And so it went on, paragraph after paragraph, post-it note after post-it note, with the king becoming more apoplectic at each turn, no longer kicking out, but instead slamming his fists on the ledge of the witness box at each perceived slur.
Larry winced every time. He glanced at the jury. Their reactions did not bode well. Every now and then he’d look towards Julius Bradshaw QC for any flicker of hope, but the barrister was seated with his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands.
When, finally, the prosecutor’s questioning was over and she had taken her seat, Larry released his vice-like grip of the dock’s rail and flexed his fingers to get the blood circulating again. His hopes rose as Julius Bradshaw QC got to his feet.
But the barrister merely said, “I have no questions for the
