Trump rolled through two civil trials, hardly blinking, defiant, but at the end of the first week of his criminal trial sitting at the defense table staring straight ahead, eyes sagging, he looked weary. Worn down.

A born street fighter, living by the sword, like a reflex Trump punches back whenever someone punches him – but sitting in that courtroom his sword is useless. Sitting silent, face haggard, he listened to prosecutors calling him a criminal, a juror reading her Facebook posts calling him a sociopath, egomaniac – couldn’t punch back.

It’s not likely, even if convicted, he’ll end up in prison. On the other hand, whoever imagined verdicts against him in civil trials of $95 million and $450 million. Now, facing 34 criminal indictments, does the prospect of another surprise verdict leave him lying awake in bed at night?

And his ordeal is just starting. It’s going to get worse. In the end, he can’t blame anyone else. He made vain choices that landed him in a courtroom. But, at the same time, watching him sitting at the defense table’s like watching an aging boxer in the ring getting pounded, shoulders drooping. Staring at a 77-year-old man’s weary face it’s hard not to feel sympathy.