What follows is a collection of some of the cases I have been asked to handle, combined with my own personal comments and opinions. Naturally the names, dates, and certain information, have been changed to protect the innocent… or is it the guilty? After all the innocents don’t really need protecting. If you detect a slight hint of sarcasm that is because it is there. We didn’t have the money for therapy, and I am told by those who chose to love me that I am not allowed to develop a drinking problem. Hence, you may have to suffer the odd sarcastic comment. In doing so, please remember that while you suffer a comment, I had to actually put up with these people in real life, after having spent years becoming a qualified lawyer. The cases you will hear are all real, much to the bewilderment of onlookers; however, creative license has been taken for literary effect, and, you know, to avoid giving them grounds to sue me. Without further procrastination, I hope you enjoy where once I endured terrible pain.

Part One: Meeting Mr Levy.

The morning was crisp. It was late January and it had rained some days ago quite heavily. Now it was agreeably cold. Enough that you’d wear a long coat over a suit quite comfortably, with a scarf that only needed to be tied early in the morning, and now was more an accessory adding to the overall “man in suit” look.

The court case had been short, the parties had agreed it best not to drag this out another year or so and settled an amicable custody arrangement, with a visitation scheme. There were no assets to divide, neither party had a pot, or anything to put in it. So, the entire affair was about who gets the kid. Our client was the down on his luck, alt-right voting father (you have to pay the bills somehow, I say to myself, in order to justify putting up with certain people), who was annoyed at the mother of this poor sweet little six-year-old, for having enough of his worthless excuse of a behind and kicking him to the curb.

Thankfully I was able to use an old lawyer trick to convince him to accept maternal custody and avoid what would have been a year’s worth of phone calls about the mother’s cool new Brazilian boyfriend and how he should not be near their daughter (not that he cares about the daughter or the boyfriend or anything for that matter. He’s just being difficult because she sent him packing). The trick was simple, I informed him of how much this would cost him, and how long it would take. Needless to say; in the absence of money, and with some own client haggling, both lawyers were able to meet in the middle as we always did.

I looked at my watch and, waving a quick thank you to the opposing lawyer, who today behaved as a gentleman, all things considered. I made my excuses with my client, closed my briefcase, and started the walk back to the office. My fear that day was that my client might have been arrested for domestic violence. In our jurisdiction, women specifically are vigorously protected from the slightest insult or even veiled comment from men, which results in almost automatic arrests, and a criminal process absorbing any civil disputes which the mother may have with the father regarding children and family assets.

Thankfully he took my advice and the day before the hearing he stayed with friends, abstained from alcohol, and basically remained as far away from his wife as was humanly possible. I owed my assistant a coffee. Normally, this type of male clients, aided by alcohol or their illegal drug of choice that week, call up the ex and have one hell of a rough the night before the court case, insult or threaten them and then remember my advice as the two rather large and convincing police agents are standing at their door, hoping for someone to resist arrest, while slipping on regulation police gloves and disconnecting their radios.

As I turned on to the main street, I noticed that many of the shops still had their Christmas decorations, and the streets were strewn with lights. It would be March before the shops finally caught on that you can’t sell Father Christmas coats and boots when the weather is getting warmer. The lights would probably stay up, disconnected, until April or May in some parts. It’s not as if they could hurt anyone right? No vandal children would dare try to rip them down and hit each other with them now, would they? There’s no reason to put them away once they’re no longer needed right? That’s preposterous. Next, you’ll be expecting husbands to help with house chores, and wives to go to work. It is much easier for them to be left where they are, since it was so hard to get them up (a ladder requires an engineering degree after all) and if it so happens that they are up in June still, we can call them summer solstice lights.

On my walk, I passed several little cafés and shops, all busting with people who ought to be working. I’ve done the walk many times and the scene is always the same. For instance, I spotted the local medical examiner looking all smiley at eleven o’clock surrounded by faces that should be in the court offices. I even saw the odd judge enjoying a piece of cake. No doubt the waiting room and gaol cell in their building were full to the brim. Then again, if you’d studied five years for a law Degree, spent another 5 years memorizing things which will probably be altered before you finally qualify for the judge exam and are finally shipped off halfway across the country to some backwater town; you’d be about ready to let them wait. Some turned and locked eyes with me, giving a slight nod in recognition as I waved.

I finally turned on to our street. As I was walking towards the office building, I saw the sign for the bakery that occupies the ground floor of the office building, and thought “why not? Give the cat the canary”. Gonzo the owner didn’t even need me to ask for my usual, the coffee was already being made, as my phone started to ring.

“Hello…”

I wasn’t even able to finish my greeting when Cassey’s voice interrupted me. “You’re in the bakery, aren’t you?”.

My assistant was gifted with spectacular hearing, and I am a creature of habit. I answered in my most educated “Hang on I’m still the boss” voice.

“Be happy I’m not in a bar drinking my sorrows away or trying to find sense to life”.

She asked me not to take too long, the to-do list was now three pages long as someone had to make sure we kept the lights on.

“…Oh, and we have a new client who should be arriving in 20 minutes or so. He’s coming in on the bus.”

She gave me a few seconds to grasp what she had said. “What do you mean the bus? hold on, I’m coming up”.

See, there is no public transport system on the island. Yes, there is a train that joins two of the major cities, but it leaves once an hour and takes twice as long as a car ride would. And, to top it all off, you’re left in the middle of nowhere. Yes, there are buses in the summer that go from the airport to the main hotels, but it will take you five hours to do what you could in a car or taxi in one. It is the most prolonged form of torture you could hope to find in the western hemisphere. So, in actual fact, there are no buses. If a client says he’s coming on the bus, you best hold on to your bootstraps because it is going to be a bumpy ride.

I checked the post box as I always do. While holding the coffee in my left hand I was fishing for my keys in my right pocket, simultaneously climbing the staircase that led to our door. Both on the street entrance as well as next to our office door, there was a plaque that read “Charles Francis Solomons, Lawyer”. Having retrieved the keys and finally made it through the door I was in the process of reengaging Cassey when I was greeted to the raised finger. She was on a call from a different client, and naturally, I had to wait. I took this time to put the briefcase down, hang the coat on the rack and make myself at home, you know, seeing as I was supposed to be in charge.

Our office was divided into a reception section with Cassey’s desk facing the waiting area, and on the other side of a windowed partition, my office, complete with all our file cabinets, a meeting table, and my desk. On the far side were the glass fixed windows that you could see from the street, and which gave the entire place a professional look. I had just sat down when Cassey finally finished the call and came in to see me.

“That was the new client, apparently he missed his bus, and it will be at least 2 to 3 hours until he actually gets here”.

I nodded and asked “what do we know about the case? I imagine he has been told there’s a first consultation fee?”

After assuring me that the man had been told, Cassey checked her notes and began the presentation.

“The man’s name is Marlin Levy. He is American, originally from New York, but having worked out of Miami for the last ten years as a playwright and script writer. He is retired and living on his eighteen-metre yacht which is apparently anchored in a marina not too far from here, yet that requires a bus in to come into town. He doesn’t have an address and receives monthly payments from a pension plan, with which he intends to pay us. He is coming in because last summer another boat crossed in front of his yacht, catching and damaging the line keeping him at anchor, which he was forced to sever; the hull also had some damage as eventually the other boat collided into him. He is bringing the claim he lodged with the insurance company but swears they have not yet shown up.”

After giving me all the particulars, she was able to collect from her phone call with Mr Levy, I asked her if there was anything else I might need to know, to which she simply indicated:

“I have a bad feeling about this one boss. He seemed cagey. I think he might be hiding something.”

I asked if we had the details of the insurance claim he had filed, to which I was told no. Apparently Mr Levy was bringing a binder with all necessary documents (I love when clients come with binders).

After opening a file for the new client and preparing the retainer forms for the upcoming meeting, Cassey went back to her regular work. Aside from my assistant she was also a trained accountant, which allowed us to handle tax cases as well as basic legal cases. We made a good team; she kept the office running smoothly and I made sure we had paying clients.

I busied myself with the myriad of other cases that needed my attention, answering mails, returning calls, and preparing court briefs. Honestly, I was rather intrigued. We didn’t used to get that many Americans. The odd one gets lost now and again, but other than that, the only reason you know they exist is because they have elections every four years, an issue which the news feels I ought to know.

The hours slipped by, and the work trundled on. At about four o’clock in the afternoon I was startled by a ring at the doorbell. Realizing it must be the new client, I retrieved my suit jacket from my chair as I heard the door open and Cassey welcome Mr Levy in. Opening the door to my partition and seeing I was already walking towards her, she allowed the client in.

To say it was a shock does not do the situation justice. Melvin Levy was about 70 years old if he was a day. About my height, he sported what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin on a warped and wrinkled face, that could have passed for an imitation rubber mask from one of those Halloween films. He had clearly not seen much sun, and his beady black eyes seemed to squint somewhat. Probably he wore glasses, but I never saw him using them. I noticed his face was partially shaven, as if he had started on one side, and changed his mind halfway through. There was still some shaving foam on one ear, mixed with what I can only presume was composted earwax and God knows what other bodily secretions. The stubble was clearly more than a day old.

He wore a shirt whose colour I would not dare to wager, and on top of that, a green jumper that, at some point in the last five years, had seen a washing machine, but only in passing. The collar disappeared halfway around the neck. I was in the presence of a veritable two-faced and double clad man. One side was shaven, the other wore a shirt. I should have seen the warning signs. The jumper was caked on his left shoulder with some form of residue, which also seemed to be present on his face in places. After noticing this I realized Mr Levy was missing some teeth, or rather still had some teeth left in the fight against tooth decay. He removed his woollen cap. It had also once been a different colour surely. Only then was I able to notice his hair was so oily and gritty that particles were escaping (I doubt fleas could have survived on such rough terrain). The man’s trousers were multicoloured, mottled and ragged. His shoes had once been trainers. His left great toe was poking out of a hole gouged with a nail that could give Tungsten Steel a run for its money. To say the man needed a good scrub was an understatement.

And then there was the smell. It was actually a cacophony of smells. The sort of thing you expect from a prisoner in some war-torn corner of the earth when he’s finally freed after being kept in a cage underground for years. I had to remind myself I was a professional, a lawyer, this man deserved respect. And we had to pay bills. From my days living in a shared apartment with another young man, I remembered my training. I fought back the urge to heave and addressed Mr Levy.

“Mr Melvin Levy, welcome. My name is Mr Charles Francis Solomon, how may I help you, please have a seat.”

I have never received another handshake like that one. I walked away with slime that was not mine, all the while trying not to let my eyes water. I just shook hands with a stinky, slime ridden gargoyle. The man was, to say the least, revolting. (We’ve got to pay the rent I reminded myself).

“Thank you. You speak good English. this is a very nice place here.” I made a mental note to wipe down the meeting table and chair. Mr Levy plopped what I could only describe as a tortured old satchel on my meeting table, and proceeded to extract what I, to this day still believe was reference material used by Tolkien in writing his works. The folder was almost thicker than the man wielding it.

“This is my dossier Mr Solomon. I have everything you need in here” he said smiling and tapping the folder.

“Why is everything this man owns green?” I heard myself say inwardly.

After the usual warnings to Mr Levy that this was a legal office and we were bound to secrecy, I offered him our client retainer form, asking he fill out his personal billing and contact details. I watched as he reached a gnarled hand to one of our pens. I half expected spiders to run down his sleeve. With the formalities seen to I said the same thing I say to all my clients.

“So, tell me, how can we help you today.”

Electrified at the question, Mr Levy rose and began to pace around the office, to my amazement, and the bewilderment of Cassey, who I saw stifling a laugh on the other side of the partition.

“I have a case for you Mr Solomon, one that will make you rich. We’re going to go up against an insurance company. They have a lot of money, and they’ll not want the tricks they play being brought to light”.

Remembering I was actually in the room, and consulting the notes Cassey had taken, as well as my own observations, I tried to bring the conversation back to reality “I was under the impression that you are here about a boat accident Mr Levy.”

The client spun around and getting far too close for comfort all but spat in my face “That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

The contrast between the suited, educated professional and the… well, gobshite, was enough to push Cassey over the edge. I saw her step into the back area of the office where we keep the closed cases and old files. There’s also a little kitchen and bathroom.

She came back 5 minutes later wiping away tears of laughter.

“Mr Levy, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, I will need you to confirm that you are here about a boat accident, and I will have to ask you to please sit down.”

He confirmed that he was here about a boat accident, and that he did in fact live on the ship, as well as that he was a retired writer from America. He refused though, to give up his stage and started to walk around my office.

“You see I sailed this yacht here; it’s been all round the world. About five years ago, I sailed her down to Aruba with my third wife. She was the love of my life. She had cancer. We thought it was going to be our las trip together but when we got there, she started getting better and better. Then, she served me with divorce papers. She was taking everything and leaving me for some young Brazilian actor on one of our shows. I wasn’t going to let her take Nautilus, that’s my baby’s name. So, I left, sailed off in to the Atlantic”.

Consulting my notes, I interrupted “Mr Levy, did you not retire some 10 years ago?”

He answered not missing a beat “Yes! And I divorced my second wife to marry this 20 something girl I was having an affair with. I should have known she was all about the money and young buff bodies.”

I’m not allowed to put nutter on the notes I take. But nobody can stop me thinking it. He continued to regale me with sailing stories, punctuated with stories of how he had written scripts and directed plays, and how he should have been an actor, for about an hour. At some point you must stop clients from going off on tangents. Usually when you hear your voice asking you inside your head “I became a lawyer for this?”.

“Mr Levy, I am very sorry, but I cannot help you with any of these things you seem to want to bring up. Unless there is something that falls under the purview of a law firm, such as a dispute involving a boating accident, as you indicated to my assistant; then I am afraid I will have to cut this meeting short and ask you to leave our offices”.

Nothing like a good crack of the old verbal whip to make you feel you’ve accomplished something. Melvin once again stepping too close for comfort answered with “I’m going to make you rich Mr Solomon.” He then took his seat.

I want to believe I groaned inwardly, but to be honest, I don’t remember if it did escape outwardly. The next thing I knew Mr Levy had opened his binder. I half expected dust or slime to run over my table, but in fact it was rather useful. There was all manner of documents pertaining to his yacht, the purchase contract and registration papers, copies of his passport, repair invoices, machinery inspection receipts etc. I started to doubt it was his binder.

He finally settled on a staple of papers that were packed inside a plastic sleeve. When brought them out I realized they had a large stain of some sort (I’m sorry to report I know it was not coffee) splurged all over the page.

Triumphantly Mr Levy began to speak “Late last summer, around the 27th of September, I was sitting in my yacht, anchored outside of the port where I don’t have to pay mooring fees, when this other boat driven by drunk man-teenagers, slides in front of me, tangling my anchorage line in with their turbine. I noticed there was a problem because the yacht lurched forward and downwards. I ran to see what the problem was and was forced to cut the line or be dragged towards them. Then the damage would have been much worse. Their motor cut out of course, and after a shouting match, the wind had picked up. They decided to anchor themselves waiting for the coast guard to show up, which took hours by the way. They were so close, that the wind blew them into me! Causing a collision regardless”. Finally, I thought, something useful from the man.

I asked him for several details about the collision, the damage and cost of repair work. Strangely enough he was able to produce stained invoices and proof of payment to back up his entire story, as well as several photographs of damaged elements on his yacht. Even the portion on the larboard side, where the Sunseeker had nudged into his yacht, had the damage photographed and documented. My notes had now grown several pages, and I asked Mr Levy about the insurance claim filed. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

As if rehearsed, he smiled and with great pomp, ceremony, and certain smells that nobody should ever be allowed to produce, he flicked through his binder arriving precisely on his intended target. This was another plastic sleeve, filled, with several papers, all of which were jockeying for space. Retrieving them, he handed me the new stack. Its fragrance, the stains on the first sheet, and the overall demeanour of Mr Levy led me to believe that this was perhaps the pinnacle of the meeting for him.

A quick glance through the partition glass allowed me to see Cassey caught in a titanic struggle with herself, fighting back the urge to laugh. She would not be laughing much when I asked her to copy all of this.

I examined the documents to the music of Mr Levy summarizing what he considered to be the case, emphasizing the terrible actions of the insurance company, and how they had conspired to cheat him. The fact was that Mr Levy had submitted a damage claim to his insurance company, through their local broker offices as was usual in these cases. There were several e-mails to a Mr James Harris, working for “Poseidon Insurance” who seemed to have answered requesting information regarding the other vessel (which by the way appeared also to be insured by Poseidon), pictures as well as an approximate value of the damaged components.

It all seemed very straightforward. There were some answers from Mr Levy to Mr Harris, some pictures of the exterior of Mr Levy’s yacht and of what I presumed to be the line which was cut, the anchor chain and implement itself seemingly also damaged when Mr Levy raised it to reposition himself and avoid an accident (which happened nonetheless).

From the e-mails I could see that an appointment was proposed by Mr Harris, and eventually accepted by Mr Levy. It had taken place apparently not so long ago. Interrupting Mr Levy’s rehearsed performance, I asked the client, who stumbled and grew quiet “Mr Levy I see that you and Mr Harris agreed an appointment for the engineer to come out to your yacht to appraise the damage. Did this visit ever take place?” If he was stifled before, he now went into his diatribe with so much more gusto.

“They did not come to the yacht! Well they did, but I was not there, and because they’re lazy and corrupt they just took pictures of the wrong side of the boat, and offered me scraps for the damage…” retorted Mr Levy, who then continued in his rehearsed speech while I continued to examine the documents, that of course were not in chronological order (that would have been useful, and it would have cut the client’s stage time down considerably).

“Mr Levy, I am sorry, but did Poseidon make a compensation offer to you based on their visit?”. Had I known the effect of the question, that is, that I was throwing gasoline on a live flame, I would perhaps not have asked.

