The Adversary

by Michael Walters

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

For more than twenty years a hidden hand has ruled the backstreets of Ulan Baatar, but now Muunokhoi, the once untouchable head of the Mongolia's largest and most powerful criminal empire, has finally been caught. It should be the Serious Crime Team's finest hour. But nothing is ever that simple in the new Mongolia. Ineptitude and petty corruption have dogged the department for years, but when Muunokhoi's trial starts to collapse, Nergui and Doripalam--the ex-head of the Team and his one-time protege--are forced to acknowledge that something truly rotten lies at the heart of the organization they have dedicated their lives to. With the crime lord's acquittal impending, and his revenge a cold certainty, Nergui and Doripalam are not even sure they can trust each other. In The Adversary, Michael Walters returns to industrial ruins of Ulan Baatur and the bleak emptiness of the Mongolian steppes in a tense battle between a master criminal and the men determined to bring him to justice.

Release date: September 3, 2013

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 352

Sample

They are out on the steppe, miles from home. Miles from anywhere.

It is late afternoon, early spring. The immense sky is clear, just a few wisps of cloud against the rich blue. Everything—even the snow tipped mountains that surround them—is dwarfed by comparison.

The sun is already low, and the mountains are casting vast shadows across the green plain. Behind them, the distant hazy sprawl of the city is still drenched in bright sunlight, windows and towers blinking as they speed toward their destination.

He has been told to keep his head down. But it is difficult not to look around. He has never been this far from the city, never seen such openness, such unfilled space. He has lived on the steppe and the mountains were the boundaries of his world, but he had no idea that, after driving for mile after mile, they would still remain so distant and unreachable.

He looks back at the endless strip of dirt road behind, gazing through the wake of dust at the old car that follows their gleaming truck.

He looks forward along the same road, wondering how far it will be before they reach their goal. And he looks out as they pass an occasional camp, grazing goats and cattle, old men on horseback who watch their passing without evident interest.

There are four of them in the Jeep. He sits in the rear with the boss. The boss’s eyes are closed as though he is sleeping, but he suspects the boss is awake, listening to the aimless conversation of the two in the front. He has never seen the boss sleeping, though clearly he must. He finds himself nodding from the motion of the truck but tries to keep awake by guessing how far they have to go.

On their return, there will be five of them in the truck, so it will be more crowded. He imagines the boss will sit in the front then.

At some point he falls asleep. When he opens his eyes, the sun has almost set and the truck is slowing. It seems they have reached their destination, though when he looks out of the window this place looks no different from the endless miles of empty grassland they have already passed.

The truck pulls to a halt, and the boss instantly opens his eyes. The driver twists in his seat to look back at him. The boss says nothing but nods faintly. This is the place.

Behind them, the car draws to a stop. The boss opens his door, and they all climb out and stand around the truck, as the car driver maneuvers his vehicle around them. He stops, finally, thirty or forty meters away. They watch as the driver climbs out, opens the rear door and pulls out two metal gasoline cans.

The sun has nearly set now, just a brilliant red sliver visible over the mountains. The mountaintops and the western sky glow crimson, and the remaining sky is a deep mauve, the first stars beginning to emerge.

In the far distance, the city is a tiny bundle of smoky light. But otherwise, the steppe seems deserted.

In the dim light, they watch in silence as the car driver systematically pours gasoline across the roof of the old car. The rear door is still open, and he leans inside to pour more of the liquid across the rear seat. When both cans are empty, he throws them back inside the car. Then, as if making a final adjustment, he unscrews the cap of the car’s gas tank.

He pauses and looks across at the boss who gives his usual almost imperceptible nod. It is not clear whether it will be visible to the car driver in the twilight, but it seems that he has received the signal. He begins slowly to walk backward away from the car, watching where the spreading pool of gasoline has begun to seep across the grass. He pauses and pulls something from his pocket. He makes a sharp movement with his hand, and then he tosses a glowing object on to the damp ground at his feet.

He pauses, momentarily, to ensure that the discarded match has ignited the gasoline. Then he begins to walk, much more rapidly, to where the rest of them are standing.

He nods to the boss with a faint smile, and then they all turn to look back at the car. It is almost dark, the clear sky laden with stars, and the spreading wall of flame is dazzling in the gloom. They watch as it sweeps unstoppably across the body of the car.

