I'm switching to single speech marks now; sorry if that's distracting!

There is sexual content in this chapter-be warned.

The Old Baily, London

'Well yer honor… I saw out of the corner of me eye, a great mafficking, so I goes' to see what's wrong and—'

'A great what?' Judge Turpin raised an eyebrow at the portly officer, who blinked back with confusion.

'A mafficking, yer honor… a brawl in the street…'

Turpin sighed heavily, massaging the heavy purple lids of his eyes. From his stand Jean glanced up, wondering whether to remain steely or to beseech the judge with his eyes. The bored, reptilian look on Turpin's face made him settle on the former—he was immediately likened to the numerous men who Jean knew would not yield to mercy.

'This is a court-room, officer,' Turpin said in his monotone drawl. 'Not a pub; do not bring your slang in here.'

There was a low chuckle from the jury as the officer blushed a fierce red, ducking his head. 'I… yes your honor,' he said, and in spite of himself, Jean felt sorry for him.

'Then what happened?'

'Well I goes to see what's goin' on, and I see 'im,' he pointed a chubby finger at Javert 'Shakin' a flannin' with that man. I thinks, maybe he's not up to dick or half-rats or God only knows, but I gets to them an' e' says that it's Jean Valjean, an ex-con from France.'

Turpin gave a slow blink.

'So what you mean is that there was a fight in the square and it turns out it was an officer trying to convict a con?'

'That's what I said.'

He sighed again. 'Then what happened? And please, try to keep your foolish tantamount to a minimal.'

'Well, I…Well I tries to get a hold of this Jean Valjean, but he starts up a whole batty-fang in the square, kickin' an screamin'… it took three of to restrain the buggar. Had to—' the officer gestured a single cuff with an imaginary baton. Jean was reminded of his throbbing head, where hair was matted with blood.

There was a flicker of intrigue in the judge's cold grey eyes. 'I see.' He turned his gaze. 'Inspector Javert, it is your turn to speak.' Jean's heart began to race, a sudden sweat springing to his armpits.

The court-room was a huge open space, tall, with varnished pews. He was reminded transiently of Sunday Mass with Cosette, although there was nothing sacred here— In front of him sat a sea of powdered white heads that masked over-fed faces, bored eyes and beringed, callous-free hands. Here they squandered their old age convicting pauper children and prostitutes who see the gallows before they shed their first blood, sending mothers and babes to work houses or foreign bays for filching the bread they wouldn't waste half a penny on.

It was these men that he focused upon as Javert recounted the events that had taken place that afternoon. Jean stared forwards, eyes blank, empty, watching motes of dust drift through the light. His hands were tight on the edge of the witness post, like Cosette's had been on the railings of the ship.

Cosette.

Nausea sloshed in his stomach. His girl. Alone; whatever was she to do now? Five hundred francs sat in his green overcoat, which had been taken from him before the trail, along with his pocket watch. Perhaps displays of wealth made the affluent judge uncomfortable—or perhaps the officers knew how much they could flog for the items at Covent Garden. Cosette had nothing but the clothes on her back and the hair on her head. Perhaps she would, god forbid, be forced to follow in her mother's footsteps—shed her golden locks and her silk dress, stand in wait for men at the dockyard.

Kicking the unhelpful thought aside, he tried to conjure the image of Cosette from when he had first known her. Ragged, emaciated, but resilient. Somewhere inside her lay the child in the woods, the child who hardily endured muscle-tearing labor, illness and midnight traipses to freezing wells.

'Urbaine Fabre!'

Snapping out of his daze, Jean turned towards the judge, who had the manner of someone repeating themselves. His long-taloned fingers were curled around the corner of the bench. Jean was put in mind of a vulture.

'Do you plead guilty to the charges brought against you?'

Jean stared forwards, knowing that he had been beaten. His eyes met with Turpin's, wondering if, somehow, he could touch some human string in the cats' cradle of his heart.

'Do you have children?' he asked.

Turpin did something close to a double take. His white eyelashes fluttered. 'Excuse me?'

'I have a daughter. Barely out of girlhood. She is alone. Please—if I am to be convicted, let me settle my affairs and ensure that she is—'

'Do you plead guilty?' Turpin asked, his voice edged.

'—She does not know this country. I fear that—'

The sound of Turpin's gavel sliced through his account. He banged it three times on the tabletop. 'Do you plead guilty?'

Jean's stomach swooped. He looked around at the jury, hoping to find some scrap of warmth on their faces, but it was like being in a fish tank. He swallowed, his mouth parched.

'I've heard enough,' Turpin said conclusively. Then, turning his attention to the restless jury: 'it is almost lunchtime after all.' A low, humorless chuckle issued from the men in the pews. There was a communal shuffle as the austerity of the room was broken.

Jean closed his eyes. His thoughts fell again to Cosette. He wondered where, exactly she was, whether she was savvy enough to stick to well-lit routes, know when she was being followed…

'Suspect found, Guilty. Court is adjourned.' The Judge was already standing as the gavel hit the bench. A lead weight slid from Jean's chest to his stomach. He was stapled into his fate. He could have made an effort to plead, to beg for his freedom, but it would fall on deaf ears—just as the song of the caged bird doesn't stir its owner to set it free.

Turpin hurried through the oak-gilded corridors, catching blurs of gold, oil paint and olive-green leather. Clusters of magistrates made for the great hall, some having shed their powdered wigs to reveal bald pates and greying hair. They noted that the judge seemed flustered. Some even grimaced but held their tongues, allowing him past as he hurried into the bathroom. As he slammed the doors open two young men stymied their conversation and hurried away, heads down. He made for the closest urinal—brand new, porcelain—and shed his robe, which was chafing tender against his skin. He made a quick, desperate job of it, his eyes closed the whole time. He tried to magnify the thought of the young girl; barely out of girlhood, he'd said, who was probably one of those clean Christians from rich French families, with soft hands and silver crucifixes. Other women drifted into his head to construct the image—Johanna, of course, and Lucy. He conjured girls from the plaintiff stands, the underdeveloped prostitutes and who tried to hone their childish hips in corsets, the young women who'd been groped in alleyways and wept in the court room. A palimpsest of features passed through his head. He thought of rutting over the girl, tearing her, seeing her young face drawn in pain because she didn't think it would hurt like this…

He finished with a grunt. The thoughts dissipated immediately, as did any lingering interest in the fictional girl—it had, after all, been a day devoid of females. His imagination had clung to Cosette simply because no-one else had filled the spot. Leaning back, he tucked himself away and wiped his ruddy face, regret now tinging the affair. He didn't bother cleaning the urinal; that was someone else's job. As he walked away, he wondered if pleasuring himself had been enough to tamper his lust for today. Perhaps his ward could sleep undisturbed tonight.

Please review with any constructive criticism :)

(Next chapter should be up soon.)