Mr Levy, standing from the audacity of the question, ripped the papers from my hand with a gargoyle-like claw, and after sifting through them for a split second, slapped them down on the table and proceeded to get so close to me, I could appreciate just how long it had been since had showered.

“This is it! This is the smoking gun! They’re lying and trying to cheat me out of money! It is fraud!”

All I could see was an offer from Poseidon to cover, what their appraiser considered to be the valuation of the damages. Quite honestly, until I had the chance to conduct further investigations of my own, and perhaps have an engineer review the damage with me, I had no idea if the amount was correct or too low, as Mr Levy seemed to believe (I did not know he was an expert). Back on his stage Mr Levy was once again into his practiced speech, prancing around my office.

“Mr Levy, please take a seat or I shall have to ask you to vacate my office.” I said rising to my own feet. Sometimes you need to remind the clients who’s boss. Cassey was now staring into the partition in disbelief and waiting for the hand signal I had instructed her to watch for should the police need to be called. Thankfully Mr Levy calmed himself and finally sat down. This allowed me to take my own seat again. It’s not every day you get to play musical chairs with a client. The music must be in your head of course.

At this point I thought it best to bring the interview to a close with my assessment of the case. Seeing as I am neither a fashion guru, a medical professional or in any way equipped to comment on this man’s choice of clothes or personal hygiene, I decided to keep it within the confines of a strictly professional legal consultation. “Mr Levy, from what I can see here you have been made an offer, which you consider to be far below unacceptable to cover your damages.” I had to be quick to not let him kick off again “This in and of itself does not necessarily constitute fraud”.

He drew breath to protest but I was quicker “What I suggest we do is the following. Firstly, I would like to make copies of this entire file. Since this will take some time, I will have to ask you to leave the binder with us, you will be given a receipt and once the copies are done you will have your documents returned. Secondly, you have indicated that you requested an estimate of some of the damages, we should, in my opinion have a single nautical engineer review the entire ship and produce a comprehensive report listing all damages from the accident. Then I will at least be in a better position to judge whether the insurance offer is or not acceptable from an objective standpoint…”

Again, the breath came but I was quicker. “Thirdly, I think it would be quite important for me and Mr Harris to sit down and see why their appraisal is so low, according to your expectations. There may be damages the appraiser has not considered, or other reasons why the offer is so low. Once we have done all these things, I will be in a better position to advise you on how to proceed. Perhaps there is a fraud case, but perhaps all we have is a civil claim.”

The client listened as if I had poured a pale of cold water over his head. He informed me that he would like to be present at the meeting with Mr Harris (bad idea, very bad idea) to which I simply answered, “As long as we have your contact information Cassey my assistant will keep you informed of where and when this will be.”

If a client gives you a direct instruction that they wish to be present in a meeting, in our jurisdiction, we as lawyers are bound to have them with us, for ethical reasons. It is seldom of any use whatsoever. As a matter of fact, experience teaches us that if you want a meeting to fail, bring your client.

Content with my capitulation and at having shown me he was the boss, I escorted Melvin Levy to our reception area. I signed a receipt for his documents and another for our consultation fee, which of course he paid with a handful of wadded up bills, that I half expected to contain something more than money. Luckily, it was only the cash. After closing the door behind him, I turned around to an overextended Cassey, who finally broke down in joyous tears. I was seriously concerned she was going to relieve herself right then and there.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” She couldn’t even finish her phrases.

Cutting her short I said “I don’t know why you’re laughing so much. I need you to put that dossier through the copy machine. It must be given back to the client when we next meet.”

She howled in laughter “I’ll disinfect the machine afterwards. Do you want me to burn the chair he was sat in?”

I had to admit it was rather funny, so why resist it. “Sure. And have the cleaning service mop the floor with holy water and ammonia. We may have to call a construction crew in to deal with the curdled marble.”

Part Two: The performance.

Our meeting had stretched out far more than expected, and had only ended I think, because Mr Melvin knew he might miss the last bus, in which case we would be unavailable to assist him in finding accommodation. It was the next morning when I finally sat down to start making headway on his case. The first order of business was a courtesy call to Mr Harris, whose number was on the mails left by the client.

Poseidon was a large company that insured anything from pleasure boats to oil tankers, but their main business on the island was insuring your domestic level Sunday sailboat. The receptionist put me through to James Harris straight away. I had informed the receptionist that I was a lawyer calling on behalf of a client, Mr Melvin Levy. When connected to Mr Harris, he first sought to confirm who my client was.

“Good morning, James Harris, for Poseidon here. I’m told you represent a Mr Levy, Melvin Levy of the Nautilus, is that correct?”

To my own growing chagrin, I confirmed all these points for the bewildered broker, at which point he interrupted me. “With all respect, I think there may be a problem with your client.”

Mr Harris then proceeded to describe the state Melvin Levy was in when they met some weeks prior. From the description offered by the broker it was clear to me that Mr Levy had not addressed his personal hygiene, nor even bothered to change his clothes, in quite some time. Mr Levy had had visited Poseidon in person, to ask why their offer was lower than expected. Mr Harris was concerned that perhaps Mr Levy could be suffering from some form of untreated mental disorder, given his dishevelled state.

The fact was that Poseidon did send an engineer to appraise Mr Levy’s yacht, as was agreed in the e-mails to which I had access. However, on the appointed day, there was nobody to accompany the appraiser from shore to the Nautilus. Since Mr Levy anchored his yacht out of port, this was the only way for the appraiser to access the ship and do his job. All this information was in the appraiser’s report. Mr Levy had conveniently neglected to mention there was any such document, nor had I been furnished with a copy. On hearing this, Mr Harris indicated he would be happy to forward the report to me.

The appraiser was forced to ask the Coast Guard for assistance, and they ferried him out to the Nautilus in their service boat. Once they arrived at Mr Levy’s yacht however, they were unable to come aboard. It appeared as if nobody was there. The appraiser, attempting to do his job despite the circumstances, did however take numerous pictures of the exterior of the craft, showcasing the damage caused by the accident.

From the Coast Guard ship, it was also possible to photograph the deck of the Nautilus. The appraiser observed that Mr Levy had accumulated what seemed to be packaging and all manner of garbage on deck (empty boxes, plastic bags, coiled and bundled pieces of discarded rope, planks of wood and various metal poles). When the Coast Guard announced their presence and intention to board the ship, Mr Levy existed the cabin throwing objects at them, swearing, and threatening them with bodily harm if they did. The Coast Guard decided it best to leave Melvin Levy to his own devices and escorted the poor cowering engineer back to safety. The man needed therapy now.

With the limited information available, the Poseidon had issued their offer for compensation. They would have done the same for any client. The result was that the troglodyte that is Mr Levy was so outraged that he decided to show up in Mr Harris’s office one morning (at first the building security had taken him to be a beggar). His intention was, apparently, to have Poseidon issue a higher offer. He had demanded an explanation, and finally accused the appraiser and Poseidon of being in cahoots to cheat him out of his money. He did not offer a list of damages that the appraiser did not consider, nor an alternate amount he was willing to accept as compensation. He simply wanted his money; nobody knew how much.

In disbelief I continued to take notes. We agreed that my office would request a meeting via e-mail, which Poseidon and Mr Harris were happy to organise in his office. The insurance company would send us as soon as possible, the appraiser’s report with all the photographs as well as all relevant documents on which the compensation offer was based. That way I would be able to walk into the meeting with all the data and facts needed to, hopefully, reach a settlement. When I told Mr Harris that Mr Levy was insisting on being present, he simply said “I will have the cleaning staff warned.”

After ending the call, Cassey came in to stow away some files. “Sorry, I need you to write to Mr Harris from Poseidon, and set up a meeting with him. He’ll probably need to have their lawyer present, so make sure you mention that. Oh, and Mr Levy will also have to be informed. He would like to be present during the meeting. Have you finished with that dossier by any chance?”

She turned to me with a deathly serious expression on her face. “There is something wrong with that man. Some of those pages had things on them.”

I had to ask. “What things?”

She was quick to answer “The kind 12-year-old boys put on pages and leave in files because they think it is funny. Things! The man is a pig!”

“Well, I just spoke to Mr Harris, and it looks like he has that Diogenes syndrome where someone will collect garbage. I think what I will do is this: Explain to Mr Levy that, after the Poseidon meeting, I need to access the Nautilus with our own engineer to conduct a thorough inspection of the yacht, to establish the real extent of damages. If he refuses to allow us on board, I will have to inform him that we are declining to work the case any further, since it is not possible to advise and assist him if I don’t even have access to the ship. If you cannot even inspect the yacht, how is anyone supposed to know if it is damaged? By the way, I need you to find an available engineer. When you speak to Mr Levy to organize the Poseidon meeting, could you also organise a visit to his yacht? Thank you.”

In disbelief Cassey said, “Make sure you go for your tetanus shot before going to see his yacht. I’ll make the arrangements, calls, and mails. Now it’s time for you to see this.”

She dropped the binder on my desk and opened it to one of the offending pages. The moment I met him I thought that Mr Levy was a little strange. Now I thought, much like Mr Harris, that he had some sort of mental problem. Cassey had indeed finished copying all the documents and the binder was ready to be delivered to Mr Levy. She did however point out that some of the pieces of paper had stains on them, that seemed to be biological in nature. It was revolting. Her logic was, if she was forced to see it, then I should also have to deal with it.

I had to keep reminding myself “You’re not a millionaire, people, all people, deserve respect. It’s just a case. We have bills to pay”.

The rest of the day was rather routine and uneventful. Shortly before closing Cassey came into my office to report on the day’s work, after finishing a phone call. “Most things are taken care of, but we have to talk about, you know, the Boat Case. We’ve set a meeting with the Harris team. Their lawyer will be present as well as the engineer who appraised the yacht. Mr Harris made the arrangements with regards their engineer...”

Everything seemed quite mundane, until Cassey told me about her phone call. “I did send a mail to Mr Levy but thought it best to call him as well. I have no idea if this man reads his mail. When he picked up the phone, he seemed to be… in the middle of a certain activity of a highly private nature, breathing heavily. I heard, another person making similar noises...”

Obviously, my face informed Cassey that I had no idea to which private activity se was referring.

“The man was having sex Charlie. and he picked up his phone! I think I heard him climax! I shouldn’t have to hear that!” her face was contorted into a mask, it seemed as if she was going to throw up all over the binder.

My reaction was equally shocked. I started to worry that I would be reacquainted with my lunch. Thankfully I was able to hold down the sandwich. My training served me well. Who said that sharing an apartment in university with other young men didn’t teach you any life skills? Nobody would ever notice some extra vomit on the documents anyway. Surely there was some already on them, judging by the stains. I composed myself and attempted to carry on in a professional voice.

“This is completely unacceptable; I’ll talk to him. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. He didn’t mention it”. Cassey’s expression seemed to indicate that the only way that man would get anyone near him, of the opposite sex or otherwise, was though a considerable payment. Otherwise, barge poles were far too short to keep this man away. I made a mental note to not hold back when charging this man.

On the day of the meeting, Melvin Levy was supposed to meet me in the centre of the city, at a cafe we always used as a meeting-point for clients. Located on the main square, opposite the train station, was almost more important than the City Council or the Regional Parliament. Called the Diamond Cafe, it was as centric as anyone could hope for and as expensive as you could get. The expression eye-watering was rather apt to describe the feeling one experienced when receiving the bill.

As a lawyer, you use this kind of café with a certain effect in mind. You want clients to see what they’re paying for, lest they should get these ideas of asking you to reduce fees and other such idiocies. I thought it best to meet Mr Levy outside on the terrace where the slight breeze would give me a better chance of stiving off the smells, at least until we entered the meeting with Mr Harris. In preparation for the day, I had a light breakfast.

I parked in the underground and exited on to the square. For some reason the homeless congregate in this square. The trees offer shade in the summer, some shelter in the winter I suppose. To this day I don’t understand why they seem to like it so much. There is also a pigeon infestation that has turned the statue of a mounted knight into little more than a pile of petrified droppings.

I was able to walk right past Mr Levy, who had blended perfectly into the crowd of homeless people. I sat down at one of the lovely marble-top terrace tables and realized that one of the beggars had followed me and was now pulling out a chair. I don’t know who was more surprised, the waiter or myself when I said. “Mr Levy! Hello, please sit down”.

I returned the dossier to the client, after all I had scanned copies in my computer as well as a hard copy in the office. I didn’t need to be walking into this meeting with a stinky brick of a file, marinated and encrusted with various fluids. The waiter was dressed in a cream-white apron, dark suit uniform complete with white shirt, waistcoat, dicky bow, and white gloves. I similarly am always in a suit. The contrast with Melvin could not have been any starker. Were a pig to find himself in a florist’s, he wouldn’t be as out of place as Mr Levy was there. I’m sure Cassey knew how awkward this would be and was now enjoying a wry smile at my expense, in our perfectly ventilated office, where there was no chance of suffering the smells coming off Mr Levy.

We ran through the fine points of the meeting, or rather, I attempted to. Melvin was much more interested in his “They’re fraudsters! I’m going to make you rich.” Speech.

At one point, I considered it was time to address the phone call the client had held with Cassey. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to this conversation, but it had to be done. I bit the bullet and said: “Mr Levy, the other day when my office called you, it seemed that you answered your phone while engaged in, let’s say, certain highly private and personal activities. Perhaps you were also not completely alone.”

I do have regrets in life, like most people. This conversation promised to be highly regrettable. It did not disappoint in any way. If anything, it exceeded my expectations. Melvin proceeded to inform me that the lady who was with him on the phone, was indeed a working girl. I was shocked.

“You see, once you get to my age it’s not as easy as before for a man to convince young ladies to go to bed with him.”

Until I met Mr Levy, I had never seen my own skin crawl. Now it was recoiling in horror. Had it not been attached, I’m sure it would have run away. At this point I was thinking “I didn’t know that men, at your age, had use in bed for young women, unless they were nurses, and the setting was a hospital of sorts” but I restrained myself from lending voice to these words. And vomiting, I restrained myself from vomiting with all that I had.

I did not think Mr Levy could have become more revolting. Naturally I was wrong. His dating habits exceeded the most cringeworthy expectations my imagination was able to conjure. Apparently, after his younger wife left him, Mr Levy worked out that prostitution was the way to go. He took the Nautilus and went from port to port looking for young feminine companionship that charged by the hour. He went into detail about which nationalities he considered gave better quality service, and which were more value for money.

I kept hearing myself say inwardly “This is why I became a lawyer? Really?”

Since his pension scheme was considerably well funded, every month he had money to throw around. Apparently, this shower-shy, shabby American had been quite wealthy before his third wife kicked him to the curb. He had squirreled enough away that he could now look forward to one day expiring in bed with a professional lady paid for her companionship. I could have gone the rest of my existence without knowing this information. The conversation made me feel as if Mr Levy had defecated all over the table. By the look on his face, our waiter shared my opinion.

Catching my watch and begging any deity which would listen to please grant me an out, I informed the client “Mr Levy, if we are to make the meeting we ought to be going soon.” That is perhaps the smoothest exist to an uncomfortable situation I have been able to pull off. Had I known what was coming, faking a heart attack would have been a better idea. It is curious how the human mind works under pressure.

It was at this moment that I noticed Melvin sliding his green dossier into the satchel he was carrying at our previous meeting. He was also toting a leather bag. It was quite heavy by the looks of it, and I started to get a bad feeling about the enthusiasm with which he was skipping away to the meeting, clutching the strap of this mystery bag. No good could come of this, I knew it. But just like witnessing a train collision, there was not much I could do to avoid the debacle to come.

The Poseidon offices were located at a building not far from the main square. In the same building there were three law firms, one Notary Public, one architect’s studio and six more floors of professional and technical offices. All with their respective plaques at the entrance of the building. The door-man eyed Mr Levy up several times, after I reassured him, this was indeed my client, and we were in fact expected, as was shown on his appointment list. Poseidon was on the 5thfloor, which means the lift ride was about 2 minutes at most. It is amazing how much stench can accumulate in a small, enclosed lift cabin, in such a small amount of time. To this day I do not know if Mr Levy broke wind in the lift, but it would not surprise me if he had. I attempted to hold my breath to no avail. I received a concentrated dose of the client’s personal emissions. I had to retire the suit, tie, and shirt I was wearing that day because it was impossible to remove the mark of Levy from them. The shoes didn’t last much longer either.

Mr Harris had been informed of our arrival and greeted me with a warm handshake. Mr Levy was only acknowledged with a courteous smile and a nod. We were brought into a large meeting room with a huge glass window looking out over the rooftops of the city. You could even see the port and the bay from there. The chamber was classically decorated with several full bookshelves. The other people called to the meeting were already waiting and had taken their seats around the table. As we entered, they rose to greet me professionally.

Mr Harris made the introductions “Mr Solomon, this is Mrs Agatha Lethbridge, lawyer for Poseidon in this matter.” We shook hands.

“And this is Mr Victor Buford whose report I forwarded to you.” Again, we shook hands.

Mr Levy simply looked at all present with his characteristic grin, already accusing them of the worst sins of humanity with his eyes. As we all took our seats, there was an audible metallic clunk as Mr Levy took possession of one his chair. We were all now intrigued to know, what the hell was in that bag. We had seen the trailer, now it was time to watch the full film. I was not sure I could stomach what was coming.

Mr Harris opened the meeting after the awkwardness had died down. “Well, I think we know why we are all here, the collision involving the Nautilus.” He proceeded to summarize the facts as we all knew them to be, arriving at the visit made by Mr Buford to the Nautilus, at which point I decided to step in.

“As you have admitted, there was no actual appraisal of the damage. Mr Buford was unable to go aboard, correct?”

My college Mrs Lethbridge was about to retort when Mr Buford personally took the floor “That man threw cans at us, he is lucky we did not press charges and have him arrested!”

It is a sad fact that lawyers have no heart when it comes to these things, because we are paid to advise and defend a position. Not to care about the client or the people involved. Still, soup cans were a bit much. It was clear though that no real appraisal of the yacht had taken place.

