The case was being handled on a contradictory basis. The ambush had taken place barely four weeks ago, and the trial was already under way — an unusually speedy process even by British standards. Security was airtight. Admittance to the public gallery (visitors entered from another part of the building) was being strictly controlled. But at the same time, the trial was being handled strictly as a criminal matter. The name “Ulster Liberation Army” had not been mentioned. The prosecutor had not once used the word terrorist. The police ignored — publicly — the political aspects of the case. Two men were dead, and this was a trial for first-degree murder — period. Even the press was playing along, oh the theory that there was no more contemptuous way to treat the defendant than to call him a simple criminal, and not sanctify him as a creature of politics. Jack wondered about additional political or intelligence-related motives in this treatment, but no one was talking along those lines, and the defense attorney certainly couldn’t defend his client better by calling him a member of a terrorist group. In the media, and in the courtroom, this was a case of murder.
The truth was different, of course, and everyone knew it. But Ryan knew enough about the law to remember that lawyers rarely concern themselves with truth. The rules were far more important. There would therefore be no official speculation on the goal of the criminals, and no involvement of the Royal Family, aside from depositions that they could not identify the living conspirator and hence had no worthwhile evidence to offer.
It didn’t matter. From the press coverage of the evidence it seemed clear enough that the trial was as airtight as was possible without a videotape of the entire event. Similarly, Cathy was not to testify. In addition to forensic experts who had testified the day before, the Crown had eight eyewitnesses. Ryan was number two. The trial was expected to last a maximum of four days. As Owens had told him in the hospital, there would be no mucking about with this lad.
“Doctor Ryan? Would you please follow me, sir?” The VIP treatment continued here also. A bailiff in short sleeves and tie came over and led him into the courtroom through a side door. A police officer took his computer after opening the door. “Show-time,” Ryan whispered to himself.
Old Bailey #2 was an extravagance of 19th-century woodworking. The large room was paneled with so much solid oak that the construction of a similar room in America would draw a protest from the Sierra Club for all the trees it required. The actual floorspace was surprisingly small, scarcely as much as the dining room in his house, a similarity made all the more striking by a table set in the center. The judge’s bench was a wooden fortress adjacent to the witness box. The Honorable Mr. Justice Wheeler sat in one of the five high-backed chairs behind it. He was resplendent in a scarlet robe and sash, and a horsehair wig, called a “peruke,” Ryan had been told, that fell to his narrow shoulders and clearly looked like something from another age. The jury box was to Ryan’s left. Eight women and four men sat in two even rows, each face full of anticipation. Above them was the public gallery, perched like a choir loft and angled so that Ryan could barely see the people there. The barristers were to Ryan’s right, across the small floorspace, wearing black robes, 18th-century cravats, and their own, smaller wigs. The net effect of all this was a vaguely religious atmosphere that made Ryan slightly uneasy as he was sworn in.
William Richards, QC, the prosecutor, was a man of Ryan’s age, similar in height and build. He began with the usual questions: your name, place of residence, profession, when did you arrive, for what purpose? Richards predictably had a flair for the dramatic, and by the time the questions carried them to the shooting, Ryan could sense the excitement and anticipation of the audience without even looking at their faces.
“Doctor Ryan, could you describe in your own words what happened next?”
Jack did exactly this for ten minutes, without interruption, all the while half-facing the jury. He tried to avoid looking into their faces. It seemed an odd place to get stage fright, but this was precisely what Ryan felt. He focused his eyes on the oak panels just over their heads as he ran through the events. It was almost like living it again, and Ryan could feel his heart beating faster as he concluded.
“And, Doctor Ryan, can you identify for us the man whom you first attacked?” Richards finally asked.
“Yes, sir.” Ryan pointed. “The defendant, right there, sir.”
It was Ryan’s first really good look at him. His name was Sean Miller — not a particularly Irish name to Ryan’s way of thinking. He was twenty-six, short, slender, dressed neatly in a suit and tie. He was smiling up at someone in the visitors’ gallery, a family member perhaps, when Ryan pointed. Then his gaze shifted, and Ryan examined the man for the first time. What sort of person, Jack had wondered for weeks, could plan and execute such a crime? What was missing in him, or what terrible thing lived in him that most civilized people had the good fortune to lack? The thin, acne-scarred face was entirely normal. Miller could have been an executive trainee at Merrill Lynch or any other business concern. Jack’s father had spent his life dealing with criminals, but their existence was a puzzlement to Ryan. Why are you different? What makes you what you are? Ryan wanted to ask, knowing that even if there were an answer the question would remain. Then he looked at Miller’s eyes. He looked for . . . something, a spark of life, humanity — something that would say that this was indeed another human being. It could only have been two seconds, but for Ryan the moment seemed to linger into minutes as he looked into those pale gray eyes and saw . . .
Nothing. Nothing at all. And Jack began to understand a little.
“The record will show,” the Lord Justice intoned to the court reporter, “that the witness identified the defendant, Sean Miller.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” Richards concluded.
Ryan took the opportunity to blow his nose. He’d acquired a head cold over the preceding weekend.
“Are you quite comfortable, Doctor Ryan?” the judge inquired. Jack realized that he’d been leaning on the wooden rail.
“Excuse me, your hon — My Lord. This cast is a little tiring.” Every time Sally came past her father, she had taken to singing, “I’m a little teapot . . .”
“Bailiff, a stool for the witness,” the judge ordered.
The defense team was seated adjacent to the prosecution, perhaps fifteen feet farther away in the same row of seats, green leather cushions on the oak benches. In a moment the bailiff arrived with a simple wooden stool, and Ryan settled down on it. What he really needed was a hook for his left arm, but he was gradually becoming used to the weight. It was the constant itching that drove him crazy, though there was nothing anybody could do about that.
The defense attorney — barrister — rose with elegant deliberation. His name was Charles Atkinson, more commonly known as Red Charlie, a lawyer with a penchant for radical causes and radical crimes. He was supposed to be an embarrassment to the Labour Party, which he had served until recently in Parliament. Red Charlie was about thirty pounds overweight, his wig askew atop a florid, strangely thin face for the ample frame. Defending terrorists must have paid well enough, Ryan thought. There’s a question Owens must be looking into, Ryan told himself. Where is your money coming from, Mr. Atkinson?
“May it please Your Lordship,” he said formally to the bench. He walked slowly towards Ryan, a sheaf of notes in his hand.
“Doctor Ryan — or should I say Sir John?”
Jack waved his hand. “Whatever is convenient to you, sir,” he answered indifferently. They had warned him about Atkinson. A very clever bastard, they’d said. Ryan had known quite a few clever bastards in the brokerage business.
“You were, I believe, a leftenant in the United States Marine Corps?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct.”
Atkinson looked down at his notes, then over at the jury. “Bloodthirsty mob, the U.S. Marines,” he muttered.
“Excuse me, sir? Bloodthirsty?” Ryan asked. “No, sir. Most of the Marines I know are beer drinkers.”
Atkinson spun back at Ryan as a ripple of laughter came down from the gallery. He gave Jack a thin, dangerous smile. They’d warned Jack most of all to beware his word games and tactical skill in the courtroom. To hell with it, Ryan told himself. He smiled back at the barrister. Go for it, asshole . . .