The archives were located in a dump. That was the only way to describe the neighbourhood. In their off-duty uniforms, Dusk and Janie made their way into a side alley where there were already other soldiers gathered around an older woman surrounded by boxes. There was also an old man selling soup from a large pot and a group of homeless children begging.

Janie tossed the little beggars candy, paid for some soup with paper money that would be worthless by next week, and joined the queue, watching the proceedings. Two people - an older civilian woman and a staff sergeant - were sitting on the steps, the sergeant almost hidden by the massive piles. The sergeant was also drinking from a bottle of beer and chewing gum, so Janie decided she didn't have to salute her.

Sometimes, random people who outranked her pranked Janie by pretending to be arresting her for black-market activity. Janie wished she could do the same to this staff sergeant. She looked so smug, sitting there surrounded by the paper equivalent of a hen that laid gold eggs.

The two were selling photographs. As Janie watched, the civilian sold a soldier a photo of Snow in his rose garden. "These photos are quality," Janie noticed. "Look at that paper."

"Makes sense," Dusk replied. "Anyone who's got a printer can make cheap copies, but actual cardboard or whatever it's called is gonna be harder to find."

"Bet that goes for a lot on the black market." Janie paused. "Wonder who's got that cornered."

Dusk was not an expert in that, so he just shrugged.

The queue moved up a bit, and Janie was able to clearly see the photographs in the boxes. Thanks to her reading abilities, Janie could tell that they were very neatly sorted. There was a box labelled 'Snow' close to her, with binders inside. One of the binders was open, showing thick paper pages with small slots photographs were neatly inserted into. Close by was also a box labelled 'signed'. In it, the binders were labelled with initials.

When it was her turn, Janie didn't hesitate before making her request. "Signed photo of Chaterhan."

"Chaterhan or Chaterhan-junior?"

"Junior."

The civilian nodded. "You have something specific in mind?" Janie shook her head. "Take that binder, sit down by Sarge over there, and take a look. You?"

Dusk said he wanted a photo of Talvian, no signature necessary (because he had spent all of his money on his girl and couldn't afford it). Someone was already flipping through that album, so he sat down next to her. Janie sat down on his other side, opening up the album.

The photos varied - some were funny, others - serious. There were exactly two copies of each. Smart. Janie flipped idly through the album, wondering what to buy, but paused when she saw herself in one of the photos. She wasn't exactly front and centre, the camera was focused on Chaterhan sitting in the back of that jeep when he was arrested, but she was also clearly visible, sitting in the front. Mercifully, the frying pan was hidden from view.

"I'm in this," Janie said, pointing herself out to Sarge. "Should I also sign this, or what?" Her siblings would be so jealous.

The sergeant looked at the photo, then at her, then back at the photo. "Hey, Chime!" she called out and went to whisper to the civilian, who must have been Chime.

In the meantime, Dusk and the other soldier were laughing at a photo of Talvian quite literally hanging off a much bigger man's arm. "Is that her husband?" Janie asked.

Dusk shrugged, but the other soldier shook her head. "Nah, her husband was the same size as her," she said in a Capitol accent. No wonder she knew this stuff. "They showed it on the TV a few times. They and their kids look normal in a family photo, but as soon as someone normal-sized appears, it's obvious they're tiny."

"Then who's that?" Talvian looked a bit weird, like her features couldn't decide if she was fifteen or fifty. The man, though, was cute in a mature way, with beige skin, wavy black hair, round dark eyes, and a nice smile. He was way too big for her, though, he had to be a metre ninety at least. "He looks nice. Was he her boyfriend?"

The soldier snorted. "The rumour mill had it he was the father of her kids. That's Krechet, deputy head of the Death Squad."

"Was he?" Dusk asked, eyes wide.

"Of course not. His own kids are giants like him. He's a metre ninety-five or something like that."

"Maybe if the two of them had kids, they'd be normal-sized," Janie speculated.

The sergeant came back. "Sign all of the photos with you," she said, "and we'll give you a bit of a deal."