Finally squeezing in edgewise Agatha Lethbridge made Poseidon’s stance clear “With all respect we fulfilled our obligation, a date and time was set with Mr Levy, he resisted our appraiser’s attempts to do his job. He’s lucky we even made the offer we did. He can contest the matter in court or request arbitration, but frankly that case will take quite some time, especially because we will make sure the litigation gets stretched out as much as possible. You know how this works Solomon.”

She was interrupted, as we all feared, by Mr Levy emptying the contents of his bag onto the lovely, polished wooden table. It was an anchor, bent quite considerably out of shape, a portion of a chain (or what had been at some point a chain), and a length of rope that could have assisted Columbus in his discovery of the New World. It was a collection of elements that are usually thrown away because they have served their purpose on the ship and need to be replaced. Most people dispose of them, Mr Levy brought them to our meeting.

Standing and taking the stage, he began his clearly rehearsed, performance piece, as my face began to lose all colour and my stomach began to Morris Dance.

“Liars, swindlers, and cheats, all of you! You didn’t even come to my boat, and you want to offer me money to shut me up! This …” he shook the implements that aided his performance “… is the proof that you tried to hide! I will take you down, I will make you pay, billions and billions! You’ll have to go to soup kitchens when I’m done with you!”

At this Mr Levy grabbed the line connected to his chain and warped anchor and proceeded to storm out. The anchor was dragged off the table, hitting the marble floor, and scratching its way behind Melvin, adding to the effect of his exit. I was seriously concerned at how much I was perspiring. I glanced around the rest of the table and confirmed that all those present were equally concerned.

I looked at our host directly. Trying to hide my utter shock, all I could manage was “Thank you for organizing this meeting, Mr Harris. I will be in touch once I have received instructions from my client.”

Mortified hardly scratches the surface of how I feel. By the time I made it out of the meeting room Mr Levy was gone. There was no sign of him in the street. He was nowhere to be found; he had simply absconded. I was tempted to smell the air to determine in which direction he might have gone, but I thought better of it. The anchor apparently went back in the bag, as there were no marks anywhere. When I informed the office Cassey told me this was the most fun, she had had on a case since being hired and begged me not to kick the client. Sadly, we never heard from Mr Levy again. He did not answer e-mails or return our calls.

Several weeks later I saw him crossing the street not far from the city docks. By the time I was close enough to call out to him, he had started to cross the street. If he saw me, he did not recognise me. Mr Levy never contacted the office again, and since it was impossible for us to contact him, much less advise him, we were forced to close his file. His case remained as far as I know unresolved (not that we ever were able to determine if there was, actually a case).

Sometimes I think I can still smell his mixture of odours when crossing the city square. He may be living amongst the mole people now for all I know. I wish I could say he was our strangest client. He does make the top five.

Part One: Triple-barrel names.

Money will not bring you happiness. Strangely, the people who say that don’t seem to have much money, so how could they possibly know? Once, the office received a call requesting that the lawyer make a house-call. Cassey knew that we didn’t do house-calls, and she made the appointment anyway. When I saw in the schedule book that I was going on an excursion, much to my dismay, I asked her what on earth could have possessed her to agree to the appointment. “These people have triple barrel surnames Charlie.” No further explanation was required.

The drive took me to the south-east end of the island. After leaving the motorway, I had to cross several little hamlets, each smaller and wealthier than the previous one. The area was so remote, it was as if people hadn’t quite managed to populate it yet. At one point I realized some of the buildings were much older and in much better shape than I was. There may not have been many folks around, but judging by the houses, those few that did live there, were well stocked for cash. I was very happy to have a smart phone with GPS as well as the correct destination address. Getting lost in this area would surely be expensive, or even worse, eye-watering.

The road became windy and smaller. At one point I was skirting the coastline down towards a harbour-village. According to Sally (that is the name I decided to give to the GPS voice on my phone) I had to drive past the harbour and cross to the opposing side of a bay bridge. There the road climbed back up the cliffs, where my destination was supposed to be. The fact that all the houses that I could see were stately mansions, did not escape my eye. Seeing my poor excuse for a car must have frightened some of the locals. I doubt they see many people with just one surname whose parents are not blood relatives.

“You have arrived at your destination.” Sally chimed away signalling her work had finished and she was going for a well-deserved rest. I was on my own now. As I parked the car, I took a second to look up at the property before me. It seemed to be a three-story house with a garden designed to act as a barrier. It kept the riffraff away from the people inside. The main building was plastered in a cream-coloured paint that in certain areas was starting to crack and chip. Around the property there was a waist high wall, behind which a line of hedge stood guard. The wall stopped around a large double-sided, iron gate. Its black paint contrasted with the rest of the house and gave it an ominous feel. The house was, in some ways, an imitation castle. All that was missing was a Merlin look alike, someone to act as King Arthur, perhaps a troll or a dragon.

After collecting my briefcase and donning my suit jacket, and making sure my tie was straight, I approached the gate and was thankful to discover a modern intercom. I half expected a herald with a trumpet to have to announce my arrival. The machine crackled for just a second and the clearest Oxbridge accent announced “Hello.”

“Hello, this is Mr Charles Francis Solomon. Lawyer here to see Mr Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie at his request, my office arranged the appointment.”

The voice was back within seconds “Yes, please do come in.”

As if commanded by magic, the megalithic gates began to open silently. They swung back slowly on railings embedded into the concrete. As I entered the garden, the gate closed behind me, moving once again without a sound. It was strange that there was no creaking noise as the huge things moved. This seemed to indicate that someone made sure the house was well maintained. The scene in front of me confirmed that.

There was a paved pathway, wide enough for a car, that led up to a horseshoe driveway with a fountain in the centre. It looked like a cupid statue was standing on top of the fountain, water cascading out from the arrow in his bow. The lawn spread in front of the main building and hugged the pathway. There were several flower beds which were meticulously tended. A double-door garage was on the left, with the pathway ending in front of it. Behind the fountain, three steps led up to the main entrance. The dark wooden doors were just as ominous as the gate and seemed to open with the same quiet precision. A man dressed in a dark suit walked out to greet me. He must have been about forty years old, as thin as a rake and as stiff as a ship’s mast.

“Hello, I am Mr Wesley, personal assistant to Mr Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie. He and his wife Camile are waiting for you on the front lawn. May I offer you a coffee or drink Mr Solomon?”

He was the owner of the Oxbridge voice on the intercom. Clearly this man had been trained for this job. Everything about his demeanour suggested he ran the household. The meticulous impeccable quality of his suit, accent and altogether presentation, was imitated in the orderly disposition of the perfectly kept garden and spotless pathway. This was the man you spoke to if you needed something done in this house.

“Thank you, a white coffee if it’s not too much trouble, and a glass of water.”

Mr Wesley did not wait a second before turning on his heels “Please accompany me Sir.”

Dutifully following my guide, I started to look around the wealthy surroundings. We entered a hall area through the main doors. Again, as if propelled by magic, which I suspected had something to do with Wesley being the resident Merlin of this castle, the large wooden doors began to close silently. The floor was tiled with impeccably polished marble that reflected the slightest spec of dirt. It was white, except for some silver veins here and thee. I looked down and had the impression I was standing on a mirror. At this point I realized my shoes needed to be polished. Wesley had also noticed this.

The hall had doors on either side, leading no doubt to the kitchen and service quarters on one side, and to an office on the other. A large double staircase framed sliding doors which had been left open. Wesley led me through the arch created by the cream stairways, into a huge living room and dining area. On one side, there were several oxblood leather-couches and armchairs, with dark bookshelves covering the walls. On the other, there was a large mahogany dining table with at least 8 chairs. The doors behind the dining area led to the kitchen no doubt. Strewn all around the room were huge paintings, statues, and all manner of art pieces. In a way the style was somewhat over the top. I had the feeling this room’s main function was to showcase the owner’s wealth.

The entire room was surrounded by windows with a view of the back garden, which was large enough to fit any house or apartment I’ve ever lived in. A large ornate set of sliding glass doors were in the middle of the perimeter. These had also been left open. I was led onto a terrace, complete with barbecue, outdoor couches, and another dining table. This one of course was not as swanky as the one indoors, but it was also a far cry from any cheap plastic table I’ve sat at when barbecuing. The grill was spotless.

A small path of cobblestones led away from the terrace to a gazebo area at the far end of the garden. Wesley led me all the way there. On the way there, I noticed the property had a small, shabby looking gate at the far end. It was not well maintained like the rest of the house, and it seemed like it had not been opened in years. There wasn’t even a path leading up to it. Was that the gate to the goblin’s grotto, or worse, the dragon’s den? Finally arriving at our destination, Mr Wesley announced my arrival to the king.

“The lawyer Mr Charles Francis Solomon to see you Sir.”

I was unaware it was possible to pronounce my name with six diphthongs. My Grandmother would be pleased. I suppose if you have money you can splurge on unnecessary verbal acrobatics.

A small elderly gentleman rose from the head of the table, that occupied the centre of the gazebo, offering me his hand. He spoke with an accent that I had always thought reserved for British royalty.

“Good day Mr Solomon, I am Mr Henry-Rupert-Wilfred Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie, the III. Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my wife Camile, please make yourself comfortable, has Mr Wesley offered you refreshments?”

“Thank you. Yes, a pleasure. Mr Wesley has indeed. You have a very nice home Mr Corrothers”.

We had not finished exchanging pleasantries when Mr Wesley appeared with a tray with my coffee, a pitcher with ice water and crystal cups for the entire party. I could have sworn the tray was sterling silver, as was the sugar box that sat on it. My coffee was placed before me, and I was offered sugar. My required lumps were applied by Wesley. Apparently if you have enough money, other people sugar your coffee for you. The porcelain cup cost about as much as my suit.

Mrs Corrothers sat next to her husband eyeing me the entire time. If this house was a castle, I had found the dragon. She was the second wife of Mr Corrothers. They met shortly after his first wife passed away from cancer and had been married for the better part of the last decade. It was clear that Camile was in the habit of spending her husband’s money on clothing, shoes, jewellery, and anything else that caught her fancy. She was perhaps somewhat younger than Mr Corrothers, but not by much. Her spending was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t imagine what she of all people might have to cope with.

Mr Corrothers had made his money the old-fashioned way, inheriting it from his father, who again had received it from further up the family tree. This pattern repeated itself about once every generation, and you had to go back to William the Conqueror to see any Corrothers doing a bit of work. I suppose brutalizing peasants on horseback was considered work in those days. But the family had been wealthy since time immemorial (which coincidentally, according to English Law, is before 1066). Mr Corrothers had even purchased himself a title of Marquis recently. He had only one son from his first marriage, who stood to inherit absolutely everything his father had. Naturally, he too was workshy.

This house was only one of five owned by Mr Corrothers. He also had a house in Barbados, an apartment in the centre of London, a country estate in Scotland (not far from Balmoral, as Mrs Corrothers felt the need to inform me), and finally, perhaps the crowning glory of it all, Lewellen Hall. This was a house in the Welsh valleys which had been the birthplace of Mr Corrothers’ great-grandfather. They called it the family seat, but it was little more than a ruin nowadays. Despite his wealth, they were not peers of the realm.

They aspired to be nobility and took on the trappings of old British aristocracy. It was clear from Mrs Corrothers’ demeanour that they had once been much more influential. Even though she had no assets to speak of, by virtue of marriage, she owned Mr Corrothers. An attitude which no doubt would one day drive a wedge between her and the junior Mr Corrothers.

I took a few moments appreciate the surroundings. The gazebo sat at the end of the garden and overlooked the cliffs. I was able to notice that there was a small pathway carved into the craggy wall. It led from the small gate I had seen before, all the way down to the sea. A small private beach had formed at the end of the pathway, accessible only through this path. It was then that I noticed, the neighbouring plot also had an exit on to this path. It was blocked by one of the pillars of Mr Corrothers’ gate.

The neighbouring house was not in the same state of care as the Corrothers’. Clearly the owner could not afford the upkeep. It was at this point I began to suspect why I had been summoned today.

I decided it was time to ask my host “How may I help you Mr Corrothers?”

“Well, you see, it has to do with that gate you noticed on your way here. We have a problem with our neighbour wanting to have access to our pathway.”

Camile, who until this moment had been content with nibbling quietly on a piece of fruit, took this as her cue to jump in. The woman seemed very oddly shaped. She was short and fat, with legs and arms far too long for her frame, that looked as if they had once belonged to another person. She had a disagreeable look on her face. She pushed her chair back and walked over to me. Her accent was just as posh as her husband’s, however, in his case it was clearly his natural voice. In hers even the most tone-deaf person could tell she was putting on an act.

“If you come over here, you’ll see that there is a pathway leading down to the beach. It is ours. It has always been ours. That horrible German next door died some years ago, and the children have done nothing to keep the property in a decent state. Now they think they’ll sell it to some poor unsuspecting person. To do so, they want to gain access to the beach. Selling a house with a sea view is one thing. It’s quite another to have direct private access to your own little beach. They are just picking the bones.”

Inwardly I said to myself, looking at Camile, it takes one to know one. Apparently, Mr Corrothers had purchased the land while still married to his first wife, almost fifty years ago. Back then there wasn’t even a proper road through the town. He had then built the house and installed the pathway down to the beach. His property reached the sealine, and there was no legal impediment at the time against him doing so. However, his neighbour Mr Finch, a German dentist who had also built and developed his plot concurrently with Mr Corrothers, also wanted access to the sea. He considered that the pathway should be a public or common access to the coastline. This position was not without merit.

Finch approached Mr Corrothers years ago, requesting neighbourly access to the pathway. The client was willing to allow this, for a price of course. Building houses was not cheap work, and Mr Corrothers was not keen on having a person such as Finch building a holiday home next to him. After all, he was a working man, not the proper sort to be rubbing shoulders with Mr Corrothers on what he considered to be his private beach. It just wouldn’t do. He set an exorbitant price.

Mr Finch, undeterred, had used the pathway, nonetheless, against the wishes of Mr Corrothers of course. And his children, even more so. Things had come to a head some years ago when Mr Finch had finally done the decent thing, according to Camile, and dropped dead of a massive heart attack. The problem was he had left a widow, three children, and a companion lady (a mistress according to Camile) who from time to time had accompanied Mr Finch to the island, when the wife was not around. The rumour was that the mistress was in the house with Mr Finch when he expired. Camile seemed a little too happy, as she filled me in on the local gossip.

As a result of Mr Finch’s death, the children had all swarmed in and for about a year now, had tried to sell the house. The widow also wanted her pound of flesh and had taken up the claim once held by her straying husband, that the pathway was to be accessed by both houses. Camile had been surprised while swimming nude one morning, by workmen constructing the gate that was now on the Finch property. She had seen them off in her natural state, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that had something to do with the Finch gate remaining unfinished.

A registered letter had arrived in which the Finch clan, who were normally at each other’s throats, had united to insist Mr Corrothers grant them access to the pathway. Camile was beside herself at the time. That is when they decided to enlist our services.

“Mr Corrothers, I do have one question if I may. The gate on your side of the property line, where the pathway starts does not seem to have been used in quite some time. Are you sure that reaching some agreement with the Finch family is not at all possible?”

Camile gasped as if she had been slapped. Mr Corrothers began his measured answer but was interrupted by his wife “I’m afraid I cannot accept any agreement on principle. It’s the thin end of the wedge and I do not think…”

She had come around to my side of the table and taken the seat next to me. By this point in the conversation, she had parked herself on every unoccupied chair in the gazebo at one point or another. “We are not prepared to allow these upstarts to usurp our path and our beach. We are willing to go to the bitter end for this, and we want you to spare no expense to crush these people.”

A court case is an extremely complicated affair. A lawyer should prepare for a day in court with the similar frame of mind as a surgeon prepares to enter the operating theatre. Much the same way as with surgery, the procedure will be difficult, and the outcome may depend on factors far beyond the acting professional’s abilities. Therefore, both surgeons and lawyers, only resort to donning their gear as a last resort. A negotiated settlement is almost always the best solution to any legal dispute.

To hear a client charge you with destroying someone using the Law, is a sure-fire guarantee that nothing you will ever do will be sufficient to keep them happy, because the basis of the legal system is the Rule of Law, not the rule of some petty millionaire. In any case, at the time I was in no position to turn away work, the rent and expenses needing to be paid every month. I naturally took the case.

Essentially, we had to prove that Mr Corrothers was in fact the owner of the land all the way down the pathway. The opposing side would maintain that they had a right to cross Mr Corrothers’ land to get to the coastline (the little beach at the bottom of the pathway big enough for two deckchairs and a medium-sized umbrella, until the tide came in). There was one problem there though. These rights to cross other people’s land (referred to in the legal jargon as easements) only exist if there is no alternative access to the public beach.

It was simple then, we had to find a different way for the Finch family reach the beach, without the use of ropes and pullies.

“Mr Corrothers, I will need the Title Deed of the property as well as certain other documents to study the case. However, it will hinge on the Finch family having an alternative access to what is essentially a public beach. Is there any such access?”

Mr Corrothers was trying to speak but Camile soon put a stop to that “Why should we worry about them getting access to our beach? Honestly, how silly!”.

I was forced to explain tactfully to Camile, the world did not in fact revolve around her oversized ego, but that there were laws that we had to consider if we were going to file a lawsuit requesting that the Finch Family cease in their attempt to build a gate through the Corrothers’ wall. It didn’t quite work, as Camile was not interested in listening to me at all. In her consideration I was being paid to do what she ordered, and anything else was just background noise.

“Surely, we can bribe someone to overlook these things. How much would a Judge be inclined to accept to rule in our favour?”

