'd ‘ad ‘is throat cut from ear to ear,” Walters replied grimly. He did not look up at Phillips, but it was obvious from the rigidity of his shoulders and the way he stared fixedly at Tremayne that he had been told not to.
