Alibi

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“And is the accused represented in court?” asked Charles Gunn.

He did not think, for one moment that the slender young man standing in the dock would have a lawyer here; he didn’t appear to have two pennies to rub together. Yet he had a scrubbed look, and was clean-shaven and short-haired. No one of his age, and he must be in his middle twenties, should have those sunken cheeks and eyes so vividly bright in their deep, dark sockets. He stood upright and very still, looking straight at Gunn, the magistrate on duty that morning.

“No,” he said, clearly.

Farriman, the fussy little, prim little, knowing little magistrates’ clerk, fussed with papers and spoke as if he had not heard the prisoner’s answer.

“No sir, he’s not represented. Perhaps you could suggest legal aid.”

“Does the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” Gunn asked. He never ceased to be slightly exasperated by the clerk, but seldom showed it.

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