The prosecutor got up again. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, Your Honor. The dead man and this chap went out to rob that house. When the other fellow was shot, this chap tried to help him away, but he was too far gone. Then, what did he do?

“Your Honor,” he said, ominously pointing a finger at me, “he robbed his dead companion. The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out. But in his haste this man overlooked this⁠—this telltale blood-soaked receipt,” and he waved it about with great effect.

The judge frowned at me. The courtroom chair warmers craned necks in my direction.

“What about that new suit he has on?” continued the prosecutor. “He either bought it or stole it since the shooting. Why? Because the suit he wore that night had blood on it. Blood, Your Honor, blood,” he finished hoarsely.

I looked down at my shoes, wondering if the wizard was going to point out the dark spots on them that I hadn’t succeeded in scrubbing off entirely.