That 'bit' turned out to be hopelessly tiny, but it was still enough to make Janie feel justified in also buying a photo of Chaterhan standing at a pneumatic drill with a hilarious facial expression. Her siblings would love it.

"I wonder why Chaterhan even signed this," Dusk said as they walked back to their barracks.

Janie scratched her head. "They've got him ferreted away somewhere, don't they?" She remembered the watchtowers surrounding the former mansion. "I don't think he is in a position to refuse."

When Stephen walked onto the porch with the journalists, only Verdant tried to stand up, trembling and leaning heavily on his crutches. "What is the meaning of this?" Stephen demanded as he gestured for Verdant to stop torturing himself and sit back down in the chair. Verdant had attempted suicide by jumping out a window, but had survived thanks to hitting a tree, albeit with major damage to his entire lower body. The former admiral could walk, after a fashion, but he was not supposed to.

The others gathered were showing a flagrant amount of disrespect. Being former Peacekeepers as well, they knew exactly what it meant. "Up, all of you!" Stephen demanded. "Or are you going to continue lounging around like geriatric civilians?"

With sullen glares, they got to their feet. They were new arrivals and still touchy about having to obey someone of Stephen's rank.

"As you can see," Stephen told the foreigners, "we have some discipline issues with our new arrivals. Fear not, I'll whip them into shape soon enough."

"What happened to that man?" one of them asked, pointing to Verdant.

"Not my place to say. One's health is a private matter." Relieved, Verdant nodded and rubbed at his head, as if he was having a headache. That was doubtful - ever since arriving from the hospital, he had had frequent attacks of cluster headache, and had he been having one right now, he would not have been so calm. How he had managed to serve with debilitating headaches was still a mystery nobody had time to untangle when there were sunken neutral ships Verdant needed to be interrogated about.

The journalists looked disappointed. "Can we see what kind of medical setup you have?" one asked in perfect English. A Northerner, probably from Ottawa going by the accent. A neighbour.

"Of course."

In the infirmary, Dr. Shentop was sitting with Bright, who was complaining about her rheumatism. When they entered, Bright stood at attention. Now that was more like it. "As you were," Stephen said. He stood and watched as the journalists poked around everything and interrogated Dr. Shentop.

"What kind of medications do you have?" one asked.

"The ones my patients need," the doctor replied, not even turning her head in their direction.

"Are any of them mentally ill?"

"You will have to ask the chief psychiatrist on duty, and they won't reply. What business is that of yours?" Dr. Shentop had led a quiet life prior to being detained and did not know that journalists were unaware of the existence of boundaries.

"We're just curious."

Aside from Verdant's rehabilitation, there wasn't anything serious for either Dr. Shentop or whoever was the chief psychiatrist that day - it was impossible to keep one for long - to deal with. Most of the detainees were older people and had a wide variety of chronic illnesses that could mostly be managed by Dr. Shentop and basic medications. A proper diet and exercise had done wonders for the formerly sedentary ministers, both in physical and mental health, though there was nothing Stephen could do about the stress of being institutionalized. Fortunately, it seemed that regular interrogations and a steady supply of books, as well as the opportunity to talk to each other outside, was helping greatly with that.

There were, of course, some things Stephen could do nothing about. The type 1 diabetics needed insulin to live, the pregnant one required regular checkups and a special diet, Verdant needed complicated physical therapy, and the wheelchair users were living a nightmare because of the omnipresent stairs. When it came to the mental side of things, many were in withdrawal from various drugs (fifteen from alcohol, seven from opiates, six from other depressants, four from various stimulants, two junior former Peacekeepers from homemade synthetics that did not even appear in any of the books the doctors had, and seven from a combination of several) and that wasn't even getting into the ones whose dependencies had not been severe enough for urgent medical intervention, several more were having to be medicated for depression, and one recently transferred one would most likely be transferred to a hospital as his PTSD from having watched his children burn alive in front of him during a bombing raid could not be managed by the ever-changing staff of harried psychologists and psychiatrists.

