He swore it was the truth

He held his hand on the black book and he swore it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.

The schmuck. Of course he did it. Never trusted him. The whispers from the gallery, from the pious outraged faces, the grieving eyes, floated through the hot, thick air, whirled their mocking dance before resting in his ears. He reached up a manacled hand, scratched, glared upwards.

They didn’t know the truth. He was there, from the beginning. From the first days when ...