The journey was unremarkable and at the hall, Chandler escorted his suspect from the car to the cramped lobby without issue. With the assortment of cops and officials there was little space to breathe and tensions were high. The suspects were watched over like hawks, and they, in turn, stared at each other from opposite sides of the lobby waiting for their name to be called. Chandler was confident that this was merely a formality. Both had indicated they would plead not guilty and neither would make, nor could afford, bail given the flight risk.

Heath was up first. Chandler accompanied him and his tired-looking lawyer inside.

The hall had been laid out in the manner of one of Sarah’s terrible school plays, rows of seats thrown into casual alignment by the caretaker, to cater for the increased police and press presence. Even so, there were nowhere near enough places, the press muttering as they filed along the back and sides of the hall, notebooks and pencils at the ready to record the events. To lend the proceedings an air of authority the reverend’s solid mahogany writing desk had been dragged from next door to the front of the stage where the Honourable Justice White sat looking very stately but very lonely, only the neatly stacked sheaves of evidence to keep her company. Convening the court, all her nervous excitement seemed to have disappeared. She was clear and deliberate in her speech as she read to Heath the charge of murder – a count of six. Heath whined that it wasn’t him, loud enough for most to hear, the press eagerly noting the witness’s intransigence and jittery body language. When the time came to enter his plea he did: Not Guilty. Delivered firmly, if emotionally. Chandler stared at the man he believed was innocent, unable to do anything to halt the process. He would just have to work on proving Heath’s innocence.

After some more formalities, bail applied for by his lawyer and refused, Heath was led out and directed to the worn pews that lined the lobby, his chest rising and falling in long breaths.

Gabriel was up next. He was perched not on the pews but curled up in a ball on the thick stone windowsill, rocking back and forth, looking almost foetal, the stained-glass window bathing him in a gentle blue light. His calm veneer had cracked. Mitch approached Gabriel’s shoulder, and rested his hand on it, a cue to stand. Gabriel didn’t move. Chandler got to his feet to help just as Gabriel finally unfurled himself and stood, head raised, focused not on Mitch, not on the wide double-door to the temporary court beyond, but on Heath.