Execution Dock

Ballinger hesitated for a moment, obviously debating how frank to be, and decided on the least possible frankness. “I can't imagine what you could wish my advice for, but of course if I can help then I shall be happy to. Please make yourself comfortable.” He waved to the other large armchair opposite his own. “Would you care for tea? Or perhaps something cold?”

Rathbone could afford no time for niceties, and he knew acceptance would mean at least two interruptions, one to request the tea and a second to accept it. “No, thank you,” he declined. “I don't wish to disturb you longer than necessary.” He sat down, mostly to establish his intention to remain until the business was concluded.

Ballinger sat also, so as not to give the impression that he was urging Rathbone to leave.

Rathbone plunged in. It was not going to get easier with delay. “The Phillips case still troubles me,” he admitted. He saw Ballinger's face tighten, so slightly that it could have been a trick of the light, except that he had not moved. “The questioning of police motives was fair, in principle. In fact, it is a tactic one has to consider in any case.”

“You conducted the case brilliantly,” Ballinger said. “And there is nothing even remotely questionable about it. I don't understand what it is that could disturb you now.” The moment he spoke, he realized his mistake. It allowed Rathbone the opening he would otherwise have had to create.

Rathbone smiled very slightly. “I was naturally very careful not to ask Phillips directly if he was guilty. I behaved as if he were not, as I was obliged to, but I find myself more and more convinced that in fact he did murder that child…” He saw Ballinger wince, and ignored it. “And probably others as well. I know that the River Police are still investigating him, in the hope of building a different case, and I have no doubt at all that they will be a great deal more careful the second time.”

Ballinger shifted very slightly in his chair.

“If they do bring another case,” Rathbone continued, “is your client going to wish you to deal with it again? Or, if I may put it more plainly, is this debt of honor now satisfied, or does it stretch to defending Jericho Phillips indefinitely, whatever the charge?”

Ballinger flushed a painful color, and Rathbone felt guilty for having placed him in such a situation. It was going to make friendship between them impossible. He had already crossed a boundary that could not be forgotten. This man was his wife's father; the price was high.

“If you ca

“I am afraid I ca

He smiled very slightly; the warmth was on his lips but not in his eyes. “Your own words in defense of the law still ring in my mind. It must be for all, or it is eventually for no one. If we build either reward or punishment on our own likes, loyalties, or even sense of outrage, then justice is immediately eroded.” He shook his head, his gaze direct, candid. “The time will come when we ourselves are disliked or misunderstood, or strangers, different from our judges in race or class or creed, and if their sense of justice depends upon their passion rather than their morality, who is to speak for us then, or defend our right to the truth?” He leaned forward. “That is more or less what you said to me, Oliver, here in this room, when we spoke of this very subject earlier. I have never admired any man's honor more than I did yours, and still do.”

Rathbone had no answer. His emotions were intensely troubled, and his mind was utterly wrong-footed, off balance as a ru

Ballinger was waiting, watching and judging his reactions.

Rathbone was angry, first with Ballinger for knowing so well how to use him, then with himself for being used. Then another thought occurred to him, which was painful, halting his emotions with an icy hand. Was the man a friend of Ballinger's? A man he had possibly known in his youth, before this desperate twist of hunger had imprisoned him in loneliness, shame, deceit, and then terror? Does one ever quite forget the i

Perhaps it was even worse than that? It would be a double pressure, a debt compounded, if it were his other son-in-law, Margaret's sister's husband. It could be. All ages and types of men were subject to hungers that tortured and in the end destroyed both the victim and the oppressor in their grip.

Or was it Mrs. Ballinger's brother, or one of her sisters’ husbands? The possibilities were many, all of them harsh and full of entangled obligations and pities, loyalties too complex to untangle, and where words did nothing whatever to ease shame or despair.

Without warning, Rathbone's anger was overtaken by pity. He searched for something to say, and before he found it, there was a tap on the door, but it did not open. It had to be the maid.

Ballinger rose to his feet and went to the door. A low voice spoke with the deferential tones of a servant. Ballinger thanked him and turned back to Rathbone.

“I'm sorry, but I have an unexpected visitor. A client who needs urgent help, and I ca

Rathbone stood up. He had no idea who this new client was, and the fact that Ballinger did not introduce him was not remarkable. Business with one's attorney could be sensitive. In fact, if one called personally on a Saturday morning, then it was at the very least extraordinary and unexpected.

“Thank you for your courtesy in receiving me, without notice,” he said with as much grace as he could muster.

“Not at all,” Ballinger replied. “Were there not an emergency, it would have been a pleasure to offer you tea, and to speak longer.”

They shook hands, and Rathbone went out into an empty hall. Whoever had called to see Ballinger had been shown into another room, at least until Rathbone had left. It flashed into his mind to wonder, with some discomfort, if it was someone he would have recognized. It was not a pleasant thought.