Despite all of these issues, Stephen was feeling surprisingly confident about himself. The other wardens of detention and interrogation centres could only talk about how much they wanted to go home, but Stephen was perfectly fine where he was now. This job was certainly more interesting than interrogating people who had committed relatively petty crimes, and the farther from Mom and Dad pointedly reminding him that even Cousin June had a partner now, the better.

According to rumours, the detainees would all either be tried or set free. A much better state of affairs than before, when they had all been convinced they'd be shot sooner or later. Stephen himself was hoping for a trial. Every day, he received reports from the interrogators, reports of horrific atrocities he had never heard about. As a Thirteener, Stephen had interviewed plenty of defectors, but he had never heard of many of the things the detainees were saying, because they had left no survivors behind to tell the tale. The world had to know.

If there was no trial, all those burned villages and gunned-down children would be the topic of rumour, nothing more than that. Everyone would know of the culmination of the regime's inhumanity - the Hunger Games - but, like an iceberg whose tip was the only visible part of it, they would miss out on the horrors wreaked every day on every single one of the inhabitants of Panem.

"So," one of the journalists asked as they walked down the corridor to the psychiatrists' office, "what exactly are you planning to do with them?"

"Preparations for a series of trials are being currently drawn up by the IDC. Others will be tried in the Districts where they committed their crimes."

The journalists, as one, looked highly skeptical. "But months have passed. Why start shooting all over again?"

"Who said anything about shooting?" Stephen said calmly. "I said - trials. They're going on trial, like any other murderer who had the bad luck to be caught."

"But you're putting so much effort into having a fair justice system! Why ruin that with political trials?"

Stephen stopped, and so did they. "Where did I say that these trials would be political?"

"You're trying ministers and generals, of course they're political."

"If a minister or a general stabbed their neighbour, would trying them be a political act? No. It is not trying them that would be political. So what difference does it make who they killed, their neighbour or ten thousand strangers? They are still going to be defendants in a murder case."

The journalists were scribbling that down. "But why here, why now?" the one from Ottawa asked. "For centuries, wars have been waged and regimes - fallen with nothing like what you're suggesting. Why is it that your government is so dedicated to the idea?"

"It has less to do with dedication," Stephen explained, "and more - with opportunity. Thanks to the humanitarian aid you are providing us, we have avoided famine. We can prepare for planting season and not worry we will starve before anything grows. Starving masses aren't putting pressure on the government to do something and causing instability because nobody is starving. In fact, I daresay that the government is more stable than it has ever been in the past century. In this atmosphere, it is possible to focus on matters such as justice." And given that they had a barter economy and rationing in any case, the inflation wasn't as ruinous as it could have been otherwise, though watching the prices escalate was terrifying.

The journalist raised his eyebrows. "So you're saying that the reason why the transition to democracy has been so peaceful in Panem is help from abroad?"

"Honoured journalist," Stephen said, "you make that sound as if it is a bad thing. Yes, you are correct. Our fledgling democracy is being kept afloat by food, seed, and building materials from abroad. We are very grateful to our new international friends who are stepping up to help us in this crucial hour."

The journalists were very happy to hear that. They made notes and whispered to each other. The most challenging part of dealing with foreigners was not knowing who they were or where this information would end up. Every single interview had to be approached as if the head of state would be reading it personally.

"Aren't you afraid of relying on other countries?"

"We are not relying on them. We are using their generous help to rebuild. A few years from now, we will be fully recovered and will need to rely on only ourselves. Think of it as having fallen, and looking up to see someone giving you their hand to help you up." Stephen was grateful for the articles he had read. He had never thought of things in these terms before.

"Still, you are letting other countries interfere with you when you are at your most vulnerable."

"They are not interfering. They are most generously giving us what we so desperately need and not asking for anything in return." Stephen continued walking, and the journalists had no choice but to follow. The door had a 'Do Not Enter' sign hanging from a nail. "Unfortunately, it appears that our psychologist on duty is busy. Let us go to the roof instead."

