It didn’t much. He put the wig down in the center of the mahogany desk in front of him—which was wrong to do, at least for any length of time, because they lose their shape—and he stared at it. He could hardly expect a jury to resist public pressure if he could not do so himself. He had managed it this time. But perhaps, he thought, it was time for him to retire. Physically, he felt fine. Physically, he felt as though he could carry on indefinitely, or at least until such time as the typical unexpected thing might occur. But it was getting increasingly difficult to keep the faith. On his desk, next to his wig, was a copy of The Daily Sun. He looked at the headline and he sighed. Every tabloid in the country was expressing its outrage that he hadn’t granted an earlier defense motion to dismiss the charges because McSweeney claimed an alibi. From a legal standpoint, it would have been absurd to grant the motion—even the defense didn’t expect that he would do so. He had ruled that the case would proceed and it would be up to the jury to decide the weight of the claimed alibi, along with all the other evidence.
