By the end of the month, the gallery had grown accustomed to arriving early.
Word spread quickly when a magistrate gained a reputation for firmness. Those who feared him came to watch. Those who approved came to witness what they called order restored. Those with no business at all came because the court had become more interesting than the docks.
Harrow noticed the increase without acknowledging it.
The morning session began with a charge of burglary.
A thin man with reddened eyes stood in the dock, cap twisting in his hands.
"You are accused of entering a residence unlawfully and removing property," Harrow said.
"Yes, sir."
"Did you?"
The man swallowed. "Yes, sir."
The clerk shifted slightly. The prosecution blinked, surprised at the speed of it.
"You understand the charge?" Harrow asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You were not compelled?"
"No, sir."
There was no defiance. No attempt at explanation.
Only compliance.
Harrow studied him.
"What did you take?"
"Silver spoons."
"For what purpose?"
"To sell."
There it was again. No protest. No minimization.
Harrow delivered sentence without delay.
The gavel struck once.
The next defendant stepped forward—a young woman charged with passing forged currency.
Before the clerk finished reading, she spoke.
"I confess it."
The courtroom quieted slightly.
Harrow looked at her.
"You confess?"
"Yes, sir."
"You understand that confession does not alter the charge?"
"Yes, sir."
She nodded as though relieved to have said it.
The prosecution cleared his throat, uncertain whether to continue his prepared statement.
Harrow allowed him to proceed.
By midday, five defendants had admitted guilt without prompting.
Whitcombe leaned closer than usual while arranging the next file.
"Sir," he murmured, low enough that only the bench could hear, "they seem eager."
Harrow did not look at him.
"Eager for what?"
"To admit it."
Harrow turned a page.
"Admission simplifies proceedings."
"Yes, sir."
The next case involved a dockworker accused of striking another man during a dispute.
Before the witness could speak, the defendant interrupted.
"I struck him," he said. "He insulted my brother."
"You understand that insult is not a defense," Harrow replied.
"Yes, sir."
"And yet you did it."
"Yes, sir."
There was no argument. No attempt to justify. Only acknowledgment.
The pattern was subtle enough that it could have been coincidence.
Harrow did not dwell on it.
He noted instead that fewer trials extended into lengthy disputes. Fewer witnesses were required. Proceedings moved efficiently.
The gallery responded with a kind of restrained satisfaction.
There was less shouting now. Less muttering. The air felt steadier.
After adjournment, Whitcombe followed him into chambers.
"Sir, I have noticed something," the clerk said carefully.
"Then speak plainly."
"It is not only the defendants before you. The constables report that men brought in overnight often admit to additional charges before questioning is complete."
Harrow removed his gloves.
"Are they advised to do so?"
"Not formally, sir."
"Then perhaps they are simply tired of denial."
Whitcombe hesitated. "Perhaps."
Harrow seated himself and opened the next file.
Confession shortened proceedings.
Shortened proceedings reduced delay.
Reduced delay increased certainty.
There was nothing irregular in that.
He closed the file and set it aside.
"See that tomorrow's docket is arranged by severity," he said. "Repeat offenders first."
"Yes, sir."
When Whitcombe left, Harrow remained seated.
He did not feel triumph.
The system was tightening.
Outside the window, the afternoon light thinned behind a layer of smoke drifting from factory chimneys. The city continued as it always had—carts rattling, boots striking stone, distant arguments flaring and fading.
Inside the courtroom, however, something had changed.
Not in noise.
Cases moved faster.
Voices yielded more quickly.
And each time a defendant said the word "confess," the gallery listened with greater stillness.
Harrow did not question it.
Efficiency was not corruption.