On the roof, the journalists harassed the guards posted there and asked invasive questions about security. The interrogators had mostly wrapped up for the day, so most of the detainees were in the yard, which was becoming more crowded by the day. Most of them shared their cell with one or even two other people. In order to make that more bearable, Stephen had allowed them to go to the cafeteria and read or play board games there instead of sitting on top of someone else. That way, they only had to go back to these cramped spaces to sleep.

On the advice of one of his assistants, Stephen had started setting aside a room for four to six of them to play board games in relative comfort. As they played, they often discussed things they didn't mention to their interrogators. Most knew or suspected they were being recorded, but they were too desperate to speak. Nobody wanted to play Monopoly against Chaterhan, he managed to win every time even if all the other players ganged up on him. Stephen had to admit that he had not expected someone who had been handed everything on a silver platter to be so cunning.

Stephen leaned on the concrete banister and looked at his charges milling in the melting snow below him. There were two groups - civilian and military. The former Peacekeepers continued to stick to Lux, their former C-in-C, and the civilians were all under the spell of Dovek, the arrogantly confident former Minister of Internal Affairs. A few had shown signs of remorse or at least regret when first arrested, but they soon quickly joined the united front.

Of course, when one-on-one with their interrogators, they folded like a wet paper bag. But when in the company of others, they suddenly had their confidence back. Like adolescents trying to show off to their peers.

"Excuse me?" someone asked behind him.

Stephen turned around. It was an unfamiliar person holding a bag. "Hello," they said with a shy smile. "Don't worry, I have a pass." The piece of paper they proffered appeared to be real.

"What is it?" Stephen asked. He had to deal with adults acting childishly every single day already, he didn't need this strange person on top of everything.

They giggled and handed him the bag, which turned out to contain books. "Once the list is finalized, you'll be made the jail warden. This is to aid you in your historic task."

"I assure you I am fully capable of doing my job properly," Stephen said stiffly. How did they know he was going to be overseeing the detainees when they went on trial? The usual way, most likely - gossip.

"No, no, this is just some background reading," the person said, still bouncing around like a child even though they had to be at least fifty. "Goodbye."

Stephen watched them go, wondering what that had been about. He looked inside. A small stack of books.

When he got back to his office, Stephen took them out and read the titles. They didn't tell him much. Flipping through the forewords explained to him why the mysterious person had given him the books. They were about historical trials of the sort that were being planned for the inhabitants of the jail. That could be useful. He picked a book at random and began to read.

"I can't do this," Cora said. "Why couldn't they get someone more qualified than me? All I did was mouth the words I was given."

Dora tapped her fingers on the telephone receiver. "You were still picked out of every other judge in Three."

Cora snorted. "I can think of four currently working in the same courthouse as me who did more in one month than I did in my life."

"Then they're nowhere near as good as you at their job."

To that, Cora had nothing to say. Dora had been shocked to find out just how good her soon-to-be colleagues were from the purely professional standpoint. She kept up with the cases they oversaw and was extremely impressed with all of them. Even the sole non-judge among them, Rose Meadowcreek, was apparently the best student Raymond Sanchez had taught in his life.

"Am I really the best one, though?" The younger judge sounded tense. "It'll be like with those Gamemakers." There was only a single judge overseeing that trial, and he was not qualified for the task.

"You'll have Raymond," Dora reminded her. "He's going to preside over the trial and do the most difficult parts."

"Let's hope Raymond is up for the task, then," Cora grumbled.

"Cora!" Dora snapped. "There is no need for such a tone."

"What tone?" Cora sounded more downtrodden than angry. "It's a fact. They're going to be televising that damn trial live, and have a massive audience. The defendants are going to turn it into a circus."

"We don't even know for sure who the defendants are!" Rumours flew, but they were hard to make sense of.

"They're still going to turn it into a circus. Didn't you read that book Dr. Lee recommended? The prosecution's going to turn up thinking it's open and shut and the defense will plumb the rock bottom of lawyerly skill - do you really think Raymond will be able to keep a tight leash on things?"

