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footsteps clacked on the shiny floor as various officials moved swiftly hither and thither, passing between them, in hushed tones, some urgent news. Philomena edged nearer to where two such men were about to converge and successfully eavesdropped on one telling the other that the jury had already sent a message to the judge asking what the lightest sentence would be should they return a guilty verdict. All the officials seemed to know exactly the significance of this, and it seemed to please them, but later, when the court reassembled to hear the jury’s verdict, Jonathan Priest didn’t appear to share this pleasure.
    As the stiff-collared foreman declared the accused “not guilty” the winning barrister remained in a reverie, tapping his top lip with his index finger, ignoring the grateful young veteran’sattempts to gain his attention. Philomena puzzled at Jonathan Priest’s behavior toward the boy he had just so successfully defended. Able to see both without turning her head she watched the acquitted’s celebration sour. His brow furrowed and the grimy-looking heel of his remaining hand beat nervously on the wood of the dock. Philomena sensed that more than anything he needed Jonathan Priest to look at him, but the barrister remained oblivious for a few more moments before he looked up and smiled at his client, who appeared more relieved now than when the jury’s verdict had been delivered. Jonathan Priest got to his feet, courteously shook his youthful client’s surviving hand, politely accepted his heartfelt gratitude.
    Philomena accidentally caught the judge’s eye and realized with a start that he was studying her. She looked away and felt immediately, automatically guilty, of course, as though if the judge pointed at her she would find whatever his accusations were, were true: “It wasn’t this young man who stole those items, it was her, her up there in the gallery!” And she would admit, “Yes it was me!” and be arrested, tried, jailed.
    When she glanced back at him the judge had already looked away. She saw him nod imperceptibly toward Jonathan, as if to agree, “Yes, fascinating.” Jonathan Priest looked around. Philomena could tell that the judge and he made eye contact. The judge made a tiny gesture, three swift little claps of his hands—not mocking or ironic.
    Once out of the court Jonathan entered another lavatory. God, this case, he thought. How he’d had to bend it. Emptycubicle. Anyone about? That melodramatic speech he’d made earlier was more than was required of him—what had he been thinking of when he’d admitted the guilt of his client? He’d entered a plea of not guilty, so it was up to the Crown to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt—which they had done in terms of objects unpaid for found in his client’s possession. But he’d sensed that while the court knew a guilty verdict was evidentially correct, it wasn’t necessarily right, so he’d made his extremely unorthodox intervention, winging it on behalf of a young man he didn’t even particularly like. It wasn’t because he was a fellow veteran, that much Jonathan was sure of. He didn’t like veterans for their own sake. Damn right he didn’t.
    Jonathan shut the cubicle door, wiped the varnished wooden toilet lid with his sleeve to ensure its dryness, lowered himself to his knees, took out a phial from his waistcoat pocket, removed the stopper, laid out a fine line of cocaine and inhaled … He rubbed the residue on his gums, stayed kneeling for a few moments, forearms resting on the toilet lid, as if in prayer. He took out a pocket mirror, checked no powder was visible on his face or in his nostrils.
    In one of the corridors behind the courts where the public may not go he happened across the judge traveling in the opposite direction. Oh no, the judge wanted to talk. Their cloaks settled about them as they