The idea of bribing a Judge, as well as the pittance, which was offered by Mrs Corrothers, was beyond ludicrous. It was made even more hilarious by the fact that Camile was essentially offering her husband’s money, not her own. She had none of course, having been a professional wife to one rich husband, who had conveniently died under suspicious circumstances, shortly before she met Mr Corrothers. Lovely, salt of the earth people.

I was assured that Wesley would be able to provide me with all necessary paperwork, that we were to submit our fee requirements to him, and in general if we needed anything from his Royal Highness, we were to go through the Master of the Stool, Mr Wesley.

Mrs Corrothers at one point had decided she had dealt with me in her presence enough for one day, and signalled Wesley “Has Mr Solomon had a tour of the house? He must see Mr Corrothers’ car collection and painting studio before he leaves.”

I was first taken into the building that I had originally assumed to be a garage. It was in fact a museum of sorts. Mr Corrothers was an avid collector of classic cars. He had three arrayed on the island, one of which was an early version of a racing car. Most of this was lost on me, as my interest in cars relates mostly to them getting me from one place to another. Air conditioning, seatbelts and modern brakes are all highly prized features a car should have, in my opinion. These three had no such amenities. There were also several large, framed pictures of Mr Corrothers driving other classic and antique cars, which were parked in one of the other properties. The fact that some of these were older that their owner (and frankly, in much better shape) was not lost on me.

I was then taken through to see the guest quarters. These were a small apartment within the main house. Complete with their own access to the garden and pool area, I would have been quite content as a guest there. I felt, though, that Mrs Corrothers would have much rather had another cataract surgery than allow me to sully her Egyptian-cotton pillowcases, or the satin sheets. I was after all, not the right sort to be a guest in their house. We could not afford diphthongs when I was growing up.

After being shown the cars, and the guest house I would never be re-entering; I was taken into Mr Corrothers office, which was exactly what you would expect from someone born almost one century ago.

There were dark stately mahogany bookshelves embedded around the room, filled to bursting with all kinds of books from literature and poetry to the history of cars. A partner’s desk occupied the far end of the study, behind it there was an office chair that could have easily been used by Vlad the Impaler (the inspiration for Count Dracula), with a large bay window looking out to the garden and on to the sea. At the opposite end of the room, two armchairs and a couch flanked a small coffee table. Not a computer or electrical device was anywhere to be seen. Lamps were the most sophisticated electrical implements welcome in the chamber. I half expected Excalibur to be hanging on the wall.

From there I was taken up one side of the marble staircase, to the first floor, which held what was described to me as a great room and functioned as a dining area in winter. The difference with the downstairs floor was that this floor was seemingly reserved for the master and mistress of the house, with a breakfast area on one side, and a television system on the other. A bathroom and linen cupboard were the only two rooms of the entire house whose function I recognised. Not that Mr Corrothers or Camile ever went in them. I bet they never even knew they had them.

The next floor held on one side, the master bedroom and bathroom, which could easily have taken my small two-bedroom apartment. The other side of the floor was a large walk-in closet, which contained so many clothes, shoes, and all manner of personal items and apparel, that it put most department stores to shame.

The next floor was completely Mr Corrothers’ studio. The man was an amateur painter. His style was mostly impressionist art. Quite frankly I think that is what wealthy people will say when they’ve completely messed up a painting by spilling colours all over expensive canvas. If you’re poor like my good self, you admit when you make a mistake. If you’re rich, it’s an art style.

I was soon ferried down the marble staircase once more, into the kitchen area and domestic rooms, where Wesley had his apartment. Naturally this area was equivalent to a boiler room, so of no particular interest to Camile. Surely, she would have preferred all these rooms to be boarded off, with their inhabitants banned from ever getting to the main house. But alas a house must have a kitchen, and Mr Corrothers his Mr Wesley. I half expected Wesley to sleep upside down hanging from a tree, but a small studio apartment inside the master’s house was apparently more comfortable.

Once the “we have vast amounts of money” tour was over, I was summarily ejected from the property. Mr Wesley accompanied me to the gate through the service entrance at the side of the small car museum. This was an area of the house that was completely functional and would otherwise never be shown to guests. It was also the fastest and most direct route out of the house, Camile’s way of saying “Off with you now!”

I couldn’t help but notice there was a laptop in the middle of the pathway, with a hammer next to it. The curiosity got the best of me “Excuse me, is that a smashed computer? What happened there?”

Wesley stopped, sighed in resignation, and said “Mr Corrothers does not trust technology. It would seem someone was attempting to spy on him. He brought the computer here and proceeded to deal with the problem.”

By the time I got back to my car, I decided it would be best not to read too much into the Corrothers. The toffs are always a bit strange. Why else would they feel the need to have three names where one is more than enough? And what on earth are they doing to the English language?

Part Two: The interloper.

The Corrothers case turned out to be quite long in its preparation. An engineer was needed to certify the accurate measurements of Mr Corrothers’ plot. This in turn was necessary for the lawyer (yours truly) to be able to prepare the claim. Naturally the fee was paid without even the slightest blink of an eye. We did however receive a scathing mail directly from Camile, asking why we had chosen such an expensive expert.

At first, I thought not much more of it, wealthy people would not be wealthy for very long if they spent money without at least paying attention to how much things cost. I suppose I may have been somewhat to blame for this reaction as I did inform the engineer that he may be able to cover his Christmas budget on this one case (the man has four children and can use all the help he can get). But then things went from strange to outright weird.

I was in the city on an unrelated case, when Cassey called me “Charlie, I think you may need to get back to the office as soon as possible. The Corrothers people are here, and they have someone else with them. They are demanding to see their file and how much work has been done.”

I could hear Camile screaming in the background, asking what kind of law firm this was if the lawyer was not there. Cassey is well trained and naturally she would not allow anyone, not even the client themselves, to have access to the case file without me being present. At the very least not unless I gave her the go-ahead first.

“I’m just going into the Notary offices; this may take a while. Can they not come back later, maybe make an appointment for another day? The person with them is that Wesley, I told you about him. He is the personal assistant.”

It was not Wesley. He was there, but there was also another mystery man with them. He was called Rayland Bloom. She had no idea who he was, and he was making her feel very uncomfortable. The description Cassey gave was priceless “A turd in a silk stocking”.

I promised to get back to the office as soon as possible. I was assisting another client at the time and could not leave the sale that was about to take place, to drive forty-five minutes to assist a client who did not even bother to make an appointment. Cassey relayed my message, to which they replied that they would gladly wait. This answer was delivered via the medium of high-pitched Camile-screams.

The Notary appointment dragged on for close to three hours. By the time I was able to make it back to the office, Cassey was just about ready to resign. Mr Corrothers and Wesley were sitting side by side in the waiting room. At first glance they looked like those mimes you sometimes see that imitate statues and only move if you leave them a coin. Camile had apparently spent the last few hours complaining into the glass of water Cassey had offered her. Mr Bloom sat patiently waiting to witness the bollocking that was about to take place. He did not have to wait long.

Camile’s outburst as she heard me turning the handle startled Mr Corrothers into almost dropping his cane. “There you are!”

I didn’t even have time to say hello “Hello Mrs…”

“Never mind all that, where have you been? We have waited for ages to speak to you!”

I tried explaining to Camile that they did not have an appointment today, and I was otherwise engaged. Cassey’s face seemed to say: “Don’t bother, I’ve already tried fifty times.” In the meantime, Mr Bloom, who had not yet been introduced to me, was suppressing smirks like a schoolboy watching his friends get told off by the teacher for something he had done.

“We insist you sit down with us and render a report on our case. When will it go to court? When will we have a resolution to this issue? The Finch family have already found a possible buyer. You need to act swiftly! Why is everything in this country so bloody slow and difficult?”

Camile was not waiting for an answer. She was a kettle that had just reached boiling point. The whistling would not stop until She was removed from the cooker and allowed to cool down. “Why don’t we step into my office, and we can have a civilized conversation?”

Content with her victory, Camile led the party into my quarters. Casey was looking at me with apologetic eyes. Surely, she was thinking better you than me. In all fairness, she had put up with them for quite some time already. It was my turn now to bear the onslaught of Mrs Corrothers.

I was surprised to see Mr Bloom ready to step into the meeting. Since nobody had bothered to introduce us, and since it seemed as though nobody cared that there was a stranger in a lawyer’s office, I decided to take the initiative. Planting myself squarely in the doorway of the partition I offered my hand. “Hello, I’m Mr Solomon. I take it you’re Mr Bloom. My assistant didn’t mention in what capacity you are here.”

The gentleman did shake my hand, but we were both startled by the shrieks from Camile Corrothers “He’s with us! He is a friend who has come to help us. This is Mr Bloom, now please will you come in and sit down?”

Being invited to sit down in my own office was about as close to the bone as I could stomach. Turning I realized that the kettle-woman had taken my seat and was already banging on about how they had paid a lot of money for our services. I pulled their file out and decided to make this as quick and painless as possible. Camile clearly had other ideas. She wanted her pound of flesh after being made to wait. The menfolk were mostly ceremonial at this point.

I explained to the gathering, that the claim was mostly finished and would be submitted in the next two weeks. This was not enough for Camile, who was expecting a judicial ruling on the case in a matter of minutes. I took enjoyment in explaining how the court case would require several months at least to be brought before a judge. Only then would we be called to a hearing, and only after this hearing could we expect the judge to render a decision.

I was surprised by Mr Corrothers. I did not know he was brave enough to speak when his wife was this agitated. “How long will all this take?”

“As I informed you when we first met, at least a year since the claim is filed with the Courts.”

While Mr Corrothers took this in his stride, Camile started flailing, huffing, and puffing, as if I had just handed her a dead baby. “This is unacceptable. Bloom, we are going to the bakery downstairs. Will you please sort this out and meet us there after? Thank you.”

With these words the Corrothers and Wesley swiftly exited my office, leaving behind their pet, Mr Bloom, who wasted no time in closing the door behind them and turning to face me. “I’ve been retained by the Corrothers to act as your handler in this case. They are very unhappy and unsatisfied. From now on you’ll be taking your orders from me, and as a first step we are going to have you finish the claim, submit the paperwork, and work out how much money a judge will require to be encouraged to rule, rather quickly in favour of the Corrothers.”

It took me a second to convince myself that I had heard the man correctly. I glanced out through the partition glass at Cassey, who locked eyes with me. I ran the thumb of my right hand down the right of my cheek. This was a signal we had developed for me to let her know when it looked like the police would be required. She wasted no time and picked up the phone.

“Mr Bloom. Firstly, I have no idea who you are, what your job is supposed to be, or why you are even here. What I do know is that this is my firm. I would prefer it if you left without making a scene, but you should know that the police are on their way to escort you from the building…”

I let my words sink in before continuing “…Secondly, my client is Mr Corrothers. If he is unsatisfied with my work, he is welcome to choose a different lawyer at any time. Thirdly, you should know that attempting to bribe a judge is a criminal offence. Not only would you, Mr Corrothers and myself face gaol time, but I would most certainly lose my license to practice law. And despite what Camile Corrothers may believe, they have not purchased my entire practice. I am not their lapdog to be called on whenever the mood takes them. They seem to have you and Wesley for that.”

I was not aware that I had raised my voice considerably. The man’s face was ruby red and threatened to explode at any time. He stared at me from across my table with increasing hatred for me. for a few minutes he considered his next move. Sadly, for him there came a knock at the door and Cassey entered with two very large police agents.

“Sorry to bother you agents. This gentleman seems to have lost his way and cannot find the exit. Would you please be so kind as to assist him.”

With a final scowl in my direction, Mr Bloom collected himself and left my office.

When the door had shut behind the three men, Cassey came to see me. “What on earth is going on with these people Charlie?”

“I have no idea” I said loosening my tie and decompressing. The day was done, and so was I. “They are going to cause trouble. Make sure you don’t give them any information over the phone from now on, let me know if they request a meeting, and insist everything be done through an e-mail. I want to have a paper trail with these lot.”

The following weeks went by with no further incident from these clients. I finished preparing the claim, collected all the documents and, after informing them that we were going to submit the papers to court, they insisted on receiving a full copy of the entire dossier. They wanted to censor and approve my work before it went any further. It was not a usual request, but these were not usual clients. The icing on the cake was that a hard copy was needed. Diligently one was put together and, to my chagrin Mr Bloom appeared to collect it.

“I’m sorry unless you have a document signed by Mr Corrothers instructing me to hand you this paperwork, I won’t be able to hand over the file. Also, if you are going to be acting on his behalf, I will have to insist that you refrain from making unreasonable requests such as bribing a sitting judge, or anything that could be considered broadly illegal. This is a law firm after all, not some American gangster movie.” I must admit I enjoyed sending him packing.

He did return some days later with the required instruction order. It was handwritten and no doubt was produced by Wesley while Camile was shrieking her head off. I was not there at the time, and it was Cassey who handed over the documents. When he sat down at Cassey’s table and started flipping through the pages, it was her turn to be annoyed.

“If you are going to take up space on my table, I will have to insist you pay rent. I have a lot to do, and you are not actually a client. We have furnished you with a copy and now I will ask you to please vacate my table, and, if possible, for you to leave the office in general. Would it be too much to ask for you to exit the building while you’re at it? Of course not, happy travels.”

Mr Bloom simply pressed his lips together, and before leaving he demanded a translation of the entire dossier into English. I do not know what Cassey said to him, but in all probability, it was not polite. We received an e-mail from Camile shortly after his visit, complaining that she could not read anything as it was not in English. This of course did not stop her from criticising the claim brief I had put together and making helpful suggestions as to how best to present the case. Essentially, she was asking me to change a document she could not even read. As I read, I turned to Cassey for help.

“This woman is a special type of gobshite you know. Why don’t you call the sworn translator to see how much a translation of the entire dossier will cost, that should shut her up.”

The absurdity of the situation finally reached its high point on a Sunday morning, at four o’clock. It may come as a surprise that, like most people, lawyers require a certain amount of daily sleep to be able to function as human beings. Therefore, a phone call at an ungodly hour is, to say the least, not welcome. Naturally there are some cases that start with this kind of phone call, and they are usually of an urgent nature. This case did not warrant in any shape or form, a call like this one.

As is usually the case in our house, I did not hear the phone at first. I have inherited my father’s ability to ignore noise to continue with my much needed and highly prised sleep regime. Quite frankly, the house could be on fire or collapsing and maybe the draft would wake me, not the noise. My wife on the other hand, does not have such a sleep talent.

“Charlie! Wake up, the bloody phone’s ringing”.

It was more the slight push than the actual words that did the trick. Looking at the display, I thought I must be dreaming. I turned the lamp on and tried to focus. The number read Barbados. “Do we know anyone in Barbados? What time is it? Why is someone in the Caribbean calling me of all people at four in the morning. What time is it there?”

I was informed in the clearest voice my wife was able to muster, that the phone had been ringing continuously for about 10 minutes. It was always that number. What is more, if I did not answer it and make whomever it was stop calling, I would be sent to Barbados to spend the night, and I’d be wearing the phone for a hat.

“Hello, Charles Francis Solomon, lawyer. Who is this?”

The high-pitched voice of Camile Corrothers made me doubt that I was awake. I thought surely this must be a nightmare.

“Oh, there you are! We have been trying to reach you, there doesn’t seem to be anyone at the office! We have spent an awful amount of money on you Charlie, and we’re getting nothing out of it, have you presented the claim yet? We have not got an English copy, I hope you haven’t sent it in, we didn’t say you could…”

I must have sounded unhinged “Mrs Corrothers. It is four in the morning, on a Sunday. I should hope there is nobody in my office. If there is, they are burglars! And you would do well not to call me by my given name. It is Mr Solomon to you. I would appreciate if you did not call at these ungodly hours unless it is a rather impressive emergency. I have never had to deal with such difficult people in my life. I doubt any of my colleagues in any country would put up with this. I sincerely hope you will not insist on calling me again like this. If there is anything you need, please send an e-mail, and I will answer you as soon as I am awake. Thank you!”

My voice must have been louder than I expected. My wife was sitting next to me in the dark, but I could feel her eyes on me “What?”

“Nothing… since you’re awake, you could get me a glass of water.” Naturally that saw me out of bed and on my way to the kitchen.

The following morning, I was greeted to three e-mails. Two of them from Camile Corrothers. The last one, was sent from Mr Corrothers’ mail address, however I suspected that Camile was indeed the one typing. All three were not much more than a garbled complaint about how nobody had ever treated her in such an unprofessional manner, that she was going to have me removed from the case and complain to the Bar Association about my tactless behaviour. If she could line me up against a post and have me shot, she probably would have. She would be visiting the office as soon as she was back on the island to collect all necessary paperwork for a different lawyer to handle the case, we were issued with a Stop All Works order until further notice.

I should mention that my reaction to the mails was rather unpleasant and called for language that I could not possibly repeat here. Suffice it to say that no amount of money could come close to making it worth putting up with Camile Corrothers. I spent most of my Sunday thinking how the firm should deal with this case, and whether it was possible to continue given the behaviour of the client.

This issue became rather moot though by Monday. I was sitting at my desk when Cassey came in. She had taken a call from a very distraught Camile Corrothers. Mr Corrothers had keeled over and died during the night. Apparently, his last words were

“Camile, will you please be quiet.”

“Charlie, stop smiling!”

“Me smiling, you’ve got a big grin on your face! Isn’t this the pot calling the kettle black?”

It is not often that problems solve themselves. Camile never did come back to the firm. From what I heard, her relationship with Mr Corrothers’ son was septic at best. He wasted no time in having his lawyer chase her out of the Barbados property no doubt.

I did feel a little sorry for the widow. She was not of an age where she could find herself another victim (I mean husband!). After all this was husband number two to die under suspicious circumstances, both of whom were wealthy men. The last I heard of her she had moved in with her daughter who had apparently inherited her mother’s ability to beguile wealthy men. She had married a premier league footballer. I’m sure he was delighted to hear he was going to be starring in the pilot episode of Wags and Widows. God help him. Cassey agreed with me that we had, in fact, dodged a cannonball.

