The name on top of the docket drew attention before the man did.
Alfred Keane had stood in that dock twice in the last year. Each time he had left by the side door, shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning the gallery for anyone bold enough to meet them.
He did not scan the gallery this time.
He kept his eyes lowered.
The charge was read.
Aggravated assault upon a dock laborer during a dispute over unloading rights.
Keane did not wait for the clerk to finish.
"I did it," he said.
The words were not loud.
But they cut through the chamber cleanly.
The clerk paused, glancing toward the bench.
Harrow looked at the man steadily.
"You understand the charge?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You struck him with a length of chain."
"Yes."
There was no defiance in his tone.
No challenge.
Harrow waited for elaboration.
None came.
The prosecutor cleared his throat and began recounting witness testimony, though it was now redundant.
Halfway through, Keane spoke again.
"I struck him," he repeated. "And I struck Mallory last year. And Bennett before that."
A stillness moved through the room.
Mallory.
Bennett.
Both cases dismissed.
Both insufficient evidence.
The prosecutor stopped speaking.
The clerk's pen hovered above the page.
Harrow did not shift.
"You were acquitted in those matters," he said evenly.
Keane nodded once. "I did it."
"Why confess now?"
Keane swallowed.
His hands trembled slightly against the rail of the dock.
"Because I did it."
The answer was inadequate.
The gallery felt it.
Harrow studied the man carefully.
Keane was not dramatic. Not grand. There was no righteous tone, no self-punishing fervor.
He looked tired.
"You are aware," Harrow continued, "that confession does not mitigate sentence."
"Yes."
"And you understand that you may face extended confinement."
"Yes."
A bead of sweat slid down Keane's temple despite the coolness of the room.
Harrow leaned back slightly.
The court had struggled to prove what now stood freely admitted.
Not once, but three times.
He felt no surprise.
Only confirmation.
"Very well," he said.
The sentence was longer than any Keane had previously faced.
Hard labor.
No early petition.
No reduction.
The gavel struck once.
Keane did not protest.
He did not look at the gallery as he was led away.
The courtroom remained quiet for several seconds after the door closed behind him.
Then a low murmur began.
Not outrage.
Not approval.
Something else.
Adjustment.
The next defendant stepped forward.
He glanced briefly at the gallery before looking at Harrow.
"I did it," he said.
The words came faster this time.
Harrow did not hesitate.
Proceedings continued.
By the time court adjourned, the phrase had been spoken five more times.
In chambers, Whitcombe closed the door behind them.
"Sir," he said carefully, "Keane had maintained his innocence for nearly a year."
"So the record states."
"Why would he confess now?"
Harrow removed his gloves and placed them on the desk.
"Perhaps," he said, "he is tired."
Whitcombe shifted.
"Tired of what?"
Harrow did not answer immediately.
He looked down at the docket.
Five admissions in a single afternoon.
No arguments.
No disputes.
The proceedings had concluded nearly an hour early.
"People," he said finally, "grow tired of resistance."
Whitcombe nodded, though uncertainty remained in his eyes.
Outside, the gallery dispersed into the street.
And before evening fell, the newspapers would carry a single phrase:
Unexpected Admission in Assault Case.
The next morning, the benches would be fuller.
And when defendants stepped into the dock, they would feel something new pressing against them.
Not force.
Expectation.