2011. It was a long room outfitted mostly in wood; the walls were panelled and the floor descended steeply to a low stage. The floorboards were scuffed and worn; the audience sat on rough benches with attached writing surfaces, like students at a decrepit college. There were none of the usual markings of a court of law. Nobody had hung a flag, or painted a symbol, or posted a sign. It was as if the authorities had dispensed with such abstract representations of justice because the real thing—the tangible, functional tools of state control—were so obvious. On the left side of the chamber, a pair of heavy black metal cages waited for the defendants. About a hundred security officers had been posted throughout the room. Some wore uniformswore white Egyptian prison garb, and they began chanting the moment they appeared: “Down, down with military rule! Down, down with military rule!” In the spectators’ section, the Brotherhood lawyers and other supporters picked up the chant, and then a female journalist behind them—young and fierce-eyed, and wearing a head scarf—screamed out: “Death penalty, insha’allah! Death penalty!”

When Morsi finally arrived, a little before ten-thirty, the room erupted. People leaped atop benches, pushing to get a glimpse of the deposed President. He was separated from the audience by two sections of metal caging and about thirty feet, but even so he was immediately recognizable. He had refused the prison whites; he wore a light-colored shirt and a dark jacket. He held himself erect and slightly apart from the other