Benighted by Kit Whitfield

this city who didn’t know him, then maybe I will pass it on.”
    Franklin frowns. “I don’t doubt that many of them knew this John Marcos by sight. You, however, were well acquainted with him. He was your friend. Do you really think you can be impartial?”
    I shrug. “Maybe not, but I hope I can be professional.”
    “Hm.” Franklin nods; it’s almost as if he’s conceding me a point. Then he leans forward. “And in your definition, professional involves sitting back and watching two men assault your client?”
    “Assault?”
    “The day of his arrest, Ms. Galley, and please let’s not pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
    I feel a little pulse of nerves inside my chest, and then it goes away. My bread and butter is winos and derelicts, so I’m not used to proper, expensive lawyers, but this must happen to people higher up the ladder than me all the time. “I’m not pretending anything, Mr. Franklin. You’ll find the records show it was me who ended that interrogation. You can check it.”
    “I have. And you did. Fifteen minutes after you entered. I have the testimony of my client, too, which is not favorable to you in the least.”
    I smile. “Well, he doesn’t like me.”
    “My client states that not only did you fail to intervene when he was assaulted, but you refused to allow him to call me, although he specifically asked to. You arrested him on suspicion of murder, held him without charge, during which time he was subjected to actual bodily harm and denied access to a lawyer. I assume you know how many human and civil rights decrees this contravenes? If you were responsible to the Bar Council, Ms. Galley, you would be disbarred. Is that your definition of professional?”
    He does it awfully well. Some kind of protective detachment has taken hold of me. By rights I should probably be cowering: after all, without even mentioning the Middle Ages, he’s just accused me of breaking the laws of the land, the continent, and the democratic world, betraying the principles of my profession, and being a disgrace to civilization in general. It’s quite possible I’ll find I’m shaking after he’s gone. Right now, though, all that’s left in me is an impersonal admiration for his delivery. Really, he’s very good.
    “I’m not responsible to the Bar Council, Mr. Franklin. I’m not a member.”
    “I know. I’m familiar with DORLA legal practices. How many years of training did you have—two? It seems you qualified at twenty with only a basic grounding in the laws that apply to your narrow field of interest. That’s less than an undergraduate degree. I’d hardly say you were qualified to represent my client.”
    “That’s a little hard, Mr. Franklin. I had the standard DORLA training—I know it’s not up to mainstream standards, but it’s better than you imply. It’s only short because we’re so understaffed, we just haven’t time to train for a full term. And
our
client violated laws that put him within DORLA jurisdiction. He was always going to be given an adviser with my qualifications.”
    Franklin puts his head on one side and considers me.
    “Would you like some coffee?” I say.
    “Coffee? Oh. Yes, please.”
    I stand up and switch on my baby kettle. “It’s only instant, I’m afraid.”
    “Thank you.”
    I turn around and lean against the wall. He can’t do anything to me. I say this to myself several times, and then try an experiment. “Mr. Franklin, we do have a client in common. He may not like the way I’ve handled things, in fact I’m sure he doesn’t. And I doubt you do either. It isn’t the way I would have handled things if I had the resources. But in answer to your question, I think I have to say, yes. By the standards of my profession, by the standards of the Department for the Ongoing Regulation of Lycanthropic Activity, my behavior was professional.” I pour water into his cup.
    “You really believe that it was fit behavior for a member of a