In the next weeks, a solicitor from London acting on behalf of Mr Spencer-Brian-Daniel Corrothers-Bamberg-McKenzie, the son of the deceased Mr Corrothers, contacted the office and instructed us, on behalf of the junior Mr Corrothers, to continue with the case we were building. Apparently, the son had different ideas than his father.

Driven no doubt by a philosophy of reducing problems, he wanted a settlement reached with the Finch family. It wasn’t long before the widow Finch was able to stroll down her new common path, to the beach to enjoy the sunset with her new love interest. Mr Finch was, as it turned out, not the only one who played away. If I was a betting man, which I have known to be on occasion, I would say the wealthier you are, the less likely to be faithful to your wife. That is what I learned from the Corrothers case.

Part One: Memory Lane.

The rain was coming down quite hard on the motorway. I could hardly see out of the wind screen, even with the wipers at top speed. The news broadcast on the radio was saying how this was the worst November downpour in living memory. Then again, they said that sort of thing every year when the rainy season started. In summer they’d call it the most humid or hot summer on record. Sometimes I wondered if the broadcast was a recording, and not even live news. In this country, where being lazy is the national sport, I wouldn’t be surprised. Occasionally a flash of light, followed by a sudden crack would startle me. Even though it was about mid-morning, the sky was pitched black. In any case, it was almost impossible to see the car in front of me.

I knew where I was heading, despite the wind and rain. No need for Sally, the navigation voice on my phone, on this trip. As the motorway exit, I was aiming for came into view, I tried to understand how the hell I came to be sitting in my car, in this weather, heading for the gaol. It had all started some two weeks ago. It was Saturday morning, I was sitting at a local coffee shop minding my own business and reading the newspaper while drinking my coffee, when an unknown woman sat down in front of me. She had that dishevelled look about her of someone who is not quite happy about life as an adult.

At first, I was stunned into silence. She had dark unkempt and apparently unwashed hair, a very white and unhealthy complexion, dubious overall personal hygiene, and a look that seemed to suggest she could, if needs be, strangle a man twice her size for looking at her the wrong way. To say I was apprehensive was an understatement. Her eyes were boring directly into my face. Every fibre in me was telling me to run like the clappers and not look back. Just as I was about to follow this highly justified instinct, she spoke. I was so startled I almost threw the coffee at her.

“Charles Solomon? Is that you? The lawyer?”

I was tempted to look around and answer Where? He owes me money!But I remembered that the legal profession does have an ethics code, and this behaviour would be frowned upon. This did not make it less appropriate or ineffective way to extricate oneself from a highly unwanted meeting with a seemingly crazy bitch. I decided against the comical exit and simply answered “Yes, hello, I am Mr Solomon, the lawyer, how can I help you?”

She then said something to me that made my blood run cold. I placed the coffee down and dropped the newspaper. “Benjamin Sloan needs to speak to you”.

Benjamin Sloan ran a dingy pub called the Crazy Horse, which had been his for as long as I could remember. It was the sort of place you could describe as being a dive, without the risk of doing it a disservice. His wife was rumoured to frequent the company of young physically fit gentlemen. Every few months she might change bedroom dancing partners, but her preference in bed was clearly much younger and fitter than her husband. The woman was a cougar, there was no denying it. Did the suitors get anything out of it? I should hope so for their sakes. It was also rumoured that poor old Ben knew about his wife’s escapades and turned a blind eye. Millie, that was her name, could be quite violent, and Ben’s spirit had long since been broken.

His eldest son, Hanson Sloan, about seven years older than myself, enlisted in the army when he became of age. Whether to get away from his sexually deviant mother, or to find a constructive way to channel his own aggressive tendencies, the army seemed like the natural way to go. Sadly, it did not stick. Nobody really knows what happened to him there. The street chatter was that he was dishonourably discharged and was now being treated for schizophrenia after violently beating a man in the Crazy Horse one night. The poor sod had made some comment about Hanson spilling some beer on him when pouring the pint, and that was it. He grabbed the man, pulled him over the bar, slammed him on the floor and proceeded to beat the living daylight out of him using a beer mug. That was Hanson. He took after his mother.

Ben’s middle son William had gone to school with me half a lifetime ago. He was always in trouble with teachers, getting in to fights every other day, and eventually dropping out without finishing any school qualifications whatsoever. He was one of the first kids in our class to discover drugs. When he was twelve, his father was called to school to collect him after he was found in the bathrooms with a face full of silver paint. Apparently, he had stolen the tin from a supply room, and he was chasing a high by sniffing the fumes. From what I remember about that incident, he was sitting in the bathroom stall with the tin on his knees, he had inhaled the fumes, caught the high and let his head come to rest in the tin which was filled to the brim. Not the brightest bulb on the tree.

From what I had been told, he had slowly graduated from drugs to violence. By age sixteen, he had been in juvenile detention for some time. He had eventually taken up boxing to justify to his case workers that he was doing something to distance himself from a life of crime. As a juvenile the emphasis is not so much on punishing the criminal but in finding a career path, or a hobby for a wayward child that will steer him away from crime as an adult.

This aside, you didn’t really hear much about William on the street for years. The crazy lady interrupting my coffee was the first bulletin I had received on the family since leaving school. They were generally the sort of people I would avoid. Apparently, William also took after his mother.

There was a younger son, Brian. I didn’t know much about him. To me he was always William’s baby brother. It was quite possible that Ben wasn’t even Brian’s biological father. But that is a different story altogether. There was next to nothing that I could say about Brian. I wouldn’t recognise him if he ran into me in the street, and I certainly didn’t know who he took after.

Trying to get over my dry throat, I asked “What would this be concerning? And, if I may ask, who are you?”

Picking up the croissant I was going to have for breakfast and ripping it to shreds, she stuffed a piece into her mouth. She made me think of a refugee, as she spoke while chewing my food “William’s in the shit. My name is Angela.”

“Well, if William would like to hire my services as a lawyer, I’m sure I’d be happy to take the appointment…” I was reaching for my business cards when she grabbed my newspaper, turning it haphazardly to the front page and laid it flat on the table. She pointed to the picture on the front page tapping it repeatedly with a grubby finger. I noticed the unmanicured nail with the thin line of black dirt separating the white brim from the yellowing finger.

“He won’t be able to make an appointment.” She continued stuffing her face with the remnants of my breakfast until it was nothing more than a memory to me.

As I looked at the picture, I realized that I recognized the man being led into a building by a brace of police officers. He was trying to glance back, hands and feet shackled. He had a huge frame, almost like a bodybuilder. The hair was cropped short, and there was no doubt that William Sloan had been arrested by the police. It was then I realized the picture was split into two halves. Beside the photo of a man being led away by police, there was another picture of a young lady’s face. She had clearly been badly beaten.

Her nose was broken and had been taped up, her eyes swollen beyond recognition. She was crying, and by all counts, unable to see anything. Her cheeks were lacerated, and her lip was split and swollen. She had probably lost some teeth as well, judging by the look of the rest of her. If you were to describe someone as being beaten to a pulp, this picture was exactly what came to mind. The headline read Animal arrested for beating girlfriend.

After looking over the picture in disbelief several times in silence, I continued the conversation “What is your relationship to William Sloan then? I thought you might have been his wife or partner. Are you related to Benjamin? Is that why you are here? Did he ask you to find me? I would prefer if it they made an appointment, in that case, so we can discuss this matter in the privacy of my office. I’ll be glad to take his number if you have it, or, if you prefer you can give him my card…”

She interrupted me again, this time picking up the bottle of water I was planning to wash my breakfast down with. She had no use for the glass, drinking straight from the bottle. “Ben doesn’t know I’m here. I am a friend of Millie’s and of William’s. The reason I’ve come is to encourage you in to going to the bar and offering to take the case. We are not happy with William’s current lawyer, not after the way he managed things last time…”

When she said last time, my heart skipped a beat. “From what I gather then, neither William has asked you to contact me, nor has his family made the decision to change lawyers. I’m sorry but I cannot interfere, unless the client directly sends for me, or the family decide to hire me…”

The woman had a thing for interrupting other people “His bail hearing will be in the next month or so. Grace expects you to go to the Crazy Horse as soon as possible to speak to Ben and convince him you’re the man for the job.”

With these words she picked up my serviette cleaned her mouth, downed the last of my water, and left. I surveyed the damage, the only thing left of my breakfast was the coffee. When I brought it to my lips, I quickly put the cup back on the table, it was as cold as a dog’s nose. The woman had successfully sabotaged my breakfast.

After such a strange Saturday morning conversation, and aggravated by hunger, I tried to go about my day with some semblance of normality. First, I went for a haircut, and I could swear I saw crazy Angela walk by the window. The barber who has known me for years looked worried when I asked if he could see a woman out of his window.

When he turned to check, there was nobody there. After this I went to the chemist. There was a lady waiting across the street, leaning on a tree. She looked awfully a lot like crazy Angela. When I started to walk towards her, she slipped behind the tree. By the time I arrived, there was nobody there. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that the stress of work was starting to take a toll.

Then I had to do the shopping for the week, so I drove to the local supermarket. I was in the perishable section collecting tomatoes when I looked up and there she was, looking at me dead in the face, biting into an apple with her eyes fixed on me. Enough was enough. I pointed right at her and said in a loud voice “This is stalking! I’ll inform the police if you don’t leave me alone!” I realized I was making a scene as some of the people in the section quickly found excuses not to buy fruit and vegetables.

She came round the boxes and stands, walked right past me, and whispered, “Or you could just go and talk to old Ben now.” She dropped the half-eaten apple in my basket and kept walking. It is amazing how much restraint I had in that moment when I plucked the apple out of my shopping basket and didn’t throw it at the back of her head. I wanted to, it would have probably lowered my blood pressure and stress levels to do so, but I just binned the thing. Albeit rather loudly.

That evening saw me parking the car in one of the worst neighbourhoods in town. The lot was adjacent to the pub, which itself occupied an entire block. It was a short stocky building of only two floors and a basement. The ground floor was a pub, the first floor an apartment. It was quite clear that the same person owned both as nobody else would want to live there. The pub sported large glass pain windows which had so much grime and gunk on them, they might as well have been tainted.

Above the door there was a sign which comprised a neon cowboy being bucked off a stallion, with his Stetson in his hand. The light bothered whoever was sitting in the apartment. Underneath this artistic tableau, which had probably not seen a good scrub since I started shaving, was written the name of the bar in neon calligraphy, Crazy Horse. I walked up to the door and peered through the small round window cut into the wood. The room was dimly lit, but there were some humps resembling people sitting at the bar. These were probably regular patrons. Throwing caution to the winds it was time to push the door open.

The smell hit me first. It was a mixture of urine, stale beer, vomit and strangely, tobacco. The bar itself was a dark wood surface with glasses dangling from overhead racks. The tables and chairs were ancient. I saw a muscular young man behind the bar with a beer keg on his back, heading to the storage room in the basement probably. The stool-dwelling regulars were perplexed to see a strange face enter their environment. Perhaps they were taken back by the fresh air that followed me in, or the surprise of a man wearing clean clothes. Some of them turned away from the football game playing on the TV for about a second to register my face. I was startled by a gravelly voice from the shadows beside me.

“She’s quite convincing, isn’t she?”

Visibly startled by the sudden sound, I discovered the source of the tobacco smell and the raspy voice. Grace emerged from the darkness where she had been sitting, cigarette in hand, yellow smile on her face.

She might have been attractive in her youth, but the years had not been kind. I’ve seen the back of buses with more feminine wiles than this woman.

“Hello Millie, is Benjamin in by any chance?” I wanted to make this as quick and painless as possible. She smiled at me again and I felt in urgent need for a shower and penicillin injection.

“He’ll be right out. Don’t forget to convince him to do the right thing, or Angela may have to visit you again. You were always a smart boy, I’m sure you understand.”

With that Grace melted back into the darkness. The only way to tell she was there, was the occasional red cigarette light when she took a drag. Otherwise, she was invisible. I had hardly noticed the person sitting beside her. He was clearly much younger, perhaps even my age. As a car passed by the window, the headlights illuminated the room briefly. He had his arm around her. Her arm was on his leg, lightly stroking his inner thigh. I thought maybe I should have said something, but, thinking better of it, I went to take space at the bar.

The young man was back, wiping down the surface of the bar. “Hello Charlie, what will you be having?”

Startled for the second time in under five minutes I asked in disbelief. “How do you know my name?”

Noticing my confusion, he explained “I’m Brian, William’s brother, remember?”

Apparently, he had also developed an interest in the gym, much like his elder brother. As a matter of fact, their features were quite similar. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t recognize you. It’s been quite some time. A coffee will do thanks. I’m here to see your father if he’s about.”

He smiled full of youthful mischief, and with the look of someone who can handle themselves said “I think you meant to say a beer. I’ll get you one right now. And dad is just there, I’ll fetch him for you.”

Before I could protest, the young man was off. Within minutes I heard the shuffling of old feet, worn down by years of family infighting, decades of bar governing, and so many disappointments it was pointless to try and count them. He spoke in barks as he all but slammed the pint down next to me “What the hell do you want?”

“Hello Mr Sloan. I’m …”

I did not have time to finish. “I know who you are you insolent welp! And I know she sent you! And you can both fuck right off!!” He started to polish pint glasses and hook them above his head with more energy than the task required. I was concerned he would miss the hook and glass me.

I looked over the room and saw Millie’s smiling face emerge from the shadows with her ugly smile once again. She picked up another cigarette and melted back into the darkness. Her companion offered her a light. Across the room, in full view I could see crazy Angela sipping on a long drink, staring back at me. She winked, waved, and blew me a kiss. That is when I realized the absurdity of the situation. Here I was, sitting in a bar I wouldn’t be caught dead in, trying to convince a man who hates the world, to appoint me to a case I don’t even want. All because some crazy lady and her promiscuous handler, have decided I ought to do the job.

In my mind I recited the mantra I had often used to see me through tough times we have to pay the rent.

“She sits there with her new boy-toy, embarrassing me at all hours! She’s never done a day’s worth of work in her life! I’m stuck here hour after hour, trying to keep this place alive! And where is she? With some young buck who won’t be here past Christmas! I can’t work, I can’t live, I might as well just kill myself! Or maybe I’ll finally snap and turn on her, run her and her little flavour of the week over with my car. Do you hear me woman!”

The man was practically in tears. Honestly, if one day the news broke that he’d hanged himself, I doubt anyone would be surprised. I took a deep breath and tried my best to steer the conversation in the right direction. “It’s not about her though is it Mr Sloan. It’s about William. I don’t think anyone’s happy with his current lawyer?”

He dropped the glass, which shattered slicing his hand. He swore as his youngest son came over with a speed and agility that would have surprised anyone. He helped his father clean up and offered him a clean dish towel. His hand was bleeding, so Brian was back on deck manning the bar.

After calming himself and wrapping the makeshift bandage around his hand he continued speaking. “Shite! No, we are not happy. But I can’t just tell you to jump on the case now, can I? This is William’s mess, and he will have to decide who fights his corner. He got himself into this mess, he should be the one to decide who gets him out. And I know, he’s in gaol so it’s not that easy. We visit him once a week, if you and that broom jockey who sent you want, we can arrange for you to be put on his visitor list. It will take some time though, the bastard corrections agents work slowly, and they don’t like us at all. They treat him as if he were an animal that needs putting down.”

With that he disappeared to tend to his wounded hand. The towel would not cut it, he was going to have to find a proper bandage, and possibly visit the emergency room. In the meantime, I decided to take advantage and mine Brian for information on his family. There was no gossipy intention behind my questions of course. I was already on the job, defending William. I had to collect as much information as possible. Perhaps this is the reason Cassey calls me an old fishwife. She fails to realize the importance of gossip.

We started with his eldest brother, Hanson. After being kicked out of the army and almost landing a punter in the hospital, he had gone completely off the rails. He would go on drug-fuelled benders which could last for days. They stopped counting the times he was arrested for getting into brawls, or the number of times the hospital had called to inform them he was in the emergency room, again. Eventually a Judge had remanded him into psychiatric custody after he beat a punter with a pint glass. He had so many notches against him, he was looking at internment for the next fifteen to twenty years in a care facility that just so happened to be the psychiatric wing of the local prison. Benjamin had stopped going to visit since they started to keep Hanson so sedated that he could not recognise if someone was in the room with him. If they didn’t, he became very violent. Orderlies had been attacked on multiple occasions, other patients, even visitors.

Brian himself had been a guest of the government also. Some years ago, he had a disagreement with his ex-girlfriend and her new gentleman caller. He had slapped her around and flung the poor suitor through one of the bar windows. Thanks to some legal manoeuvres and a well-placed bribe slipped into the victim’s pocket moments before the court case, he was able to avoid spending too much time in gaol. Luckily, he had company during his stay.

This is where we moved on to the middle son, William. His brothers were bad enough, but William, was an entirely different ball game. After being dragged through the juvenile court and penitentiary system, he had graduated to larger things in life. Through his older brother, Hanson, he met some drug dealers who introduced him to the business side of recreational drugs. His budding boxing skills served him well in that realm. He also discovered a penchant for breaking and entering, to supplement his day-job as a dealer. He eventually fancied himself the new Pablo Escobar of our little corner of the world. There were pictures on the wall of the bar of him wearing gold chains. I noticed the number of tattoos had increased over the years as well as the all-round muscles. He was little more than a playground bully, workshy and useful only in violent situations.

For a little while he made some money. This made his mother very happy, as the way to her heart was through shiny baubles and expensive presents. Old Ben was a different story. He could see the writing on the wall. Around the same time as Hanson was being remanded into the psychiatric ward for his disagreement with a punter, William was being arrested during an anti-drug-trafficking operation led by the police. William had tried to sell two keys of pure cocaine to an undercover officer. When the agent revealed himself, William lost the plot and went for him. The boxing had served him well, he beat the police officer to death before anyone could intervene.