Without a word, the boss turns and climbs into the passenger seat of the Jeep. The rest follow, three of them squeezing into the rear seat, and then they pull away, turning back on to the road toward the city.

The young man looks back through the rear window. The car is burning, a meaningless beacon on the vast empty plain. He watches as it diminishes behind them. The glare expands briefly as the gas tank ignites and the car explodes. And then it is disappearing once more, soon little more than a tiny earth-bound echo of the star-filled night.

And, as the Jeep pounds back along the dirt track toward the city, he is still unsure whether it was only his imagination, or whether he really could hear, in those moments before the fire caught hold, the pounding of fists and the crying of a panic-filled voice from inside the spreading wall of flame.

The court room faced east, its large windows looking out across the city and the blank expanse of Sukh Bataar Square. At midmorning, early in the year, the low sun streamed across the pale wooden benches, silhouetting the figures of the room’s few inhabitants.

Judge Radnaa leaned forward, momentarily dazzled by the sunlight, blinking impatiently. “So you are saying we cannot proceed?” she said. She could barely make out the features of the man facing her, could not read his expression.

“It is complicated,” he said. “We need more time.”

Judge Radnaa looked across at the panel lined up on the bench beside her. Two other, less experienced judges, and three citizens’ representatives. The maximum possible representation, reflecting the seriousness of this case. Behind them—as if to remind them of the gravity of their responsibilities—the courtroom wall was adorned with the striking red and yellow geometries of the national flag.

“We have already been sitting for two weeks,” she said. “And, before that, we spent a long time in preparation. You assured us that the prosecution case was comprehensive.”

“As I say, it is complicated,” the man said. “There have been developments.”

“But you are not prepared to enlighten us as to the nature of these developments?”

“It is—”

“Complicated. Yes, Mr. Tsengel, I think we have grasped that. I understand that you are relatively new to your role in the State Prosecutor’s Office. It may surprise you to learn that the law is frequently complicated.”

“Yes, but—”

“I do not think this is acceptable, Mr. Tsengel. We have already invested very substantially in this case. We have listened to the evidence that the State Prosecutor’s Office has so far presented. This is clearly a very important case with many ramifications—”

“Well, that’s exactly—”

“And yet, now, two weeks into the case, you are seeking a significant adjournment because of—developments. And yet you are unwilling to share with us the nature or significance of these developments. That is, I think, an accurate summary of the situation?”

“Yes, but, well, it is—”

“I think we understand very well what it is, Mr. Tsengel. I think we should perhaps now seek Mr. Nyamsuren’s views on this topic.”

Tsengel opened his mouth as if to intervene, but remained silent. He was a short, rather awkward young man, who looked uncomfortable in his cheap, Western-style suit. He shifted from one foot to the other, as though keen to make his escape from the judge’s presence.

Judge Radnaa looked across at the two other men, who had been sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, whispering incessantly to one another during the previous discussion. She gestured to one of the two men, a tall slim figure in a black suit of considerably better quality than Tsengel’s. He rose slightly, acknowledging her gesture.

“Mr. Nyamsuren,” she said. “Will you join us for a moment?”

Nyamsuren exchanged a glance with the other man, a heavily built middle-aged man with a shaved head, and then rose to approach the bench, a quizzical expression on his face. “There is a problem?”

“So it would seem,” Judge Radnaa said. “The State Prosecutor’s Office is seeking an adjournment.”

Nyamsuren raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He looked across at Tsengel, smiling vaguely. Tsengel stared down at the floor. “There is some difficulty, Mr. Tsengel? Mr. Muunokhoi has already been substantially inconvenienced. I presume we are not talking about a long delay?”

Tsengel looked up, his face pale. “Well, it’s difficult to say. I mean—”

Nyamsuren turned to stare at Tsengel, as though in astonishment. “I am sure this is some simple misunderstanding, Mr. Tsengel. The State Prosecutor’s Office is always very thorough. And my client has co-operated fully with the authorities at every stage. I cannot see what further developments might have occurred at this point.”

Tsengel coughed, looking between Nyamsuren and the judge. Behind them, the other judges and the citizens’ representatives had been watching the discussion with close attention. “Well, yes, but the situation is very—” He caught the judge’s eye and coughed again. “The situation is very difficult. You will appreciate that I am in an awkward position—” He trailed off, as if unsure what to say next.

