Hand outstretched. With an open hand, Ariel Castro’s lady lawyer beckons him into position at the podium (new courtroom furniture: metal-effect, moulded plastic, scroll-shaped). Her open hand outstretched; his clapperboard house in Cleveland was anything but open. Locked down to keep visitors away from the three sex slaves – finally freed after 10 years – he kept locked up. Brought to open court today to hear the charges against him, Ariel – his name conjures up the spirit enslaved to Shakespeare’s Prospero – is not enclosed in a defendant’s dock; though the biggest, broadest, burliest guard stands half-an-arm’s length away, watching the defendant carefully as he is positioned in the direction of the judge. You couldn’t say ‘facing’: eyes downcast, head bowed and burrowed into the upturned collar of his prison-issue coverall, he would efface himself if he could; but we can still see the small features framed by wisps of fine, black hair. Hands bound together with yellow plastic cord, ‘Mr Castro’ still manages to sign the legal documents put in front of him. He will be imprisoned in his own past for the rest of his natural life – unless the Ohio state death penalty brings early release.