Eventually he was subdued by other agents, but the train had left the station. He had killed a cop. He was sentenced to thirty-five years in gaol, five for drug trafficking and a further thirty for murder, with an aggravated third added to the ordinary murder charge for being a police officer. Naturally he did not serve the full sentence and was our on good behaviour in due course. I am almost certain it cost his father a fortune to persuade the board of corrections that he had progressed in his rehabilitation. It’s amazing what a well-placed bribe will get you.

Despite the eventual release, William was in the big house for most of his twenties, and well into his thirties. It was during this prolonged stay that Brian was arrested and spent time briefly inside. William had apparently angered his partners in the drug business by getting arrested and had been signalled for termination. There had been at least three attempts on his life and several fights.

As a direct consequence of all this William decided to go big or go home. He enrolled in the gaol boxing programme and started to train professionally on the taxpayer’s money. He even started to compete and for two years was recognized as the official regional amateur boxing champion in his weight class. There were high hopes for him turning professional upon his release. After a life of emotional scars, this was his father’s saving Grace, but sadly it was not to be.

As soon as he got his first furlough, he was back in the shanty part of town, offering his services as a heavy to the highest bidder. He paid his debt to his partners by taking care of the snitch that had grassed them all up. The poor sod was never heard from again. From there it had been one long parade of court dates, police citations and stints behind bars for parole violations. These had eventually been solved by more bribes from old Ben, but from what Brian was telling me, the family’s coffers were now empty.

William had become one of the resident debt collectors for his partners. He had graduated to enforcer work and protection rackets within very little time. Benjamin was beside himself when all this was going on. Every time one of his children was arrested, it took a little of the life out of old Ben. That he was still standing was amazing. The fact that he was still manning the bar, a minor miracle.

I finished listening to the family history and drank my beer in silence until Ben returned, at which point we negotiated my fee and I agreed to take the case. From here things would move a little slowly. I had to inform the bar association and the previous lawyer of my intention to visit to William, at the family’s behest. The Bar Association would have to issue me with a prison pass, which could take about three or four days. Only then would I be able to visit William in any official capacity. Shaking hands and waving goodbye to Brian, I got up from the stool.

As I walked to the door, I glanced over the room one last time. Angela was nowhere to be seen. Her mission complete she probably crawled back under the rock she came from, or maybe she had moved on to Millie’s next victim.

Grace was nowhere to be seen as I walked past where she sat and opened the door. I welcomed the fresh air into my lungs and headed to the parking lot. As I turned the car and the headlights on, I realized Grace had moved her private time to the parking lot, beside the garbage bins. I saw the couple embracing in the shadows cast by the bins, the man with his trousers slackened and his backside in full view, bent legs with high heels held by his arms at the sides of his waist, his head bowed into his lover. Grace smiled back to me as the headlights passed over them. There’s nothing like a yellowing middle-aged tobacco smile caught in flagrante, to make you want to skip your next two meals. The entire family was nuts. And it looked like the boys got it from the mother. God help poor old, cuckolded Ben.

Part Two: Step into my office.

Some two weeks later, there I was driving up to the security gates of the gaol with the rain belting down. As I approached the gate, I rolled the window down to address the check-point officer. It was impossible for us to hear each other. So, I reached for my Bar Association credentials and he waved me through. It wasn’t the first time he’d seem my car, and it wouldn’t be the last. I parked the car and hurriedly slipped into the suit jacket, then the overcoat. The rain was coming down so strong I thought it was going to wash my car away. Before picking up the briefcase I left my laptop under the front seat. There are no electronics allowed past the internal checkpoint.

Protocol dictates that you leave your phone, laptop, and other electronic communication devices outside the inmate area of the prison. Only rookies make the mistake of carrying those items with them when visiting someone in prison. Those of us somewhat more experienced in these ordeals, leave the items home or hidden in the car. Legends like myself, bring a dummy phone. After all, you don’t want to be caught in a gaol house riot with no way of calling for help.

Opening the glovebox, I removed the dummy phone I always carry for these occasions and inserted in my trouser pocket where my ordinary phone usually sits. My real phone I slid into the breast pocket of my coat, over the suit jacket. It’s not as if they’re allowed to pat down lawyers now, is it?

Entering the prison building I first had to deal with the reception check. “Charles Francis Solomon, lawyer to see a Mr William Sloan.” I offered the printed Bar Association permit and handed the correctional officer my credentials.

He conducted the visitor check. This entails a past-his-prime corrections agent running a grubby finger down a printed list of names. You have to love the efficiency of analogue systems. My identity confirmed and business stated, I was buzzed through to the corridor that led past the administration portion of the building, into the inmate area.

This portion of the gaol housed the administration offices, as well as surprisingly a café where inmates could fraternize with corrections agents. Presumably these were trustees. Never had I seen anyone from the outside order a coffee or eat a sandwich there. Why inmates needed a coffee break was also beyond my comprehension. Next to this was the kitchen and infirmary, the last vestiges of civilization before you entered a place where things go bump in the night while attempting to hone their criminal craft.

Here the corridor became much more ominous. The smell was a mixture of chemical cleaning agents, male perspiration, and human despair. The area was well illuminated, and the walls were whitewashed. The security cameras were housed behind metal grates. I remembered the first time I walked down the corridor; it made me feel like I was in an old hospital, but with many more security features. I reached the familiar metal gates that separate the entrance corridors from the prison yard. The huge red behemoths were usually not opened completely. Instead, entrance to the yard was gained through a small space made by the gates being partially opened. Behind them was a new check point followed by a second set of red gates, guarded by a corrections officer who again would ask to see my credentials.

The process here was quite simple. One set of gates were closed, and then the second set was opened. You must love the simplicity of an analogue system. This was also the checkpoint where you would be asked to surrender your phone. I happily placed my dummy phone in the white case offered by the corrections agent. He handed me a number, and for a second I think we both realized the phone was nothing more than a piece of dead plastic.

Once the door in front opened, I was officially inside. The yard reminded me of a depressing school playground. Then again, the people were not there for tickling teddy bears. Luckily the space was empty, one of the few benefits of the horrendous rain. I glanced at the fenced off garden area to my right as I hurriedly crossed the open space. Once I had asked a corrections officer what on earth that area was for. The answer was garden therapy.

Apparently, nothing will help your convicted killers, child molesters, and wife beaters turn a new leaf like having to rake piles of dead twigs up. Since they were not allowed sharp tools, sticks and other implements, I was genuinely perplexed at how they could accomplish anything in a garden. Then again, I’m just a lowly servant of the Courts. What do I know about the therapeutic benefits of looking at a tree.

The rain was belting down so much that not a single person was occupying the yard, not even guards. I quickly made my way to another set of huge red grated gates. This was the entrance to the residential portion of the establishment. That is, I was about to enter the kennels to see one of the dogs. I was faced with another corrections agent check point, complete with a double set of gates. Once again, I showed my credentials, as well as the Bar Association waver. The gateman satisfied I was waved through, and I had arrived.

“Not there sorry, you’re on the other side today!”

I was stopped in my tracks. Normally once I got through the last check point, I turned right into the courtesy booths where they brought you the inmate you were visiting with, and you’d listen to him shout at you through reinforced Plexiglas for the duration of the meeting. Normally you couldn’t hear half of what he was saying because all the booths were full of equally shouty male inmates, all trying to get their point across to lawyers who, for the most part, neither wanted nor needed the input of these choice advisers. On this occasion though, I was asked to turn left.

“Pardon?” I asked looking quite confused.

The agent picked up on the fact that I had not heard the latest news “Your boy, he’s not in general population. He’s segregated. You’re to go left, into the cages, that’s where the interview with isolated inmates is allowed. We’ll bring him to you, but it is going to take at least twenty minutes. Get comfortable.”

As it turns out, William had wasted no time making new friends and re-establishing old acquaintances upon his return to gaol. That is, he had picked fights, sought out his incarcerated gang members and, very nearly killed a man. William and three other inmates had isolated an eighteen-year-old boy, incarcerated for drug trafficking, in the showers and had proceeded to beat and brutalize him. This is apparently how William dealt with his competition.

Since there were no cameras, and of course nobody came forward as a witness, William and his friends had been put into solitary confinement while the investigation was ongoing. Honestly, the investigation was well over before it began, this way the warden had an excuse to keep William and his cronies boxed up, causing as little trouble as possible. Thanks to this episode William had ensured we got the deluxe kennel instead of the dirty plexiglass room. I was surprised to find myself missing the comfort of the ordinary booths.

The agent told me I could wait where I was for the time being, he would let me know when they had William in place for me. There were no benches or amenities of any kind in that section of the prison, due to the segregation protocol and the higher danger inmates there represented. He recommended I wait by the gates. With the storm belching outside and the prospect of a very uncomfortable meeting, I decided to heed his advice.

I started to reflect on the reason I was there of all places. I had visited inmates before for work. Probably William was there for some of those visits, and maybe he heard about me from one of my clients. There isn’t that much to do when you’re the scum of the earth and they’ve taken away all your toys, so gossip becomes important. What I couldn’t understand though was, me and William were never friends in school. We were never close, nor did we think highly of one another. I considered him to be a bully and a waste of genetic material. He had me for a pencil pusher. Neither one was wrong apparently, I at least get paid for pushing my pencil, and because it’s legal I can go to bed when I want. When we were kids, I heard one of our teachers tell him he’d probably die in prison. I think he took it as a challenge.

True to his word about twenty minutes went by and the corrections officer came over to me and said full of sarcasm: “Your dog will be in the first kennel… I mean, he’s ready for you in the first suite”.

And a kennel it was. I walked left into the corridor that essentially led to five large cages embedded into the concrete. A guard was stationed outside of the first one, and proceeded to open the gate, which swung open with a grating sound, only to repeat the cacophony as it closed behind me. I was essentially locked in a cage now, how fun. Turning around I saw the cage was divided into two partitions via a wall running down the middle, about waste heigh. This partition contained a window with reinforced plexiglass. Under this was what I took to be a concrete table jutted into the wall, and a steel stool, planted in the ground and fixed in its place. There was no way anyone was moving any of the furniture.

I still hadn’t taken my seat when my eyes rose to look out through the other side of the cage. Two agents in riot gear, were standing next to an inmate who had hands and feet shackled. The party stopped and I just stood there gobsmacked.

At this point I realized William was basically the same size as a teenage gorilla. He was my height, but those shoulders and legs were clearly not comparable to mine. Built like a brick-shit house, he had decorated the facade with tribal tattoos. One of these snaked around his neck and ended behind his left ear, after slapping the left side of his face. His orange jumpsuit was missing the shoulders, and was open halfway, displaying a deep chest, also covered in dark ink markings.

His head was shaved in the neo-Nazi style and his grin topped off the most gruesome individual I have ever seen. Worst of all were his eyes. He had that unmistakable look of a person who enjoys causing pain. It was not a leap of the imagination to understand how he had decided to end the life of another human being. If there was ever a person who looked dangerous, that was William Sloan.

One agent opened the opposing gate, while the other had my client kneel against the wall with his back to the agents. They then dragged him to his feet, introduced him into the cage and released his hands and ankles. Both guards took up positions outside the cage door. The inmate approached the stool on his side. He got comfortable and picked up the phone on his side of the partition. He signalled with the earpiece towards the wall beside me. This is when I realized, there was also a phone on my side.

I picked it up. “Hello William.”

“Charlie! Step into my office!”

Part Three: Generational Rage.

For a split second I was back in the classroom, half a lifetime ago. William and some of his cronies had taken advantage of the teacher’s absence and were lobbing pieces of chalk at each other while the rest of the class looked on in silence. At one point William decided to signal a raid on a poor unsuspecting kid, Max Voigt. Within seconds he was pelted with all manner of objects ranging from pens, shoes and even the blackboard eraser. When they ran out of ammunition, they simply decided to mob him. It was only the teacher turning up on time that stopped the punishment. Max was carted off in tears to the see the nurse, and eventually changed schools.

Nowadays the parents would probably sue the school. Not that it would do any good. If William was capable of that as a boy, I shuddered to think what him and his inmate friends had put their victim through in the privacy of prison showers.

As I approached the stool, I couldn’t take my eyes off William. He was grinning from ear to ear, as if he wasn’t sitting in the most secure room on the island, wearing a distinctive body sock, and guarded by two people who would love nothing more than to do the world a favour by using necessary force to subdue him. He looked as if he was right where he wanted to be, like a pig in shit.

Sitting down I was acutely aware of how cold the cage was, and how uncomfortable the stool felt. It takes gaol furniture to make you really value your two-piece settee and kitchen table. The cold gripped my body through my spine, and when I placed my arm on the shelf it was as if I had jumped into the North-Sea in December. How a person could feel so at home in such a bleak place was beyond me. William didn’t seem to mind, quite the contrary, he cultivated the gorilla in a cage image.

I reached for the phone, an old dark plastic head piece connected with a cable and chain, too short to do any damage, and too difficult to remove from the wall to be turned into a weapon. Still, the corrections agents in riot gear were taking no chances. They were only a few steps away from William, and were trained to hit first, and ask questions later. I brought the phone to my face and cleared my throat.

“Hello William, long time no see”.

He grinned even wider, displaying several chipped teeth, and flung the phone aside, clapping and rocking on his stool. The agents at the gate were already entering the cage when I waved them away. I could hear his cackle through the Plexiglas. I noticed I had stood up involuntarily and tried to return to my seat slowly. William picked up the phone again, he was laughing with tears in his eyes “Made you jump! Still skittish like when we were kids eh?”

Swallowing the instinct to get up and run, I asked the magic question, trying to keep as cool a face as possible. “Well William, you have some very persuasive people who wanted me to come and visit you. Tell me, how can I help you?”

For most of the interview he was content to regale me with his war stories. He had been in quite a few scraps. The scars on his knuckles, arms and face were badges of honour to him. To me they simply represented more reasons to stay as far away from him as possible. More so than with other clients, I was careful to let him talk and wind himself out. I noticed that what he really wanted, more than a lawyer to manage his case, was a fan to help carry his ego.

I suppose it was important to him to make the most of the human connection he had. Eventually the conversation came back to the business of the day, his current situation and the episode that had brought us both into this God-forsaken room. I decided to be blunt as I was sure that this was the only way he would respect me.

“Look William, you had your family and that Angela woman reach out to me. I’m here, if you’d like to talk about the case and have me represent you that’s why I’m here. If not, just let me know, I’ll not charge you anything. We can both go about our lives with no further discussion. Anything else really doesn’t interest me much.”

His smile started to fade. He was not used to being talked to like this, but he appreciated the reality of his situation. Or at least I told myself that was the meaning of his reaction. William explained that he had been dating this girl called Matilde. They met at some point during one of his furloughs, through a mutual friend in William’s crew. She was somewhat younger than him but seemed to be star-struck by the big macho-mafia man. She had even visited him in gaol. Eventually, when he got out, she was listed as his life partner. This allowed William to secure parole since she had a regular job and a regular life. Other conditions of his release were that he was not to associate with known criminals, he had to find himself a job, and he was not to hang around his father’s bar (his brother being a convicted criminal and all). You could say, she was the deciding factor that allowed him to obtain early release.

All this was fine and dandy, except William was not suited to regular civilian life, and had slowly taken up the mantle of his old business, cracking heads and collecting payments for the higher ups in the drug ring. The girl kept trying to convince him to leave his old life behind. She was convinced he had turned a new leaf in prison. One afternoon, he just exploded because he believed, she was informing on him to the police. It had been a rather normal day for her, she had gone to her job as a cashier in a local supermarket. On her way home, he had seen her talking to a policeman.

Her remark, when he decided to question her about the chance meeting, was that she knew the man personally. The fact was, she had absolutely nothing to do with William’s business and the police knew it. She was just saying hello to someone she knew from the neighbourhood, who happened to belong to the police force. The result of William’s line of questioning was the beating which had led to the news headlines.

The only paperwork available to me at that time, was the police report and A&E summary. These had been handed over by the previous lawyer, with William’s consent, to allow me to prepare myself for the meeting. There was a good chance that the Prosecution would want to consider his attack attempted murder, as he had beaten the girl into within an inch of her life. Many blows landed on her face, neck, and upper body, with the strength and skill only a professional boxer could muster. This kind of assault is akin to attacking someone with a cricket bat. I had seen William play cricket as a child. The girl might have stood a better chance if he had been swinging a bat.

The fact of the matter was that he had assaulted the girl in their home, and she had somehow kept herself conscious long enough to escape his grasp, running two blocks while shrieking for help at the top of her lungs. She had finally collapsed into the arms of a neighbour when she heard the police sirens. The girl only woke up later that evening in her hospital bed. Not for very long mind you, as she was taken into the operating theatre for her injuries.

She had required emergency surgery to preserve her ability to breathe unhindered. The beating had caved her sinuses in. Another problem had been her eyesight. Her right eye socket was cracked and threatening to cause permanent damage to her sight. It was presumably reconstructed but would require a lengthy process to guarantee the absence of lasting damage. Also, there would probably be recurring migraines and possibly nightmares. I shivered at the thought of how much force you need to be able to generate to crack the eye-socket. William was aiming to cause damage.

The girl had also sustained blows to the ribs, several were cracked and two at least were fractured. Her spine had two herniated disks, probably from trying to brace for a well-placed kick. There was luckily no damage to her spinal cord. He had apparently knocked her to the ground at some point and proceeded to kick her, but at least he had not kicked her in the back.

There was some concern that she may have punctured a lung. The report simply stated severe breathing difficulties and pain were noted by the emergency services, with a grounded suspicion of broken ribs. I would need the full medical examiner’s report to confirm most of these things. This would be made available to me in due time, when I was confirmed on the case. Probably, the medical examiner had not even seen Matilde yet.