“You place us all in an awkward position, Mr. Tsengel. I think Mr. Nyamsuren would be entirely within his right to object very strongly to your proposal.”

“With respect,” Nyamsuren said, his glance moving from the judge back to Tsengel, “I am still not entirely clear what Mr. Tsengel’s proposal actually is.”

“Mr. Tsengel?” The judge gestured pleasantly toward the young man.

Tsengel shifted awkwardly. “Well, we’re seeking an adjournment of the trial. While we resolve the issues that have arisen.”

Nyamsuren smiled without any evident humor. “I see. And how long an adjournment are you seeking?”

“Well, I can’t exactly—”

Nyamsuren laughed. “I must confess, I had not previously been aware that the State Prosecutor’s Office possessed a sense of humor.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Mr. Tsengel, Mr. Muunokhoi has been continually harassed by the police and by the State Prosecutor’s Office for many years. Statements have been made about my client’s business activities which verge on the libelous. He has been accused of trafficking everything from heroin to, I believe, uranium. And yet, not only has my client never been prosecuted, until now no charges have ever been brought against him. Six months ago, for reasons best known to themselves, the police decided that they had amassed sufficient evidence to justify my client’s arrest on various charges including—” He glanced down at his notes, as though the precise charges were a matter of indifference to him. “Including charges of, ah, underpayment of import duties. Since then, he has been subject to the most stringent bail conditions, severely curtailing his ability to conduct his legitimate business. And now, when my client finally has the opportunity to demonstrate his innocence, you come forward to seek an indefinite adjournment on the grounds of some—difficulties which you are apparently unable to share with us. I can conclude only that this is an elaborate joke.”

Tsengel looked miserably at the judge, as though pleading with her to take pity on him. “With respect, the core charges relate to illegal imports. Rather more serious than the underpayment of duties—”

“Yes, of course,” Judge Radnaa said. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly toward Nyamsuren. “I take it that you are not prepared to accede to Mr. Tsengel’s request?”

Nyamsuren smiled. “I think you can take it that that is our position,” he said.

She turned to Tsengel. “And you are not in a position to present the State Prosecutor’s evidence?”

Tsengel hesitated, as though trying to come up with an alternative answer. “As we speak, no,” he said, finally.

She nodded slowly, and then looked back at her colleagues. “We will need a brief adjournment to consult,” she said, “but as I see it we have only two routes available to us.” She paused. “First, we can continue the trial on the basis of whatever evidence you can present. I take it that this would not be your preferred option?”

Tsengel blinked and nodded faintly.

“Or,” she went on, “since Mr. Nyamsuren is, quite reasonably, not prepared to agree to an indefinite delay, we can perhaps agree to a short adjournment while the Prosecutor’s Office considers its position. Perhaps until tomorrow morning?”

“It is not your fault. You need to realize that.” Nergui was sitting in Doripalam’s office, leaning back in his chair, his ankles resting neatly on the corner of the desk. Doripalam thought that he had never seen him looking quite so relaxed. He only wished that he could share Nergui’s composure.

“It’s a mess,” Doripalam said. “The whole thing’s a mess.”

Nergui shrugged. “We know that. But nobody’s blaming you.”

Doripalam leaned forward across the desk. While they had been talking, Nergui noticed, Doripalam had been doodling aimlessly on the lined pad in front of him, large spirals, starting at the outside and working down to a tiny enclosed point in the center. “Maybe you’re not blaming me,” Doripalam said. “Because you know what this place is like. But others will be.”

“Of course. There will always be ignorant people looking for scapegoats. But this is not your fault.”

“It’s my responsibility.”

Nergui carefully dropped his feet from the desk to the floor and leaned forward. As always, his clothing was an apparently unstudied blend of the conventional and the eccentric—a dark, well-cut business suit, offset by a lemon shirt and a louder-than-usual tie in varying shades of yellow. His socks, Doripalam had noticed as Nergui had balanced his ankles on the desk, had apparently been selected to match the shirt.

“And what form should your responsibility take?” Nergui said. His dark features were as expressionless as ever and his tone was casual, but Doripalam felt obliged to take the question seriously.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But if it’s thought that I’m not up to the job, then I shouldn’t be in it.”

