Lover in Law (2 page)

“Excuse me,” I say, in a hushed voice, leaning towards the man on my right, who looks bookish and grey enough to know a spot of Latin. “Do you know what this means?”

I show him the scrap of paper.

“
Veritas vos liberabit
,” he whispers. “I’m pretty sure that means the truth will set you free.”

“The truth will set you free,” I repeat. “Thank you.”

He nods politely, then shifts back to his place.

The truth will set you free. Now, there’s a concept! Where love is concerned, it might be accurate, but where the LAW is concerned it certainly doesn’t always apply. 

***

My win/lose ratio went downhill because a year ago we decided, on a ‘
que sera sera
’ approach, to try for a baby. It was fine for the first six months, but then the failure started to get to me. It wasn’t the failure per se. It was the lack of control I had over the situation. Normally, I know what I have to do to succeed. To work harder, try harder. But where Mother Nature is concerned, there’s only so much one can do to help. When sex and orgasms kept proving fruitless, I kind of lost focus on work and stopped caring quite so much. 

 We had a good chat yesterday, Adam and I. We do that every year, on January 1st. Assess the highs and the lows of the past twelve months, our hopes for the future.  We decided that what matters, first and foremost is US. The fact that we love each other so much after 11 years. We’ve been together since I was a fresher at Brighton University. Adam’s been there for me through thick and thin, more than my parents even, because they emigrated to Canada for my Dad’s work when my twin sister Kayla and I finished school. They’d wanted us to go with, but we decided to stay. Our friends were here and we’d both got places at college here. Adam and I also decided, even though we’re still fairly chill on the baby front and I’m young (if 29 counts), to get checked out just in case. And I resolved to do my damnedest to sharpen up at work, which I’ve always loved and been good at until six months ago.

I toy with the idea of pocketing the doodle scrap of old parchment, as a talisman. At the last minute though, I decide to leave it where it belongs, safe in history, next to the silly law that lets a man pee on his Porsche in Oxford Street. As I close the statute book and pick up my bag, I decide to see the shrinking of my wig as a positive. Perhaps the new wig will be an even luckier wig, a fresh start, a new beginning for a New Year, full of enjoyable sex, orgasms, and champagne. An
annus mirabilis
!

Chapter 2

“So how are things, Alison Kirk? No REALLY, how are things?”

I’m made uneasy by who’s asking this question. We were six having a pub lunch in The Wig and Pen. Anyway, I’m now alone with my mentor and head of Chambers, Maxwell Hood QC, sitting opposite each other on a small, rickety wooden table loaded with an alarming number of empty glasses. Two of them are mine. I’ve taken heed of my New Year’s resolution, toasting my first day back at work with bubbles. They’ve hit the spot.

“I’m very well, thank you Max. REALLY, very, very well.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me, which I find slightly unnerving. Good Barristers do that. They have this ‘look’. It’s designed to make people squirm in the stand, make even the innocent feel guilty. That’s how I feel, even though I’m sure it’s not intended.

Maxwell is a doppelganger of Dustin Hoffman, only much, much fatter. He might be short and squat, but he’s tall in stature. He’s a brilliant orator, one of the best in the country, and I’ve got him to thank for being where I am. As a graduate of a second-rate university, I was a persona non-grata where getting pupillage was concerned. But for whatever reason, he saw something in me, took me on and under his wing, despite being graded a spectacularly unremarkable ‘competent’ in the qualifying exams. When I’d got to know him better, I asked why he’d offered me a job. He said he’d seen me as tarnished silver. Would shine nicely with a bit of polish. Anyway, my sixth sense sniffs that he might be questioning my sheen. I was hoping nobody would notice if I stayed low-key, but losing ten of my last twelve cases obviously didn’t pass Max by.

 “Is everything alright at home?”

“Yes Max, it is.”

I pause, reflecting. Either I can brush off his concern and let him think he’s barking up the wrong tree, imagining things, or I can take the bull by the horns, show him that I know where he’s coming from and not to worry, it’s all under control. I pick the latter.

I cast my eyes down at the empty glasses, then up at him and match his gaze full on.

