III.- Mr Brass knuckles

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.