Page 102 of Claim

“Yes.” I could. I would.

For more reasons than my career.

She then gave a small, approving nod and moved to take her seat behind me. Then the dock door opened, and whatever composure I had left slid cleanly out of reach when they brought Razor in. Because I hadn’t been prepared for the suit. Dark brown, close enough to black to read as severity, warm enough to echo his eyes. Perfectly cut to his broad frame. A crisp white shirt beneath it, immaculate, and a maroon tie knotted with care. He looked composed. Contained. As if the four weeks had reshaped him rather than worn him down.

As if he’d chosen this moment.

He swept the courtroom, quick and instinctive, until his gaze settled on me. There was no expression in it I could name. Not that I should here. But my chest lurched anyway, sudden and disorienting, and I had to remind myself where I was. What this was.

I forced my eyes away first. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. But as I did, I peered across the row and met with another familiar set of eyes watching me.

My father’s.

Seated with the CPS team, posture immaculate, suit cut perfectly despite the treatment that had reduced him, subtly but undeniably, with his gown and wig, he looked older. Not frail. Never that, but altered. As if something had been taken and replaced with resolve. And there was no warmth in his expression as he lingered on me. No anger either. Only recognition, and an evaluation beneath it.

I looked away.

The judge entered. His Honour Judge Malcolm Avery KC. Senior Circuit Judge. I knew him. So would my father. He was old-school. Meticulous. Intolerant of optics problems. Not corrupt as far as I knew, but not naïve either.

We rose.

The hearing itself unfolded exactly as it should.

Names were confirmed. Appearances noted for the record. The charge read aloud. Measured, formal, stripped of drama by repetition.

“Mr Slade.” Judge Avery looked down at the papers in front of him, then up again at Razor in the dock. “You are charged with conspiracy to supply Class A controlled drugs. How do you plead?”

I rose before Razor could so much as shift his weight. “Not guilty, my Lord.” My voice didn’t falter, and I was faintly aware of how steady it sounded, even to my own ears.

The judge nodded, making a note. “Very well. A plea of not guilty is entered.”

Across the aisle, my father stood smoothly, as if he’d anticipated the moment down to the second. “My Lord. The Crown estimates a trial length of three to four weeks, subject to disclosure.”

I didn’t look at him as I rose again.

“The defence would suggest that estimate is generous.” I adjusted my gown. “Much of the Crown’s case rests on intelligence summaries rather than primary evidence. We will seek further disclosure, particularly as it relates to attribution and sourcing.”

My father turned his head then, looking at me. “Those matters will be addressed in due course. The Crown maintains the intelligence is robust and lawfully obtained.”

“Then there should be no difficulty in disclosing it.” I held his gaze and my nerve.

“Yes. All right.” Judge Avery held up a hand. “Disclosure timetables will be set accordingly.”

Bail was addressed next. Briefly. Practically.

“Bail to continue on existing conditions.” The judge looked at us. “No application to vary?”

“No, my Lord,” my father said.

“No, my Lord,” I echoed.

It was done. Clean. Predictable.

All the while, I was acutely aware of where Razor stood. Silent. Still. Watching. And of where my father sat. Immaculate, composed, thinking several steps ahead of me. As he always had. From the moment I’d learnt to walk. Worse when I’d learnt to talk and argue with him.

Two very disparate parts of my life were on each side of this room I’d fought to be in.

Then Judge Avery said, “Before we rise, I’d like a brief word with counsel only. In chambers.” Avery gathered his papers and rose. The words were neutral, almost offhand, but they carried the quiet authority of expectation rather than request. “Mr Slade will wait outside.”