There weren't very many examples of trials of the sort the judges were starting to prepare for. The ones Dora was currently presiding over were small affairs compared to trying a national government. The format, too, was unique - thirteen judges! If they wanted to have a fair trial carried out to the strictest letter of the law, there were precious few precedents for them to take inspiration from. A small team of historians from Thirteen had sent Dora a few books, and they had served to horrify her.

Dora talked Jack's ear off, telling him the dire predictions that flitted through her mind after reading those books. What if Raymond wasn't good enough to stay in control? What if the defendants pretended to be insane? What if there was no air conditioning during the Capitol summer? What if the prosecution dropped the ball and they had no choice but acquit? What if the press and public opinion turned against the trial? What if the defense sabotaged the trial?

What if she was the one who would mess up the trial somehow? What if her ideas about justice conflicted with the others, causing discord in the judges' ranks?

"I don't know," Dora said, "but I do know that I don't want my life to have been a waste." Forty years of sentencing people on the strictest letter of the Criminal Code. Forty years of acquitting people who were then retried and condemned by more compliant judges, forty years of sentencing people to unconstitutional punishments. Forty years of falsified evidence and Peacekeepers flagrantly lying under oath - how could she have gone along with that? Forty years of the real criminals never even seeing the inside of the courtroom. "This way, I can retire knowing I did something meaningful for the country."

"I already know my life was a waste," Cora grumbled.

"There's always a chance to make it good as long as you're still living," Dora said mostly to herself.

"Honey?" Jack called out to her. "Dinner's ready."

"I have to go now," she said to Cora. "Dinner."

"Enjoy!"

"Goodbye."

Dora stood up, pushing aside a tome she had been perusing before the call - the hefty book on transitional governments in Western Asia in the second half of the twenty-second century was a light and engaging read - and went to the kitchen, where two bowls of soup were already set. "This is great," Dora said after a spoonful.

Jack smiled bashfully. She loved his smile. It made him look decades younger, like the rat-faced janitor working in a Justice Building Dora had fallen in love with. And what a scandal that had been! Her parents had never approved, not until their dying day.

"What are you thinking about?" Jack asked.

"Remember how we first met?"

Jack furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't think so."

"Me neither. I remember seeing you from time to time in the Justice Building, but I'm not sure when we first talked." When had that first time been, though? There had to have been something that had drawn her to him.

Jack took a piece of bread and nibbled on it. "I remember how you'd come up with these strange excuses to talk to me. I thought you were crazy at first."

"Sometimes I think I was," Dora admitted. "You were worth the scandal of the year, though."

"Please," Jack chuckled. "Of the decade, more like. It was the most uneven marriage my parents had ever heard of." They, too, had disapproved, fearing that Dora was just playing with him. No matter what Dora thought, the fact remained that Jack was very conventionally unattractive. A perfect target for a cruel game. "How are the precedents going?"

Dora absent-mindedly stirred her soup for a few seconds before she suddenly remembered. "You looked sad," she said.

"I- what?"

"I just remembered. You were mopping the corridor, and all of the lawyers and clerks were walking past you like you were furniture. You looked so lonely, I felt bad for you."

"Oh." Jack reached out and took her by the hand. "But why me, and not anyone else?"

"I thought you were cute. You have the loveliest eyes I have ever seen."

Jack took her hand in both of his and kissed it. "I did always think Ashley took after you. Where else did she get such skewed standards of behaviour? Who else could have taught her that unwritten customs are irrelevant and you have to follow the written rules like the Holy Writ - especially when it comes to romance, where courting rat-faced janitors is perfectly acceptable and to hell with what Uncle will think?"

If only Ashley would finally find someone! "I don't think I did a very good job with the latter," Dora said half-seriously.

"Says the person who said, in all seriousness, that that street-sweeper seemed nice and maybe Ashley should go talk to her."

"No way." Dora had always tried to prepare her children for the society they would live in, which meant not being like her and finding an appropriate partner who would not cause high society to collectively implode. "When was that?"

"Ashley was fifteen, sixteen, something like that."

"I can't believe it." Dora focused on her soup, which was delicious. She had tried to help Jack in the kitchen once or twice, and while she followed the recipe exactly and seemed to get similar results, something was always lacking.