“I have been going through some personal stuff recently and I let myself take my eye off the ball, but everything’s fine now.”

He nods.

“I’m pleased to hear that Ali, really, I am. But you know what they say in the business. You’re only as good as your last case. When you’ve got a generally good track record, which you do, you can afford the odd blip. And we all know that some cases you just won’t win, for whatever the reason. But I’ve been disappointed in you, these last few months. I expect more. You can’t let your personal life interfere with your professional performance.”

My heartbeat steps up a gear, a circle of nausea starts to spin behind the top of my ribcage. I hate being reprimanded, but most of all I hate letting Max down. He’s been so good to me. He gave me the chance when nobody else would and he’s always fought my corner.

“I know. I expect more of me too. I won’t let you down again.”

I mean what I’m saying one hundred per cent.

“Good Ali, but talk is cheap. Results are what it’s all about.”

 “I know. I’ll do better, I promise.”

He smiles warmly, pats his hand paternally on my two, which are crossed at the fingers, resting on the table.

“I’ve still got high hopes for you, Ms Kirk.”

“Thank you.”

I’m pleased for the reassurance.

He catches sight of his watch.

“Oh Christ, is that the time?”

“Where are you going?” I ask as he gathers his bulging black leather bag and cumbersome golf umbrella from under his feet.

“The Old Bailey and I’ve got ten minutes to do it in. So, goodbye for now Ms Kirk.”

“Bye.”

I mock salute him as he makes a mad dash for the door.

I sit for a short while, allow my heartbeat to slow, my nausea to dissipate. Then I slip into my raincoat, pick up my bag, look around the table to check that nobody left anything and sashay calmly towards the entrance. I have no trial to rush to. I’m having a clean-up day. Tying loose ends from last year, starting this one with a clean slate.

It’s not until I physically step out into Fleet Street that I realise it’s raining. And hard! Diagonal sheets of the stuff are crashing down onto the cars and buses sitting on the road, playing them like the percussion in an orchestra.  I catch sight of Max in the distance, walking at an extremely brisk, but most probably dry pace, sheltered by his huge black golfing umbrella. I now, of course, envy it, cumbersome or not. The best I can do is a flimsy fake Burberry little number (a fiver seemed like a bargain at the time), which I quickly dig out my bag, and instantly regret being such a cheapskate. I press my thumb on the handle button, watch it promptly open, turn inside out and walk all the way back to chambers just like that.

***

The fellow tenant of my poky, windowless office is Neeta. She’s my colleague, my peer, the most attractive piece of furniture in the workspace we share. She’s not there when I get in, so sadly I can’t share the hilarity of how I look. A drowned, dishevelled ratty mess to the core. Wet hair stuck flat around my head, clothes soaked through, clinging. I hold up my inside-out umbrella for inspection. 

I wag it dramatically in the air. “Exhibit number one,” I proclaim with mock pomp to an empty room, “is now inadmissible evid —” 

I freeze – interrupted, mid-address to nothing but the ether, umbrella high above my head, as I hear a simultaneous throat clear and rat-a-tat tat at my open door. I turn to see Jon, one of our clerks. A twenty-something cockney wide-boy, with long greased back hair. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Jon. He dishes out the work in my chambers like a pimp, with a huge influence over the cases I get, the money I earn, the cut he takes.

“You decent?” he asks and without waiting for an answer, beckons to someone behind him.

That someone is a cross between Will Smith wearing a three-piece baggy suit and the Lion King. One of the most striking black men I have ever seen. With a mane like his (thick spiked-up dark brown fuzzy hair with orange streaks), I presume he’s a client.

“Ali, I’d like you to meet Anthony de Klerk,” says Jon. “The new kid on our block. He’s going to be upstairs.”

Which means this man, who looks more B-list Pop Star or Football Player than a Barrister, is my new colleague.

I step forward, fearing my rain-wet hand will be interpreted as clammy, but resisting the temptation to rub it on my damp skirt all the same.  

“Hi, I’m Ali,” I say.

