Self-composed, cocksure, as inquisitors doze throughout the inquisition. Their eyes glaze over. His black needle points pin them to his page, delivered matter of factually, unfaltering, dispassionate text. Heard it all before, of course, the ill concealed smirk, the half stifled sneer, unintentional illuminators.
How many lies can balance on the head of one pin? An infinity of falsehood so it seems. How many lives lost in spin? Not enough to make him sweat, not enough for even one regret.
How many more millions have been wasted on Chilcott and still the criminals are not put on trial?