They didn't put Jones in a cell. They put him in the small anteroom off the Council chamber, the one with a barred window that looked at a brick wall and a chair with one leg shorter than the others. Two guards flanked the door, bored the way men get when adrenaline runs out and paperwork takes its place.
Kevin and I stood in the hall. Miriam's voice carried through the heavy door like a metronome: precise questions, precise answers, the sound of procedure doing what blood couldn't.
“Ready?" Kevin asked.
“No," I said. “Yes."
He opened the door.
Jones sat with his elbows on his knees, wrists cuffed in front, shirt collar rumpled, lip blood-dark from where my fist had written its opinion. He lifted his head when I entered. For a flicker, relief—like pain had left and come back in a face
