- 0 –

O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,

Shrunk to this little measure?

Julius Caesar, Act III. Scene I.

- William Shakespeare

- 0 –

He waits in the dark corridor that leads from the holding cells to the courtrooms, and swears he can smell the fear and despair of those that have gone before him. It emanates from the walls and not even the stench of industrial strength disinfectant can dislodge it. That leads him to ponder what could have necessitated the use of so much disinfectant. None of the scenarios his imagination conjures up is pleasant, and he begins to wonder if the fear and despair is part of him rather than of his surroundings. Two court officers stand outside the door of Court Three, conferring in low voices. Perhaps they're talking about him; the once eminent man now fallen from grace, and he sighs. He lifts his hands to straighten his immaculate tie, then drops them again when he recognises that the gesture betrays his nervousness.

Looking around, he contemplates how many people must have stood here before him with the same hopeless feeling, the same knowledge that this is the end. Some detached part of his brain is fascinated by the thought, by the experience. How many of those people did he put here, in this corridor, never believing he would one day stand here himself? He lifts his hands again, this time to rub his nose and the handcuffs clink softly, and he regards them as though he's only now noticed their presence. This is not how he wants it to end, but he is no longer in a position to influence events. He forfeited that privilege on the day, three months ago, when he made the fateful decision. He shakes himself and expels a slight puff of air. It's no use getting maudlin, now. He is about to have his moment in court and he needs to concentrate, to play the game until the very end.

One of the officers walks towards him and takes his elbow. He resists the urge to shake off the touch.
"It's time."
He nods and allows the officer to lead him to the door, its dark wood gleaming in the muted light. Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and fixes an expression of calm concentration on his face. He feels like a gladiator of old, about to be thrown into the arena to do battle with ferocious beasts. The door is opened from the inside and he hears a hush fall over the courtroom. He half expects camera flashes to go off upon his entry until he remembers that no media is allowed at his trial. To his surprise, though, the gallery is full and his eyes register all the faces in a practised sweep. Later, when he can give it his full concentration, he will go back to it and sort friend from foe, separate those who have come in the hope that this is somehow a mistake from those who are here to witness his demise, to slake their bloodlust. There is one face he hopes not to see, but of course it is the first one that registers. He falters momentarily, mid-step, and has to force himself not to look at her again. Instead he focuses his gaze on the fresh faced lawyer waiting for him. The young man gives him a supportive smile. He doesn't smile back; merely takes his place at the table. He holds out his hands, waiting for the cuffs to be removed, but the court officer shakes his head once. Humiliation warms his face and he glances at her, wondering whether she's seen. She has. He drops his eyes to stare at the table, wishing more than ever that she hadn't come.
"All rise, the Honourable Judge Marshall Sinclair presiding," a voice intones, and there is a general shuffling of feet and creaking of seats as all present stand. The judge ascends the bench briskly, his flowing robes gathered around him. He is an impressive man – tall and thin, with a full head of dark hair. A short, neatly trimmed beard and alert grey eyes give him an air of intelligence.
"Be seated," he says, his voice deep and well modulated. His eyes come to rest on the accused, and there is a long moment of silence as the two men regard each other solemnly. A few puzzled looks are exchanged in the gallery. Most of them don't know that the two men have in the past worked together closely on occasion.

Judge Sinclair looks away eventually, shifting the papers in front of him around until he is satisfied with their arrangement. It is a delaying tactic; he does not want to be here, does not want to be the one to bring an end to the man in the dock. But he has no choice. It is his duty, and that is something the man across the room understands all too well.
He looks up and nods at the accused and his lawyer. They rise without instruction, the handcuffs clinking in the pregnant silence. The judge frowns and bites back the urge to order them removed.
The young lawyer speaks. "Ryan Montgomery representing the accused, my Lord," he announces in a clear, confident voice.
The judge grunts, and suppresses his anger that they have assigned such an inexperienced man to such a prominent case. The accused deserves better – the best. "The case before me is one of murder in the first degree, with an extradition order to the United States of America on the occasion of a guilty verdict. Will the accused state his name for the record?"
There is no hesitation. "Henry James Pearce."
A murmur runs through the courtroom, but Harry keeps his eyes firmly focussed on the judge.
There is a slight pause as the judge waits for the people to settle down. When absolute silence once again reigns, he asks, "On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?"
Harry takes a breath as his thoughts go back three months.

- 0 –

When he walks into the Home Secretary's office, the gun is already in his hand. Towers and the American look up in surprise, and when he lifts the gun it quickly turns into alarm.
"Harry?!" he hears Towers say, but his full focus is on the American. He sights at the middle of the forehead, and the gun is nice and steady in his hand. It is a Glock, not too heavy, and perfectly balanced. When he squeezes the trigger, the Glock never deviates from its target. Everything seems to slow down after that; he is aware of the American falling backwards, of his blood and brains spattering over the wood-panelled wall behind him. Towers throws up an arm in defence and utters a strangled cry of horror before diving behind his desk. The American's leg twitches once, and then he is still.

Harry drops the gun, kicks it away and puts his hands on his head. He stands, waiting, as the stench of blood and cordite fills the air. Running feet nears rapidly. He feels empty.

- 0 –

He is aware that every eye in the room is fixed on him, waiting with bated breath for his answer. His lawyer gives him an encouraging nod and he can detect a hint of sympathy in Marshall Sinclair's eyes. For a second he is absurdly tempted to run. But he knows that escape is not an option; the game must be played to the bitter end. So he lifts his chin and gives his answer, and can almost see it drift upon the air once it leaves his mouth.

"Guilty."

tbc