"I guess." Jack took a piece of bread. "So, what do you think about your colleagues so far?"

Dora was glad to change the topic. "Raymond's going to need to be on the absolute peak of his abilities to handle a trial of this magnitude."

"Do you think he was a good choice?"

"Absolutely." Dora spooned up some soup. "He organized us before we even noticed it. I looked at his old cases - he definitely has the potential. He can be jokey and relaxed with us, but he is also completely unflappable when the situation calls for it, and he has more patience than a single parent with six children." Jack smiled at the analogy. "And it will be a powerful message. Raymond's from the Capitol. His mere presence will be a sign that defiance was possible."

"A good point," Jack said quietly. "It will show everyone that it was not as clear-cut as it seemed."

"That, too."

What if one of the defendants managed to kill themselves? What if they fell ill and were incapacitated? What if revanchists blew up the courthouse? What if someone said something so outrageous, the trial ended up being associated purely with that?

What if, despite everyone putting in sincere effort, the entire endeavour simply fell apart?

Dora tried to focus on her soup.

"Lieutenant! We've got new ones!"

Stephen nodded at the young soldier who had called him and went outside, where a small group of high-ranking Peacekeepers was standing surrounded by MP's. He marched up to them, noticing out of the corner of his eye that an MP was filming everything on a trophy phone. "Who's this?" he asked. They seldom managed to nab so many at once, especially now.

Before anyone could say anything, one of the Peacekeepers began to complain. "You can't treat us like criminals!" the general snapped. "We're soldiers!"

Stephen stepped towards him. Seized by a sudden idea, he reached out and tore off the man's shoulderboards. "Act like a criminal and be treated like a criminal," he said calmly.

The Peacekeepers looked ready to die. They looked more humiliated by that than some of the others - by strip-searches, as Stephen had known they would be.

"Names and ranks?" Stephen asked as if he had done nothing of particular significance.

An MP smiled. "You'll like this haul," she said. "That's Romulus Thread."

Stephen nearly let his mouth fall open from the realization that he had just publicly humiliated the Butcher of Twelve. He forced himself to stay calm. He needed to be completely unflappable. "And the rest?"

The rest also turned out to be very high-ranking Peacekeepers. Stephen had a list of who needed to be detained, and they were all on it.

"Excellent job, soldiers," he said. "Let's get them processed now. You take the boys, you take the girls, and you explain to me how you managed to get them all at once. The rest - back to your posts."

Everyone scattered as bid. The soldier Stephen indicated last went with him to the office to explain. "Sir, we were tipped off," the young woman said. "Someone told us there were officers staying in a house."

That was how it went. The criminals they were looking for were found almost by accident most of the time. Someone sent in an anonymous tip-off, or someone simply collided with them on the street, and, on one occasion, there had been a surrender. Most, however, were not as interested in ending up in the hands of the law.

"Good haul, soldier," Stephen said. "Dismissed." The soldier saluted and left, and Stephen went back to his list. They were making good progress.

Xaver Stackpole, the head of the Personnel department, was smiling slightly as he sat down across the desk from Mary. "I must admit," he said, "it looks rather odd that the prosecution is hiring defense counsel." Stackpole was a few years older than her, a child of defectors from Six who had been a civil servant for his entire career.

"We have no choice," Mary reminded him. "This is no ordinary trial. Now, how is that going?" The list of the defendants was by now agreed on, and they were to be transferred as soon as Thirteen agreed to let go of Slice. Mary had an intense suspicion that they were delaying it as much as possible so that Slice lost the signs of Thirteen "hospitality", but there wasn't much she could do about that.

"Honoria Baer agreed to take part - but she only wants Slice."

The president of the Panem Bar Association herself? That would do wonders for the perceived legitimacy of the trial. "Has she been depurated?"

"Not officially, but she stayed out of politics." And thus abetted the regime, but so had ninety-nine percent of anyone with the slightest amount of power.

"Is she in, then?"

