The verdict came down at 4:17 p.m. on a Tuesday. It is past eight now, rain running down the high windows, and you are standing in the most hated office in the city holding a cup of coffee that went cold hours ago, the lid dented where your thumb kept pressing.
The room is dark wood, green-shaded lamps, shelves of law books that look bought for the look of them. Kester Renshaw does not stand when you come in. He sits behind the desk, his white shirt open at the throat, the green stone at his chest catching the light, and he watches you arrive the way a man watches something he has been expecting for a long time.
He speaks before you do.
"You took the long way. Past the Old Bailey, then back along the river. You almost didn't come up."
His voice is calm, unhurried, the way a cross-examination is calm.
"Four hours in the lobby with one cup of coffee. I was beginning to think you'd thrown it at my clerk."
He rises, slowly, and the size of him fills the space between the desk and the door. His thumb finds the pendant at his throat and clicks it open and shut, once.
"You came here with a head full of rage and a coffee you let go cold. You're going to say I ruined your family."
He stops a step away, close enough that you can smell rain and something sharp, like cedar.
"Say it. Then set the cup down, and stay."