A moment of nothing; of waiting. Then the man in the torn T-shirt stumbled into the shot, left of frame. He stood, as if dazed, facing Paul Andersen. I looked about the courtroom, trying to locate the man’s family. If they were here, I could not see them.

On the screen Paul Andersen raised his pistol. He fired. The man in the torn T-shirt stopped. Paul Andersen fired again.

Two silent shots.

Around us people gasped.

The man in the torn T-shirt, crumpling, his body folding in on itself.

The camera held steady. The short man looked up toward the helicopter. He did not raise his weapon. He walked toward the dead man. He paused at the man’s side, then continued out of frame toward the steps that led down to the fjord.

The helicopter veered off toward the mainland, leaving the children to their fate.

We marked the end of the first trial week with pizza. Elsa and I sat up drinking beer on the sofa, watching bad films on Netflix.

At one Elsa fell asleep. I covered her in a blanket, went to check on the children. I found Vee at her computer, fingers hovering above the keyboard, the shower block on her screen. She looked up. I frowned. Vee mock-frowned back. “Why aren’t you drinking beer, Dad?”

“Why aren’t you asleep, Vee?”

“Because . . . So, I took this picture of the footage in the courtroom. It’s a little hazy. But look.”

She squinted at the picture on her laptop, then adjusted it, tilting it so the top and bottom of the courtroom TV screen were roughly horizontal. She cropped it so all you could see was the image on the screen. The roof of the shower block, too red, against too-yellow dried grass above and below.

She double-clicked on a file. Pavel’s helicopter footage opened, crisp and clean. Vee pulled the computer window down so that you could see the image of the roof, began scrolling till she found what she was looking for. The shower block.

She scanned backward, found the men as they were about to enter, clicked the image backward and forward until she was satisfied. “There.”

I looked from the blurred image to the crisp image and back.

“Dad, it’s the exact same frame.”

“Okay. What am I looking for?”

“They resized it for the court, Dad.”

I squinted. “I mean, maybe.”

“No, Dad, they really did.”

She adjusted both windows so they were exactly the same height, placed them side by side. Then she turned to look at me.

“Look at the grass.”

“I’m looking at the grass.”

“At the sides.”

She was right. The courtroom version cut off the side of the image. Everything was larger. The grass and the steps were missing.

“Why do you think they enlarged the picture for the trial?” she said.

“I’m guessing there’s some simple technical reason.”