“So you would resign?”

“If it came to it, well, yes, I suppose I would.”

“Then I suppose I would have to ensure that your resignation was not accepted.” Nergui smiled. “If it came to it. But I think we can assume that it will not. Not over this, anyway.”

Doripalam pushed back his chair. “But it’s a mess, though, isn’t it? After all this time. After all the effort we’ve put in. We nearly had Muunokhoi. And now the whole bloody thing’s down the pan.”

Nergui shrugged. “We have to be philosophical. You are sure there’s no chance of salvaging it?”

“Some of the evidence we’ve got holds up. So it’s not quite dead, but it’s as good as. It’s all tainted by the fake stuff, so nobody’s going to take the case seriously. We tried to buy ourselves some time, see if we could make more of the evidence we’ve still got, but they weren’t having it.”

“No, well, that is not so surprising.”

Doripalam smiled for the first time. “No, but at least we forced those smug bastards in the Prosecutor’s office to do some work. Though I imagine that’s the last satisfaction we’ll get in that direction.”

Nergui nodded slowly. “They are looking for an inquiry, you know?”

Doripalam rose and walked across to the window. It was a cold clear spring day, the sky a brilliant cloudless blue beyond the clutter of gray buildings. The view from his office was not impressive—the back of a disused office block, most of its windows smashed. Between the two buildings, there was an abandoned yard, filled with the detritus of the failed business—an old desk, some office chairs, even a broken filing cabinet. Somewhere beyond all this, he thought, there was the open steppe, the mountains, the miles of emptiness. “I didn’t know,” he said, “but I presumed they would.” He laughed faintly. “They behave as if they’re the ones who’ve put in all the work. Perhaps we should institute an inquiry into all the times they’ve messed up our evidence.”

“We could have only so many inquiries,” Nergui said. “But, no, I don’t think we can avoid it this time. There will be too many questions.” He paused. “I have put my own name forward.”

Doripalam turned from the window. “You have?”

Nergui shrugged. “Why not? I understand the operations of this place better than anyone. Of course, if you are uncomfortable—”

Doripalam shook his head. “No, of course not. But wouldn’t they see a conflict of interest?”

“If I were to chair the inquiry? I don’t see why.”

Doripalam leaned back against the window, his thin figure silhouetted against the daylight. “Well, for a start, you appointed me.”

“But I am clear,” Nergui said. “This is not an inquiry into you or your performance. There is no suggestion that you were even aware of what was happening.”

“I know that,” Doripalam said, “and I hope you know it too. But I’m sure that others will be only too keen to think the worst.”

“There are always such people,” Nergui said, apparently with genuine regret. “But I think the situation here is straightforward. I know what you inherited here—not least, because I was the one who bequeathed it to you. And the Minister knows all this. He knows that the civil police force was a shambles from the start—the ones the military didn’t want, the detritus who couldn’t find a better government job. He knows how much we’ve done to develop some professionalism—”

“Or at least come competence,” Doripalam added softly.

“As you say. He also knows how much we have done to change things, you and I. And how unpopular we have made ourselves in the process.”

“Very gratifying,” Doripalam said, with only a mild edge of irony. “The Minister’s good opinion does of course mean a great deal to me. But I’m not sure I see the relevance.”

“The Minister is no fool. He knows the problems you are facing. An inquiry is necessary, but he does not wish to make your life any more difficult.”

“So he wants a whitewash?”

“On the contrary, he wants a thorough and rigorous inquiry into all the circumstances behind this case. He wants transparency and openness. He wants, I suppose, an appropriate apportionment of accountability and blame.” As Nergui mouthed the ministerial vocabulary, it was impossible to tell whether there was any undertone of satire. “He wants to ensure that you have the resources to resolve the situation.”

Doripalam nodded. “And the Minister wants all this? He is taking such a personal interest in the case?”

“He is aware of it. I speak on his behalf, you understand,” Nergui said. “Perhaps, from time to time, I paraphrase.”

Doripalam shook his head. “You cunning old bastard,” he said.

“So I’m fired?”

Doripalam shook his head. “It is not within my power to fire you, even if I wished to. You know that.”

