The courtroom itself was a witness before anyone else was called to the stand. Benjamin Whitmore noticed this first, as he always did: the way the wood had learned the weight of centuries, the way the bench's oak had taken on the polish of a thousand nervous hands, the way the high windows threw parallelograms of light across the floor that moved like sundials marking hours no one bothered to...
The Old Bailey loomed over Basinghall Street like a pale judge itself — grey Portland stone weathered by centuries of London fog and newer, sharper anxieties. Benjamin Whitmore stood at the edge of the crowd, collar turned up against the November drizzle, and felt the peculiar vertigo of a man who has become a character in someone else's indictment.
For twenty-three years, Benjamin had been a...
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