Her hands had also paid a heavy toll, since she had at some point tried to cover herself. At least two broken fingers, one sprained wrist, one severely bruised forearm and her left shoulder was dislocated, with the rotator cuff being partially ripped. Presumably from being pulled by a small gorilla, or an oversized man in a drug induced haze. So yes, attempted murder was on the cards. It would seem he had pulled her to the ground with considerable force and rage.

The defence strategy that I was going to suggest was a combination of drug dependency, and temporary insanity by way of rage.

In other words, William had been driven somewhat paranoid sampling his own product, and as a result beat the daylights out of his girlfriend.

An attempted murder charge against a spouse or partner would carry with it a prison sentence of some ten years if we lost. However, if by some stroke of luck, the Prosecution only accused William of GBH (grievous bodily harm), then the prison sentence was much more manageable, only three years, which I might be able to shave down to two or two and a half, if William would agree to join a rehabilitation or anger management therapy group while incarcerated.

One additional problem was that William did not want to admit to temporary insanity, nor was he willing to submit to any kind of therapy. His street-cred as he kept reminding me, would suffer, and eventually he could be attacked. It was, according to him, unmanly to go to therapy. Men who were not violent were apparently not real men according to him.

Gaolhouse law teaches you that the inmates are sometimes more knowledgeable than their lawyers on many topics. William interrupted my explanation with “No! Anything above one year is unacceptable mate. She has no major damage; no loss of limb and they cannot prove I intended to kill her or harm her. And I’m not going to put on a dog and pony show so they can transfer me to the psychiatric ward with my big brother. You’ll just have to find a way to man up and fight your way through this.”

I looked over the paperwork and then faced William. “You did one hell of a number on this girl. You do realize you’ve been in the newspapers, right? Any judge, if not all of them have red this. They have spoken to their colleagues about you. I’d put money on the fact that not a single sitting judge on the island is willing to give you an inch. If they could, they’d put you down, and with good reason. A plea agreement is your best bet.”

He was getting annoyed at this “You sound just like my other lawyer.”

I lifted the newspaper which I was still carrying in my briefcase, up to the plexiglass. With a thud loud enough to make William and his guards jump I plastered it in front of his eyes. “This William is the reason. You went too far. Now my advice to you is, if you don’t want to enter an insanity plea by way of drug addition, authorize me to negotiate with the Prosecution. If not, you could potentially be looking at another ten years in here. I’m sure that you don’t want that. Your family doesn’t’ want that, and quite frankly I think you’d be in here much more than that. You’ve not had your bail hearing yet and already you’ve got yourself in solitary confinement.”

He just sat there and smiled at me. I realized I was losing my composure, so I decided to change tack. I let the newspaper drop onto the freezing shelf. “Your mother wouldn’t be happy if it turns out you’re in here for another decade. Besides, who is going to help your dad out? And by the way, who the hell is that Angela woman to you if that Matilde was your girlfriend?”

Why in the name of all that was Holy did I ask the last question, I don’t know, but I lost him. William smiled as if he had what he wanted out of me. “She’s just a friend, or rather, a fan of my work.”

From his expression I took it to mean that she was in fact much more than the kind of friend that you share a coffee with. “Well William, if you do want me on the case, you’ll need to have your mother call your mistress call off your mistress. If you don’t, and you don’t want my advice then all I can say is have a nice life and best of luck with this mess you’ve got yourself into.”

The bang rattled the entire cage and caught me off guard. I hadn’t finished standing up and William had had time to hit the plexiglass with the phone, with such force that a mark had appeared on the partition.

He was already on his feet, and the guards had started to enter the cage. Realizing how fast my pulse was racing, I saw William with his hands up shouting at the guards. From what I could gather he was saying everything was ok, and apologising. He took his seat again and signalled me to the phone. Without sitting down, I picked up the headpiece to listen.

“Fine, we’ll do things your way. I want you to manage the case but no insanity plea. I want you to negotiate with the Prosecution. Anything over one year of gaol time is too much. If you can get me one year, I’ll take the guilty plea.”

“What about the compensation for the girl? I don’t know how much it will be but based on the police report alone it will be eye-wateringly high.”

He smiled his broken smile again. “Don’t worry about that, the money I have they’ll never find so I don’t really care how much they slap me with.”

“William, I don’t know if we can swing one year. Two maybe…”

It was pointless, he had hung up the phone. The meeting was over. He stood up bringing himself to his full height. I saw him shout something to the guards over his shoulder, while placing his hands on the back of his head. At the last minute, as the first guard was reaching him, he winked at me.

Pivoting on his left foot, he swung around and punched the man on the side of the jaw, sending him crumpling to the ground. The other guard, stunned for a second, called for reinforcements. Within seconds an alarm started to sound through the entire compound. The noise was deafening and made me look away, searching for the source.

Planted along the roof were a series of sirens, which until this moment had been dormant. It was a full-on acoustic assault, designed to confuse rioting inmates.

When I finally turned to look at William once more, he had overpowered the second guard and wrestled his baton away from him. That is when I realized, William had probably planned this, to take advantage of our meeting to have some fun with the guards. His reputation inside also required him to do something.

The second guard was on the floor cowering as William delivered blow after blow to his face, his hips, his knees, and legs. The body armour was being put to the test. His visor cracked and William started to choke him with the baton, all the while kneeing him in the stomach to try and force the wind out of him. I could see how he might have murdered a police officer all those years ago. Decades behind bars had done nothing to civilize him. Some people are just beyond reform.

Several riot garbed corrections officers appeared running down the corridor. The front two were carrying long shields. As they entered the cage William flung the baton at them which bounced over their heads, kicking their fallen comrade one last time.

The front-line guards charged William, pushing him into the partition with a resounding bang. Wriggling he was able to position himself facing me. He locked eyes with me one last time, whistled loudly and planted both his fists on the partition. I was able to read the tattooed letters on his fingers. HOLD FAST.

He raised his feet planting them flat beside his hands and pushed himself off the dividing partition into his assailants.

Sliding over the shielded agents he cannonballed into the remaining agents. They were busy collecting the bodies of their comrades when they were faced with the threat they had thought under control. William stood up and started to brawl his way through the mass of arms, legs, and batons. At this, the commanding officer gave an order and gas was shot into the cage.

From my side of the partition, I was pulled out by the guardsman who had originally let me. I was honestly thankful for his intervention. At my last glance, some four agents had entangled themselves in William’s arms and legs and were lifting him out of the cage in a knot of limbs. Coughing and thrashing he was bound for the infirmary, after maybe having a small tumble on the stairs on his way to his cell. I couldn’t say I’d blame them.

When I finally reached my car, I called the office “Cassey, we have a difficult one with the Sloan file. I couldn’t have him sign the paperwork. He decided to pick a fight with the guards at the last minute. Can you please write to the Bar Association and have them request the gaol provide our forms to William. Once this is done remind me to write to the Court requesting the full file on William, including the girl’s medical records and any forensic report that may already exist.”

Cassey paused for a second. She really did not want us to take this case. I really did not want to work this case. “She was here you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Cassey explained how a woman named Angela had come to the office to make sure I had gone to see William Sloan in prison today. Cassey had almost called the police. “There is something very wrong with that woman Charlie.” I couldn’t agree more.

In the next weeks the wheels of justice started to clamber into movement. We were given access to the entire case file, including the medical and forensic reports. Most of the damage the girl had sustained was usually seen in car accident victims. The fact that she had walked away from all this with her senses intact and was expected to make an eventual full recovery was a minor miracle. She was left with powerful nightmares and psychological scars. A lifetime of therapy was not going to be enough to help her.

Her lawyer was a woman by the name of Filice Steinberg, and I was rather taken back when Cassey informed me that she had reached out. “She would like to have a meeting with you Charlie, the next time you’re in the city. For some reason I think that her client wants to withdraw all charges.”

“How is that possible? Nothing about this case makes any sense whatsoever. Could you try to organize the meeting with her on the same day as with the Prosecution. That way if there is a possibility of the charges being withdrawn, we could go to the second meeting together and I can use that to get the gorilla out of the zoo.”

“Are we sure we want to win this one?” I was tempted to say no, but the ethics committee at the Bar Association would not be happy. Secretly they would also be happy to see this little beast of a client be thrown into the darkest pit in the land, but this was the kind of dirty little secret they would only admit to their lovers and mistresses while their spouses were out of town.

William Sloan’s criminal history was enough to fill a book of its own. Even his stints in juvenile detention were peppered with violence. Prison had not curtailed his activities. Apparently, he had taken over the drug trade within the gaol walls. This had involved several inmates having accidents or picking fights with William. Essentially, he was his own muscle. A big bully surrounded by other equally inclined individuals, whose only meaningful language of communication involved his fists. To say prison had made him violent was a lie. It had simply sharpened and honed his abilities.

If he were a dog the humane approach would have been to put him down. It was far more civilized to have the families of his victims contribute to keeping him clothed, shod, and fed through our lovely tax system. That though was a debate for a different day.

A date had been set for a bail hearing, some three weeks after my visit to William behind bars. Nobody expected bail to be set, other than William’s mother and his crazy fan. Therefore, I had planned to have William officially accept a plea bargain on this day, thus avoiding a very uncomfortable and potentially stalkerish situation.

In my role as the defence, I was also granted access to William’s own medical records. These were an interesting read. He had been sewn up, bandaged, and patched so many times, it was a wonder his skin wasn’t full of holes. He was covered in scars and tattoos though. There was a psychological evaluation which had indicated to certain hyper aggressive tendencies which William was fully unable to control. The report was quite thorough and ended with the assessment that William shared many character traits usually associated with psychopaths. There was also a note in the file, indicating a family history of violent schizophrenia which had also started to manifest itself in William. I would have to consult an expert for all these issues, if I was going to use them in any way to barter favour with the Prosecution.

Surprisingly, William had tested positive for Hepatitis C. The reason this was surprising was that a person with this condition ought not be allowed to compete in federated sports such as amateur boxing, given the risk of transmitting the disease to other competitors. I observed how, according to the prison Doctor’s diagnosis, William would have to eventually be put on a lifelong cocktail of medications to counteract the slowly progressing effects of the disease. It looked like Top Dog wasn’t going to be on top for very long.

By the time I finished reading the entire file, I realized life had been one hardship after another for William. The thing was, he liked things like that. I had collected a series of notes and Cassey had arranged the necessary meetings. It was time to see if the case could be brought in for a landing without too much uproar. The press would want their pound of flesh of course. We had already received some calls with questions. Thankfully Cassey was well trained and had seen them off with the usual no comment line.

The meeting was on a Monday, and the hearing would be on the Friday. I would not be able to visit William and would have to inform him via the two methods of communication which remained open to me. The first being the one I had used before with other inmates, a call to the prison, and a conference with my client over the phone. The second was somewhat extraordinary and involved crazy Angela.

The first meeting was with Filice Steinberg. We had agreed that the Diamond Café was good enough neutral ground as we could hope to find. I arrived a little early and decided to take a seat on the terrace. The lovely marble tables were welcoming even in winter. The Café had brought large heaters out and the feeling was priceless. I was just about to sip my coffee when a middle-aged woman in a dress suit crossed the square, clutching a file and handbag looked straight at me. I had met Filice only once before, but she seemed to recognise me straight away. She took a seat and ordered herself a coffee. We jumped right in to shop talk.

“So, Solomon, my client has asked me to drop the charges against Mr Sloan, I informed your assistant of this. If I must be honest; it is against my advice. Your client, with all due respect, is an animal that needs putting down. Despite what he has put her through, Matilde does not want him going to gaol or punished in any way, and as you no doubt will understand, I am obliged to follow instructions, so I will be withdrawing the charges filed from the case. You’ll be left with the Prosecution to contend with.”

Exhaling I couldn’t help agreeing with my colleague. “Off the record, I think you’re right. But it isn’t just my client, it’s the entire family. I went to school with William Sloan, and he was a bad apple then, he’s a rotten apple now. The lot of them are as bad as each other as it turns out. In my opinion, the mother is where it all started, and the father has no way of controlling any of them. He has let his three sons turn into the worst kind of men. As you will understand, I am not too happy about having to take this case either. To be honest I just want to get through it as quickly as possible, catching as little flack as I can. My assistant will have informed you I am now going to see the Prosecution, to try and broker a plea agreement of one year. If you are going to withdraw your accusation against my client, you’ll be asked to weigh in on any possible deal. I thought we might want to go to the meeting together. At the very least you’ll be helping a colleague out.”

We cried on each other’s shoulder for a few more minutes while we finished our drinks. She lamented the state of the profession, I lamented the shallow pockets and low cranium capacity of my clients. We both talked about the road not taken, those jobs or careers which we might have followed if we had not chosen the Law. The reprieve was short lived, within minutes the bill came. Since she was doing me a favour, I covered the cost.

“So, what’s the plan Solomon?”

“My client would like to serve no more than one year for this horrendous act.”

She almost tripped over her own disbelief. Despite the proposal being ludicrous, and going against most norms of common decency, we were lawyers bound to the interests of our clients, and in this case, we had to either do what was expected of us or quit the case. If we chose the coward’s way out, we still had to keep the seat warm until the next lawyer (poor sod) arrived. Filice confirmed she would back me up, but I would have to do the heavy lifting in the meeting with the Prosecution. Nobody expected this to be at all easy, or even pleasant.

We left the comfort of the heated terrace to walk down the wide and gloomy streets of the city, slowly turning towards the building that housed the provincial Prosecutorial Offices. The shops along our route were open, but very few people were out and about this time of year. Many a time I have wondered how they pay the rent in winter. Then again, there was the rumour that a good proportion of shops doubled as front businesses for various criminal groups. Perhaps I would ask William about this someday. After all it was his world, and not mine.

As we arrived at the stately building, with the three flags flowing silently above the huge entrance, I gave my name to the guard and provided my bar association credential. We were expected and led through the oversized reception lobby to the industrial style lifts, which were kept tucked away from the main entrance. After all, this was an area rarely used by the people that really mattered. It was just us riffraff that had to make use of the building infrastructure after all. It wasn’t as if this was a building filled with civil servants doing a particular job, was it?

The news will always show the marble staircase, with the columns adorning the entrance to the lobby. On the rarest of occasions, footage will actually be taken inside the lobby by the news crew. This is only done in winter of course, to spare the Head Prosecutor the wind and rain on his way up the career ladder. After all, what’s a petty rank for if you can’t get the odd perk?

The lawyers who have dealings with the Prosecution know that there’s much more to the building than the Dog and Pony show you get on the news. We are lucky if we get to use the front door. And every time you use the lifts, you rediscover your faith. More than one colleague has spent a day trapped in the cramped elevator-car, stuck between two floors, unable to pry the doors open, all the while preying to his or her God of choice to please, not let the cable snap.

We were lucky. I pressed the floor button we had been instructed and the decrepit infrastructure churned to life, on the way up. The lift finally stopped on the fifth floor. The grand lobby had gone and all that greeted us was a beige corridor with several offices along both sides, and the odd stain on the wall signalling how low the budget for repairs was. It was clear to me that at some point the existing offices had been partitioned into smaller units. The overall feeling was, why spend money on the places the press doesn’t normally film. It won’t do anyone any good. Much better to be the politician who has paid for a shiny polished turn, which will nonetheless be seen by your constituents.

Part Four: The Wheels of Justice.

The Prosecutor who had been assigned to our case was Mary Theodora Cuthbert. Hers was one of the various cramped offices along this corridor. As I peaked around the entrance to yet another office, she in turn peaked round her computer screen. “Mr Solomon, I presume?” The space between her table and the wall was so small she had to turn sideways to extricate herself from her workstation. I would never be able to pull off this feat of gymnastics.

“Yes! Hello, Ms Theodora? This is my colleague representing the victim, Ms Filice Steinberg. I have asked her to come today since she has instructions from her client, to cease in her accusation.”

Theodora was in her mid to late thirties. As befits her station, she was dressed in very conservative business attire. From the pictures on her desk, I could see that she had a family. The idea that an animal like William could even dream of doing what he did, was repulsive to her, both personally and professionally. The fact that the victim’s lawyer was here in support of my position, was nauseating to her.

Returning to her desk, she removed her glasses placing them slowly on the table, giving herself time to think and prepare what she wanted to say. She looked out the window and brushed her hair behind her ears. Collecting her thoughts, she finally turned to us. “Please take a seat.”

There was no meeting table, just a set of chairs in front of her desk. One of them was doubling as a shelf, packed with files, which she proceeded to move onto the floor beside her aging desk. At least her computer seemed to be from this century. She plucked one file from the pile. I was able to see it read William Sloan I. She opened the binder to the medical examiner’s report. I was greeted with the pictures which I had already seen several times by now. In disgust I turned my head away momentarily. My sight went to the pile of folders that now sat on the floor. This is when I realized there were four mammoth sized files in the pile. All of them had William’s name on their spine.

“Well Mr Solomon, your client has quite the long list of incidents in his past. It pains me to say it, but this assault…” she pointed at the pictures in front of her “… is completely in character for William Sloan. I am compelled to file charges for attempted murder. After all, he did murder a policeman, it is quite clear it was only by the Grace of God that he didn’t add Matilde to his kill-count. This is to say nothing about his long list of other offenses. Drug trafficking, assault, possession of an unregistered deadly weapon, attempted rape… The question of whether it was his intention to end her life seems to be of little consequence. As you know attempted murder of one’s spouse or partner carries a sentence of ten to fifteen years in prison. I imagine you’d prefer ten?”

The first shot across the bow was no joke. Theodora was signalling that she was no push over. She was trying to win the fight before it even started. Sadly, all this sort of behaviour will do with a seasoned lawyer like myself, is tell me I’m winning. If you’ve really got a full house or even better, a Royal Flush, there’s no need to bet big in the hopes you’ll buy the pot. Keep betting your average hand, don’t make any ripples in the water, and wait for all the cards to be turned over. Then reap the rewards.