He’s playing games, Doripalam thought. Why does he continue to play games, even now? “But of course you are suspended from duty,” he added. “On full pay. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”

“So I will be fired? In due course. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”

Doripalam sighed gently. An apology would have been nice, he thought. Some kind of recognition of the inconvenience, the embarrassment, that Tunjin had put them all through. Not to mention the implications of Muunokhoi potentially being out on the streets again, more untouchable than ever. Doripalam had intended to approach this interview in a spirit of equanimity and fairness, but he found himself losing his temper. “You do realize what you’ve done, of course? I mean, you do understand the implications of your actions?” He was talking to Tunjin as if he was some sort of imbecile, rather than an officer with thirty or so more years’ experience than his own. But he found it hard to regret either his tone or his words.

Tunjin leaned back in the seat facing Doripalam’s desk. He looked considerably more relaxed than Doripalam himself. “I’m sure I do. But you may care to remind me. Sir.” Tunjin presumably assumed that his long career was already over, and was behaving accordingly. Or, more likely, he well understood the impact of this kind of behavior on Doripalam, particularly when exhibited by junior but more experienced officers.

“Do you know how long we have been trying to get to this point?” Doripalam asked, almost instantly regretting the question.

“For many years,” Tunjin said. “Since well before your time. Sir.”

Doripalam nodded slowly, trying hard to control his anger. “I am sure you can tell me precisely how long, Tunjin. I am told it is at least fifteen years.”

“I think it’s longer. Sir.”

“Well, I am sure you are right. So—how long? Eighteen, twenty years. Perhaps longer—” Doripalam held up his hand, sensing that Tunjin was about to provide the relevant information. “And, now, when we get so close, this happens. No. I am sorry. I underestimate your contribution. You make this happen.” He paused. “And so, after whatever it is—nineteen, twenty years—we are back where we started. Which in my view is precisely nowhere.”

Tunjin, gratifyingly, seemed rather taken aback by Doripalam’s short speech. “With respect, sir—” Doripalam was pleased to note that, for the moment, neither of the latter words sounded entirely ironic. This, he supposed, was progress. He decided to press on. “No,” he added, as if after some thought. “I am wrong. We are somewhere. We are deeply in the shit. The criminal world sees us as a laughing stock. The Prosecution Service believes that we are considerably worse than useless. The Ministry believes that we are either corrupt or inept, or more likely both.” He paused, but not long enough to allow Tunjin to interrupt. “I find it difficult to see any positive aspects to this position. And there’s only one person responsible for our predicament.”

Tunjin was, he noted, finally beginning to lose his temper. Doripalam was unsure whether this was desirable, but, given his own current state of mind, it was at least moderately satisfying. “With respect, sir,” Tunjin repeated, with the ironic note now reinstated, “given that we had, in effect, made no progress in the last two decades, I thought my actions were justified. The evidence we had wouldn’t have stood up on its own. I thought it was worth the risk.”

For the first time, Doripalam’s anger and irritation were overtaken by something close to astonishment. He sat back in his chair and stared at the figure sitting opposite him. Tunjin was a mess—physically and, it was beginning to seem, perhaps mentally as well. He was a short, fat, shapeless figure of a man, completely bald, who stared back at Doripalam over a stack of badly shaven chins. He was wearing a cheap black suit, worn shiny at the elbows and knees. The jacket and pants were dotted, at disturbingly frequent intervals, with what were presumably stains of spilled food.

“Worth the risk?” Doripalam repeated finally. He was finding it difficult to come up with any coherent response. Tunjin sat watching him, playing with a badly-chewed ballpoint pen, apparently unconcerned.

Doripalam shook his head, trying to find an appropriate form of words. “This is what I find so extraordinary,” he said. “This will no doubt sound patronizing, but you’re one of the best—the most experienced—policemen we have in this team. We have problems—you know the problems we have. I have little respect for some of your colleagues, and doubtless they have little respect for me. But in your case—”

Tunjin had placed the end of the pen in his mouth, and was proceeding to mutilate it still further. After a moment he withdrew it, gazed thoughtfully at the dog-eared tip, and then inserted it carefully in his ear. Doripalam watched the process as though hypnotized.