Because we’re meant to all know each other, tradition has it that Barristers never shake hands when they meet, but most of our generation ignore this. I’ve got a good, solid handshake, as all professionals ought, but Anthony’s is better. His speaks confidence, reassuring calm. He clasps my hand between his two for just the right length of time. He looks me directly in the eye for just the right length of time, as he says “nice to meet you,” then politely leaves.

“Your new brief Ali,” says Jon, as he dumps a bundle of white paper tied in pink ribbon on my desk.

“What is it?”

“An RTA, coming to a court near you.”

“Great Jon. Thanks.”

Jon bows his head then leaves.

Normally I’d be like YAWN! An RTA (road traffic accident) is about as dull as it comes once you’ve been in this business for a while. But in the aftermath of my
tete-a-tete
with Max, I can do with an easy one.

***

I didn’t choose to be a Barrister from some desire to be Erin Brockovich. A crusader for peoples’ rights! I was out to show the crusty, dusty judiciary that you didn’t have to be a privileged white bloke from Oxbridge to have what it takes, although I’m not certain I’ve yet proved my point. I saw it as a sexy profession with a spot of fancy dress thrown in. But truth be told, it’s bloody hard and far from glamorous. It’s a high-energy, high-octane, high-pressure job for everyone, but as a woman I’ve had to work ten times as hard to prove myself. I was terrible at the beginning, nervous and hesitant. I run a much smoother operation now. I’m slicker, I act more confident (even if I’m not) and I’ve got the ‘look’. I play the game.

 I’m a Criminal Defence Lawyer, with a stock answer for anyone who asks how I could represent a murderer. “If someone is pleading innocent then that is what he is,” I respond. “I am not there to judge. I am simply their mouthpiece and must defend them as best I can.” If they were idiot enough to tell me the truth but ask me to get them off anyway, I would be what is termed ‘professionally compromised’, and would have to step down from the case. Anyway, nothing that drastic has ever happened, even though half my clients make Charlie Sheen look positively saintly.

***

I wait till Jon’s out of earshot, shut the door quietly, head back to my desk and sit down. I glance first at my new brief, my next case, tied up in a pretty pink bow, then at the phone. The phone wins out. I pick it up, dial Adam’s number.

“Hey babes,” I say, relieved to hear his voice. “How’s it going?”

“Hey. I was just about to call you.” 

“Yeah?”

He speaks quietly. “I’ve sorted out that thing for tomorrow.”

“What thing?”

He’s still quiet. “You know, that thing I needed to get sorted.”

“What thing?”

“You know, the thing for my boys,” he whispers.

I haven’t a clue what he’s on about.

“Which boys?”

He works in an open-plan office and obviously can’t talk properly.

“You know” (I can barely hear him now), “the boys that live downstairs. Checking the troops are up to scratch.”

“Ahhhhhhhh,” I get his drift. “THOSE boys. You’re talking about your SPERM test!” 

“Sssshhhhhh,” he whispers.

“It’s ok,” I laugh. “I’m by myself.”

 “Anyway,” he continues, back to speaking normally, “I’m doing it first thing tomorrow at Hammersmith.”

“Great,” I say. 

We’d decided to start with Adam, seeing as his part is the easy one. It’s non-invasive and potentially pleasurable. A couple of minutes wanking and hey presto. He probably even gets a few porno mags thrown in.

The pink bow starts to glare at me, so we wrap up the conversation and get back to our respective work. I untie the ribbon, flick through the pages and start reading about my next case.

Chapter 3

Today is trial day. Let’s hope this morning’s excellent start is an omen. It’s eleven o’clock and here I am at home, drinking coffee with my sister, my identical twin. I went to court first thing, but was sent away, my case having been adjourned till the afternoon due to burst pipes. Kayla happened to call as I was leaving and because the court was Highgate Magistrates, not a million miles from where I live, I told her to meet me at home.  There’s something different about her, I note, as she gets herself comfortable in a cross-legged position on my lounge floor. I don’t know. It’s a certain
je ne sais quoi
, a glow.  She shuffles her bottom back, rests her hands on her knees, easing them open.