The assault docket ran longer than expected.
Three cases before midday.
Two admissions.
One partial denial that collapsed under witness testimony.
By the fourth case, the gallery had grown restless, not from outrage but from a strained quiet that felt stretched thin.
The defendant was middle-aged, clean-shaven, coat buttoned properly despite the heat gathering in the room.
Name: Samuel Reed.
Charged with aggravated assault upon a neighbor during a dispute over a boundary wall.
A petty matter elevated by bruised pride.
"You are accused of striking Mr. Colton with a brick," Harrow said.
"Yes," Reed replied.
The answer came quickly.
"You understand the charge?"
"Yes."
"And you admit to it."
"Yes."
The prosecutor began to outline witness accounts.
Reed interrupted.
"I struck him," he said again. "And I struck him last year as well."
The prosecutor stopped speaking.
Harrow looked up from the file.
"You were not charged last year," he said.
"No."
"Why mention it now?"
Reed swallowed.
His fingers gripped the rail of the dock hard enough to pale the knuckles.
"Because I did it."
Silence settled.
Harrow watched him.
"Is there more?" he asked evenly.
Reed hesitated.
Then:
"I took money from him, too."
The gallery shifted.
Mr. Colton, seated in the front row, looked up sharply.
"That's a lie," he said under his breath.
Reed continued, voice tightening.
"And from others. Small amounts. No one noticed."
The clerk's pen scratched faster.
Harrow leaned back slightly.
"You are not charged with theft."
"I know."
"Then why confess to it?"
Reed's breathing had quickened.
"I've done it," he said. "It should be said."
The room felt different.
Not louder.
Heavier.
Harrow looked to the prosecutor.
"Do you wish to amend the charge?"
The prosecutor blinked, caught off balance.
"I— not at present, sir."
Harrow returned his attention to Reed.
"You understand that you may now face additional prosecution."
"Yes."
"And you proceed."
"Yes."
The answers came as though dragged forward by necessity rather than persuasion.
Harrow's mind worked quickly.
If this continued—
If defendants began emptying themselves of every concealed offense—
Proceedings would swell.
Records would multiply.
Charges would expand.
The system would clog.
He could slow it.
He could instruct the clerk to confine testimony strictly to charged matters.
He could rebuke excess.
Instead, he did something else.
"Let the record reflect the admission," he said calmly.
The clerk nodded.
Reed exhaled sharply, as though something had loosened inside him.
Harrow pronounced sentence.
Longer than expected.
No allowance for prior cooperation.
No consideration of voluntary disclosure.
When Reed was led away, the silence lingered.
The next defendant stepped forward.
A young man accused of tax evasion.
Before Harrow spoke, he said, "I falsified the books for two years."
The prosecutor looked stunned.
Harrow did not.
He felt the turning.
He understood it now.
Admission was no longer about expediency.
It had become demonstration.
A display of moral seriousness.
A performance of guilt.
And if that was the current of the room—
It could be directed.
At adjournment, he returned to chambers without comment.
Whitcombe followed, visibly unsettled.
"Sir," the clerk began carefully, "today's proceedings—"
"Yes."
"If this continues, the docket will double."
"Then we will adjust."
Whitcombe hesitated.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "we should instruct defendants to confine themselves to the charge before them."
Harrow removed his gloves and set them down.
"Why?"
"Because—" Whitcombe struggled for precision. "Because it may encourage exaggeration."
Harrow studied him.
"Exaggeration," he said evenly, "is a choice."
Whitcombe shifted. "Sir, if men begin confessing beyond evidence—"
"They confess because they are guilty."
"Of the charged offense, yes—"
"Of more," Harrow said.
Whitcombe fell silent.
Harrow turned toward the desk and pulled a clean sheet of paper forward.
If the atmosphere was shifting, it required direction.
He began drafting a procedural adjustment:
All repeat offenders to have prior charges publicly read before sentencing.
All voluntary admissions to be recorded without mitigation.
No reduction for cooperation.
Confession would not purchase leniency.
It would confirm severity.
His pen paused.
For the first time that day, his thoughts did not move immediately.
There was a stillness in the room.
Not soundless.
The fire in the grate cracked faintly.
A carriage passed outside.
Whitcombe stood near the door, waiting.
Harrow looked down at the blank line before him.
If mercy lingered anywhere in this process, it lay in discretion.
In the small allowances judges granted when contrition appeared genuine.
He had exercised such discretion before.
Reduced a sentence.
Shortened a confinement.
Allowed a petition.
If he removed that—
If he made severity absolute—
Proceedings would become cleaner.
Faster.
Unquestioned.
He held the pen above the page.
The thought came not as a voice.
Not as sound.
Not even as language shaped clearly in his own mind.
It arrived fully formed.
Mercy is weakness.
His hand did not tremble.
He did not look up.
He did not question whether the thought was his own.
It fit.
It clarified something that had been imprecise.
Whitcombe shifted again.
"Sir?"
Harrow lowered the pen.
"Add the following," he said evenly. "No reduction of sentence on account of voluntary admission."
Whitcombe blinked.
"Yes, sir."
"And prior records to be read in full."
"Yes, sir."
Harrow resumed writing.
The line settled into the page with firm ink.
When he finished, he sanded it lightly and blew the dust away.
Whitcombe took the paper and left the room.
Harrow remained seated.
He did not feel agitation.
He did not feel doubt.
He felt a narrowing.
A decision made cleanly.
Outside, the street moved as it always had.
Inside, something had shifted.
Not in sound.
Not in light.
In direction.
And by the next morning, confession would no longer shorten sentence.
It would harden it.