Although he had barely left his cell since his incarceration, he felt physically exhausted and stood with his head under the spray for a long time, appreciating the rare privacy offered there as he tried to wash the sleep from his eyes. Afterwards, dressed and alone in his cell he found that he couldn’t sit still and paced the floor over and over, wishing they had allowed him a watch so he would know how much longer he had before it was time to leave. On most nights over the previous two months he had managed to sleep quite comfortably, desperate to return to that state when his eyes opened in the morning to face another tedious day, but the night before the trial began he was too nervous to fall asleep. His old life—that aimless, peaceful, uneventful existence—seemed like a dream now, something that he had taken so much for granted but had been stolen away from him without his even knowing why. The sound of a key was heard in the lock and his stomach churned with tension as one of the warders walked in, followed by Sir Quentin Lawrence and James Lewis, the instructing solicitor.
