There was no courtroom.

He had expected scales. A bridge. Fire somewhere off to the left. There was only a floor that was not a floor, a light with no source, and the sudden, total knowledge that he was known.

He tried to speak. His mouth would not open.

So his hands spoke instead.

His right hand went first, in his own voice, and it talked about the money — the small amounts, then the larger ones, then the signature that was not his. His feet named the doors they had carried him through. His skin testified last, and that was the worst of it, because skin remembers what the mind agrees to forget.