After a pause, he tried again. “We have not always seen eye to eye,” he said. “I have often found your approach cavalier, lacking in discipline.” Tunjin had proceeded to prod his inner ear methodically with the pen, and Doripalam was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain his train of thought. “But I saw that you achieved results. I recognized—I thought I recognized—your integrity, your honesty, compared with some of your colleagues.” He hesitated, increasingly convinced that he was wasting his time. Tunjin’s maneuvers with the pen were an almost literal demonstration of his deafness to Doripalam’s words.

“It had not occurred to me,” he said, finally, “that you might be guilty of this kind of act. Of falsifying evidence.”

Tunjin withdrew the pen from his ear and peered at whatever he had managed to extract. Finally, he looked up at Doripalam and shrugged. “I am a police officer,” he said. “I just do what I can.”

Doripalam stared at him in bewilderment. “But can’t you see,” he said, “that, even if you had succeeded, this kind of behavior, this kind of manipulation of justice, is just not acceptable for a police officer? Especially for a police officer.”

Tunjin shrugged again and inserted the chewed end of the pen back in his mouth. “So,” he said, “it is clear. In due course, and no doubt after due procedure, I am fired.”

“So—we are now in session.” Judge Radnaa looked closely at Tsengel, who was sitting hunched behind the pale wooden desk. “Are you now able to clarify the situation, Mr. Tsengel?”

Tsengel shifted awkwardly and then climbed slowly to his feet. “Yes, madam. At least, in so far—” He paused, as though words had deserted him.

“Mr. Tsengel?” Judge Radnaa looked around the almost empty courtroom. Trials were normally open to the public, and even the most mundane case usually attracted at least a few idle visitors with time on their hands. A trial of this nature would normally have attracted queues of sightseers, not to mention the full representation of the press. But it had been clear right from the start that this was in no sense a normal trial, and the Ministry had insisted on a closed courtroom on the grounds of protecting its intelligence sources. The defense team, perhaps recognizing that their case would, if anything, be strengthened by this anonymity, had raised no objections.

Tsengel seemed to gather his wits. “In so far as I can,” he concluded. “I have consulted with my superiors,” he said. “Our position remains the same. We have run into some difficulties with our evidence. We would ideally like to seek an adjournment to see if these can be resolved.”

“And are you now able to specify the proposed length of this adjournment?”

Tsengel hesitated, and then glanced across at Nyamsuren, who was sitting, apparently relaxed, next to the accused. “Well, we do not believe that we are able to resolve our difficulties unless we obtain a substantial adjournment. A matter of weeks, at least.”

Judge Radnaa nodded slowly and then glanced over at Nyamsuren. “I take it that your client’s position has not changed in respect of such an adjournment?” she said.

Nyamsuren nodded and rose languidly to his feet. “I am sure you appreciate our position, madam.” He glanced back at his client, who was still staring fixedly at the table, his shaven head bowed forward.

“Indeed.” She looked back at Tsengel. “And on this occasion I can only agree that the defense counsel’s position is entirely reasonable. I can see that you have some difficulties, Mr. Tsengel, though I confess I am at a loss to understand precisely what they might be. But I think that the defense also has the right to assume that, particularly in a trial of this nature, the State Prosecutor’s Office will be fully prepared before the case reaches court.”

Tsengel looked as if a literal burden had been dropped on to his shoulders. He nodded, miserably. “I understand,” he said. “My instructions are that, if it should not prove possible to obtain the kind of adjournment we are seeking, the State Prosecutor’s Office wishes to confirm that it has no further evidence to offer. In short, there is no case to answer.”

Judge Radnaa stared at him for a moment. “In formal terms,” she said, “the trial has commenced. I do not believe, therefore, that we are in a position simply to dismiss the case.”

Nyamsuren rose. “If you will permit me, madam?” he said. “My client has been charged with an extremely serious offense, as well as being the victim of a continuous stream of unsubstantiated innuendo. In the interests of my client’s reputation, I think it is essential that the verdict is reached on the basis of the evidence that has been presented—”

“Or, to be precise, not presented,” Judge Radnaa said.

“As you say, madam. But I believe that, given the seriousness of the charge, a clear verdict is needed in order to remove any doubts about Mr. Muunokhoi’s position.”

“I can only agree with you, Mr. Nyamsuren.” The judge looked across at her colleagues and the citizen’s representatives. “We will withdraw and consider our verdict, though I imagine it will not take us long.” She paused. “In the circumstances, I presume that the defense has no further evidence to offe