Stackpole nodded. "Already complaining about not being able to see her client. We also had another lawyer volunteer - she's a fellow traveller - and one of the defendants wants a specific lawyer."

"Do explain." As the chief of counsel, it was not in Mary's place to interfere with defense counsel. Stackpole needed to handle that himself.

"Professor and criminal attorney by the name of Theodora Tornabene. I pulled a name at random, gave her Toplak to deal with." If that was how volunteers were rewarded, nobody else would volunteer. "Best wants some Michael Wreath. I looked him up, he was a military judge with the Coast Guard and is currently in charge of pod removal in the Atlantic."

"A military judge?" Mary asked skeptically.

Stackpole shrugged. "He never sentenced anyone to death. Not a single person. Looking at his sentences, no wonder he was never promoted higher."

"Odd place to find a mute objector."

"In any case, he's supposed to be some sort of shining star of maritime law, so no wonder Best wants him. Aside from that, nobody wants to volunteer so far. I made brochures explaining the benefits of working with the IDC, hopefully that will work. Check it out."

Mary took the piece of flimsy paper. It proclaimed that defense lawyers would not be punished for doing their jobs and that they would be protected if public opinion turned against them. More likely to have an impact was the promise of a warm place to stay, 2,500 calories daily, an excellent salary (paid weekly and adjusted for inflation), office space and supplies from paper to computers, and access to military kiosks where they'd get everything from soap to gum to razor blades.

"Add that we'll provide them with assistants," Mary said. "And that they can bring their own assistants and we'll pay their salaries as well."

"Of course." Stackpole glanced at his watch. "And how are you doing, Chief Prosecutor Irons?"

"Fine," Mary said. She had her opening statement fully outlined by now. It would be quite long. Nearly a century would have to be summed up in one speech. "If you have nothing else to add, you may go. I'm sure you have more important things to be doing."

"Of course," Stackpole said again. "Have a good evening."

"You, too."

Lawyers were one thing, but the fact that they still didn't have decent billets was a much bigger problem. Stackpole made his way down the corridor, nearly colliding with several prosecutors who were rushing around. Nearly thirty people were packed into the house, resulting in a situation reminiscent of the several years Mary had spent living in a dorm for single adults after deciding to move out of her parents' compartment. The non-Thirteeners cracked jokes about 'the good old student days', but there was a limit to everyone's patience.

It was infuriating, the amount of pressure the IDC and public opinion put on her even as she couldn't get several extra houses so that prosecutors weren't forced to sleep three to a bed. But there wasn't anything she could do about that. Mary went to her computer and opened up her email, wondering what sort of new problems she'd have to solve before the end of the day.

A/N: For my readers in the USA - at 1.95m, Krechet is 6'5'', and he's married to a woman his height, which doomed their kids to also hitting their heads on everything. Talvian is ~1.45m, so 4'9''. For comparison, Engelbert Dollfuss was 1.52m (4'11''), too short to join the army in WW1, and in group photos, all the others tower over him.

One of the books Stephen gets is the memoir of Burton Andrus. His charges are not going to have a good time - not like they were having one before.

Dora's worries are based on various problems that have plagued major trials like these. On the plus side, it's a national endeavour, so no wrangling multiple countries into cooperation or struggling to set up something like the ICTY or ICTR. On the minus side, it's a national endeavour, so public pressure to just Ceausescu the lot and be done with it - or to just let them all go and forget about it.

The prospect of the prosecution screwing up is one that unnerves me the most when it comes to transitional justice - or justice in general. In that case, the best thing that can happen is acquittal, which just sucks. Note that Dora did not worry about the judges being biased one way or another, which is a massive blind spot given that they are almost all highly privileged members of the elite putting on trial other elites, with Xia and Chatterjee as the only exceptions - and they're still from that milieu, they just rejected the complacency that normally came with it (though let's be real, complacency was an element of every single milieu in Panem, it's just that the majority claimed to be apolitical when politics made their lives hell every single day while the judges did pretty well in the status quo). Meadowcreek doesn't count because she won't have the courage to argue with any of them, not when she's really a law-school student, not a full judge.