The Pale Verdict
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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