“Ms Theodora, as you will understand, if you do file for attempted murder this will turn into a brawl. The first thing that I am going to request is that William be submitted to a psychological evaluation, as well as a blood test to determine if he is at present, dependant on any substances. We both know it will be a positive outcome for me. I will then have to call upon his medical history, which has been well documented since for a good portion of his life he was behind bars. His family history will also come to light, a mentally challenged brother discharged from the military and held under sedation by the psych wing, an emotionally crippled father, a highly promiscuous mother, and to top it all off, the victim who no doubt will testify that there was no intent to kill.”

I was signalling that an attempted murder charge would oblige the sitting judge to have to examine all these sources, and to motivate why these issues did or did not have any bearing on William’s most recent escapades. This is a labour of Hercules judges are not willing to do for the measly wage they get for doing their job. Therefore, many times they would prefer it if the Prosecution and Defence would reach some compromise that would allow them to rubber-stamp the proceedings and get back to climbing the judicial ladder. Lord knows there are very few sitting judges on the island over the age of fifty.

Theodora turned to Filice in disbelief. My colleague, as if on cue, and with a face that clearly signalled how cringeworthy this entire situation was to her, said “She will testify that they had an argument. That she was assaulted but he allowed her to run away. She does not want him going to gaol for years, she apparently loves the man, despite the colourful history you have just described, and even though he hurt her.”

Theodora threw her hands up. “What then is it that you all want from me? He must pay for what he’s done” She was pointing at the pictures in the file.

I hated myself for doing it, but with the possibility of a murder trial I had to bring out the big guns. “Well Ms Theodora, there is the chance to reduce this all to a GBH charge, which would allow us to negotiate on a much more level playing field. In this case my client would plead guilty for a suspended sentence, with the understanding that he will attend anger management therapy as well as confess to the abuse of certain toxic substances, for which he will also join a rehabilitation programme.”

Both women turned to me. The familiar feeling of being the least liked person in the room washed over me. Years ago, it would have made me flinch and apologise.

But after so many years of doing the sleezy job of defending reprobates, I had grown to enjoy the feeling. It confirmed to me that I was doing my job correctly. Filice was speechless, but Theodora was still in the fight.

The Prosecutor shook her head lightly while closing her eyes. Clearly, she was trying to interpret what my strong counter actually meant. She had also been playing the game for too long. When she opened her eyes and locked with mine, we were both acutely aware that bluffing was not going to get us anywhere. At least my bluff had worked, but now Theodora knew exactly who I was.

Theodora finally spoke “Sadly Mr Solomon what you are proposing does not sound like paying for a serious offence. It sounds more like getting off Scott-free. If we had to consider it GHB, your client will have to serve some time in prison. In general, GHB carries a sentence of 1 to 3 years. In this case there is also the aggravating factor of the severity of the damage caused, as well as the fact that the victim was the offender’s life partner. What I’m saying is that in normal circumstances I would ask for 5 years.”

I countered immediately. “Well, if it must be five years we might as well run the gauntlet of attempted murder. With his drug dependency, picked up or at the very least worsened by his lengthy stay as a guest of the government, not to mention his mental health, family history and overall background, I’m sure we can fare better than five years. Is that what the Prosecution would prefer, to ask for ten years and be left with four served in a therapeutic setting and with periodical reviews that will see William released on parole in two and a half, as long as his progress is positive?”

Filice was still gobsmacked. Theodora paid her no mind. “So, two and a half years is your proposal?”

“No, of course not. We already have that, one year is my proposal.”

The silence that had reigned before was nothing compared to what now took hold of the room. We could hear papers being shuffled in other offices, phones being picked up and keyboards being used. Theodora did not take her eyes off my face as she said “Impossible. I won’t do it; I can’t do it. Three is my best offer.”

It felt like I had hit a wall. But I still had to test how sturdy it was “I’m sure we can meet halfway, one and a half, taking time served into account?” This effectively meant that William would indeed be behind bars for just over one year after he officially accepted the charges at his bail hearing. I was getting what I wanted, while giving Theodora what she wanted.

Eventually the Prosecutor cracked. “If the sitting judge signs off on it, you can have your year and a half.” This, translated into normal speech is a yes. The acquiescence of Filice was a given.

The only issue that remained open was the damage compensation. Since Matilde was unlikely to press her claim, and that William was fully unable to pay (he had no known assets to seize), we agreed that my client would be obliged to pay the amount established by the medical examiner in their report. In other words, Matilde was guaranteed to see no money to offset the lost wages, physical pain and suffering, or mental distress which she had been through. My client would be going to gaol, and on paper he would be whacked with a huge amount owed to Matilde, but in reality, it sounded a lot like he’s kicked the living daylights out of his girlfriend, and he was getting off Scott-free.

Happy with the results, we left Theodora to the other cases she no doubt had to dedicate a portion of her overworked day to. At the main square Filice offered me her goodbyes. We would probably not meet until the Hearing. We both felt like we had accomplished something completely revolting, contrary to God’s Will. Then again, this was the Law. You should never go to Court expecting Justice. It is simply a question of what you can prove, and what the other side is willing to settle for.

That evening I attempted to contact William who was still in isolation. I was forced to convey the message to his family who would in turn, inform William on their next visit. From what I heard he was happy, but not elated with the result.

All that was left was the formality of the Hearing. In due course the day finally arrived. I had asked William’s family to come along. They would at least offer some semblance of moral support. Crazy Angela was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. I was sure she was somewhere nearby though, after all it was match day. Old Ben was there, looking ever the bundle of nerves and depression. I was concerned he may try to jump off something high. My concern was whether I ought to stop him or push him. Gritty Grace was also there. Her flavour of the month was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was waiting with Crazy Angela, or she had tired of him, and was looking for a new gentleman caller. Ben did not look at Grace directly the entire day.

I was told that Brian had stayed behind to man the bar. I had a feeling it was a full-time job, especially since there were so many side-hustles for which that bar was the home base. I left the family in the cramped corridor while I travelled to the basement holding cells. Sure enough, William had been brought from the prison and placed in one of the large holding areas, that could have just as easily accommodated cattle, horses, or human beings. After flashing my credentials to the guard, I approached the window in the iron door to confer with my client.

He was not too happy with the outcome but was willing to accept this result if I would simply get him a packet of cigarettes. This was a ludicrous ask by an inmate who was not allowed to have laces, let alone a lighter. I was able to strike a compromise, the guard offered a cigarette, already lit, which I passed to William, once he had been extricated from the group and brought to the courtyard, duly manacled. We spoke about the case proceedings for a moment while he enjoyed this small moment of normalcy.

With William on his way back to his cell, I decided to swing by the Bar Association offices, which are located right next-door to the holding cells. After all, there really isn’t much difference between the people who commit the crimes, and those professionals who help them get away with it. One party steals the loot, the other hides the swag. I slipped on the toga we are obliged to wear, from the communal rack. After so many years I am still unaware when the Bar Association washes the Toga collection they hold. Surely it is more than once a decade. Many of them have flees who are more versed in the law than the professional wearing the Toga, surely.

On my way back to the Court room I spotted Filice and her client. I asked her why her client was there, and if she would mind stepping away from the corridor as William was due to be brought up at any moment. It was in everyone’s best interest to avoid all confrontation. Thankfully she agreed. I was surprised how well she looked for someone who had been battered from pillar to post in the most visceral way. Our justice system may be one big joke, but the medical establishment was doing quite well.

At this precise moment, all Hell broke loose. Matilde was walking past the lift as the doors pinged open. Inside were a brace of Police Officers and a duly manacled William Sloan. I heard my client’s intake of breath as the girl lunged towards him.

One of the officers screamed at her to get back as the other was pushed aside by William, sending him crumpling into the side of the lift. He then threw himself into the second officer, pushing him out of the lift, diagonally. It was too late to do anything, Matilde was face to face with William, and she put her arms around him, embracing him tightly.

William was unable to reciprocate with his hands fastened as they were, but he kissed her neck. Clearly both lovers were whispering sweet nothing’s into each other’s ear. The police finally regained their footing and pried the happy couple apart. One of them started to give Matilde a dressing down, while she watched with doe eyes as the other dragged William to his judicial appointment. Both I and Filice were standing awestruck, unable to stop watching the absurd scene which was still unfolding before our eyes.

“This will drive me to drink” I whispered to Filice.

“It won’t help, trust me, I’ve tried.” She answered.

Gathering myself together as best I could, as William was paraded past me, into the Courtroom I gathered up his family and we went inside. They took up space on the benches behind William, who remained flanked by his police escort. Judging by their performance in the lift, their presence did not necessarily make me feel any safer than their absence would. I turned and faced the horseshoe table configuration.

In the centre there was a long table where a Lady in her early fifties was sitting. This was our sitting Judge today. Her name was the Honourable Mary S. Humboldt. I never did find out what her first name was. She had held a seat on the provincial appellate court, however due to certain unsavoury scandals, had been demoted to serving on first instance courts for several years. Naturally she would be no obstacle to our agreement.

To her left, with their back to the corridor-wall, was the Prosecution. Theodora gave me an encouraging nod, and I approached the Judge accompanied by Filice.

“Prosecutor Theodora informs me that you have reached an agreement for one and a half years in prison, deducting time served is this correct?” Both I and Filice confirmed that these were in fact the terms of the arrangement.

The Judge grumbled to herself for a moment and checked the amount set for compensation by the medical examiner, then flicked through the pictures in the file. When she had finally seen enough, she looked at Theodora. “It’s rather a low sentence don’t you think? Have you considered that he is a highly aggressive and dangerous individual?”

Filice had absolutely no time to react as she was pushed out of the way by Gritty Grace, who planted herself inches from where the judge sat. “How dare you call my son aggressive? He’s paid for his mistakes! It’s people like you who are what’s wrong with this country! You just want to send my boy away so your friends in the police force have work! He’s never hurt anybody!” As she spoke, she kept pounding the table with both hands, pushing papers off the desk and on to the floor.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the policemen guarding William had stepped forward and was attempting to pull Grace away from the Judge. Theodora had retreated to the safety of her desk. It was only me and Filice, stuck in no-man’s land, forced to watch the events unfold from a front-row seat. William had attempted to get to his feet. The agent guarding him was already reaching for his baton. Old Ben had turned away from the entire scene and was looking off into space. Maybe he had taken a Valium in preparation for the day.

Judge Humboldt had just about had enough of all this. Rising she bellowed in a voice that had me and Filice taking refuge in each other’s embrace. “Take your seat or I’ll have you thrown in the cage next to your son in the basement!”

There was a crashing noise as William overpowered the agent restraining him with a well-placed shove. It was the second time today that this man had flown the fair skies, courtesy of a powerful push from my client. Reaching the policeman who was grabbing his mother’s arm, he passed the chain of his shackles around the man’s neck and began to do what he does best. Both men tumbled to the ground, William still applying pressure. Within seconds the policeman William had flung aside like a ragdoll was back on his feat and trying to pry his companion from William’s grasp. All the time Grace was shrieking, picking up folders and throwing them at the mele.

Pulling Filice to one side, we took advantage of the maelstrom to quietly extricate ourselves from the limelight. This we achieved as two additional police agents bust through the door. Batons drawn, one of them began to restrain Grace, whilst the other assisted his colleagues with the William situation.

As quickly as the explosion had happened, things returned to normal. Grace was carted off to be held in contempt. William was planted back on his bench, with two police agents holding him in place. The Judge was furious. I was forced to haggle to keep our settlement alive, but it was clear that both William and Grace would be facing charges for their behaviour before the Court. The Judge, both lawyers and Prosecution finally took their seats.

Once the room had been cleared up, and looked presentable once more, William was asked to give his elocution. The charges were read, and Judge Humboldt asked the question I had hoped we could have skipped given the day’s events. “Mr William Sloan, please stand. You have heard the charges, how do you plead? Bear in mind that your lawyer and all those present here today have done quite a considerable amount of work to avoid you having to face attempted murder charges.”

William, finally allowed to stand, decided to make the most of his five minutes of fame. “I don’t acknowledge the charges of this corrupt system, that forces people to plead guilty when they haven’t done anything. I will not yield; I will not bend to your tyranny!” As he said this, he began to take steps towards the Judge. The police were quick to act and were soon forcing him back to the starting point of his journey.

Theodora came to the rescue, indicating that if the accused does not wish to enter a guilty plea as was arranged, that she would indeed have to reformulate her accusation as attempted murder. This brought an uproar from William who required the entire police presence to calm himself. I should point out that all these circus events were being immortalized on film, since Court proceedings are always a matter of record, and the camera never stops rolling.

Thinking on my feet I requested the Court allow me to confer with my client, at which point I approached William and informed him in no uncertain fashion that this was the best deal he could expect, given that there was a list of witnesses longer than my leg, several medical reports, a medical examiner and not to mention he was facing a female judge. He was looking at a decade in a cage if he did not take the deal. Also, his escapades behind bars since his most recent incarceration, as well as his stunning performance in Court, were sure to get him an extra set of years which were not going to be at all pleasant. It was time to either plead guilty for a year and a half, or find a new lawyer.

Returning to my seat before William even had a chance to retort, I informed the Judge “My client wishes to enter a plea of guilty in accordance with the arrangements made and settlement reached.”

To this the Judge asked William to please confirm his lawyer’s assessment. Approaching the microphone, he bellowed again. “Yes guilty! That’s what you all want, lock away the Big Dog! You can push me out of society, but I won’t go down easy! The Big Dog always barks! The Big Dog always bites!”

With that he lunged at the nearest police agent, planting his head square in the poor devil’s face. I had never heard bones crack before; the sound was quite disturbing. As the agent fell to the ground clutching his face, William started to deliver well placed kicks to the man’s ribs. His colleagues were quick to act, decking William instantly. It was sadly too late. The man lay splayed on the floor, blood flowing from his snapped nose. The room was filled with his screams of agony as he also held his ribs. All the time William kept struggling and dealing mayhem to his captors.

I left the Courtroom once excused. William was dragged down to the basement. I think more than one of the agents was ready to drop him out of a window. I couldn’t blame them. I was completely baffled at the day I had just witnessed. Filice was equally shaken but had decided to go to the bathroom to see if washing her face would bring back any of the dignity our profession had lost that day. Neither of us believed it would, but she had to try something. Old Ben was still sitting in the room when I left. I had decided he was no longer my problem. Let him sort his own family out.

Behind the courts there’s a bar where all the lawyers congregate. At this hour only the regulars were there. I considered I needed something substantial to steady my nerves. Gordon’s Gin was just what the Doctor prescribed, so that is what I ordered. I was loosening my tie and looking forward to killing the brain cells where this day was going to be stored, when Crazy Angela sat down silently at my table. Realizing it was her I gave a start and swore.

“Do you ever act like a normal person? For example, have you ever thought to say hello, ask if a seat is taken or if you might sit down…”

She interrupted me again. “How did the case go?”

I could have given her the rehearsed I cannot inform you without the client’s permission speech, but something told me it would have fallen on deaf ears. Without going into too much detail, I did indicate that William had settled on a guilty plea for a year and a half behind bars. She seemed somewhat satisfied until I explained that he would most probably be facing more time when the various assault cases came to court.

“What assault cases?” She asked somewhat puzzled.

“Well, William has been put in solitary confinement for having assaulted a fellow inmate while inside. Additionally, when I visited him, he assaulted two prison guards. Today he violently assaulted a police officer and caved his nose in. So, he’s looking at several more years on his bill. And before you ask, no, I will not represent him in these affairs. I’ve had just about enough of all this; he will have to find someone else or make do with a duty lawyer. Also, Grace is being held in contempt for threatening a sitting Judge, she will be released once the accusation has been formally levelled, later today. She will however have a fight on her hands to stay out of gaol. And again, no, I will not take her case.”

She was about to protest when something caught her eye. From where our table was situated, we could see the rear-exit to the Court building. A police transport van had pulled up in front of the entrance, and shackled inmates were starting to board under the watchful eye of three armed police agents.

Suddenly we started to hear the clicking of high heels on the cobble stones. Turning to look for the source of the noise, all the blood began to drain from my face. It was Matilde. She was heading down the ramp, towards the police van. One of the agents shouted at her not to approach any further, and she halted her progress, halfway down the slope. She was close enough to be able to see the inmates, and even shout at them. At that precise moment, William was brought out. Two policemen were holding his arms, astride from him.

“I love you Boo!!” Came the shriek from Matilde, enough to make me almost take the Lord’s name in vain. William, spurred on by the scene knocked one policeman to the side while shoving the other out of the way. He raised his shackled hands above his head and shouted. “Always together Babe!”

A split second later, he was being decked by one of the officers he had just shoved away. Matilde began to scream at them to leave him alone. At this point I realized Crazy Angela had gone. She was approaching Matilde, all the while building up speed.

It was comforting to realize that I was not the only one Angela could catch unawares. She body slammed into Matilde, with the clarion cry “William is mine bitch!”

As I watched the situation unfold before me, Filice finally appeared. “Shouldn’t we do something Solomon?”

I looked at her “Maybe. Would you like a drink? I am going to sit here and watch these people ruin their lives. Then I’m going to drink a toast to Gordon with his fine Gin. After that, I am going to go home and try to figure out why the hell I ever thought it would be a good idea to become a lawyer.”

Filice approved of my plan. Her drink of choice was Ballantine’s.

The above constitute some of the more funny and memorable experiences with clients. Many more could have been included in these stories, but the text would have extended far beyond the short sample I had originally proposed to put together. If they are well received, naturally more war stories will follow. It is however quite true that the day-to-day practice of the legal profession, is quite taxing on its professionals. Especially since clients seldom realize they are in fact acting like children. Therefore, many in the legal trade end up seeking the comfort of one vice or another. Many also end up in therapy. My problem is, there have been so many stories like these over a span of more than 10 years of practice, that I would probably bankrupt myself going to sessions. This book came about then, in lieu of therapy.

Thank you for reading, I hope you had a laugh at my expense.

Ignis.