Page 55 of Claim

My stomach fluttered. An entirely inappropriate sensation for a legal visit. Nerves I’d never felt before trials, hostile benches, or rooms full of people waiting for me to fail. But this was different. Because this time, the stakes weren’t abstract.

They had a face.

And a heart.

I took a breath and put my expression back where it belonged. Neutral, composed, professionally blank. Then I reached for my laptop bag. It felt heavier than it should have, packed with papers I knew by heart. Timelines. Notes. Risk assessments. Procedural steps. Reasons I was here that had nothing to do with the way my pulse had kicked when Mercer rang to say the visit was booked, but he wouldn’t be attending.

I was on my own.

That wasn’t unusual. Solicitors didn’t need to be present for every prison conference. Mercer’s work happened outside these walls. Correspondence, disclosure, applications, pressure applied in writing. Mine happened face to face. I was the one who would stand up in court. The one who needed instructions directly. Who had to look a client in the eye and decide what could and couldn’t be done next. As junior counsel, this was my responsibility. Not Imogen’s. Not the solicitor’s.

Entirely proper. Entirely routine.

I didn’t know why that made it worse.

I locked the car, squared my shoulders, and walked up towards the prison, every step bringing me closer to a meeting that was meant to be procedural yet felt anything but.

The building loomed the way they all did. Ugly. Functional. Unapologetic. Concrete and wire and cameras tracking movement openly, without shame. There was no pretence of rehabilitation in the architecture. This place existed to contain. Reduce.

At the gate, I showed my ID and stated my name and role. “Legal visit.”

The officer took the card, glanced at it, glanced at me, then buzzed me through without comment. Inside, everything was processed. Shoes off. Belt off. Laptop out of the bag, swabbed and scanned. Bag searched with professional disinterest. Time logged. Name recorded. I complied automatically, movements smooth, hands steady, even as my pulse climbed to an entirely unreasonable pitch.

I collected my things and stepped up to the legal visits desk.

“Tristan Hale-Fitzroy,” I said. “Here to see Richard Slade. Scheduled legal conference.”

The officer tapped at the keyboard. Frowned. Tapped again. Then looked up. “He’s in segregation.”

“Segregation?” My stomach dipped. “Why is he in segregation?”

The officer gave me a look suggesting I was stupid. “An incident.”

I gave him one right back. “That’s wonderfully precise. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I waited.

He sighed, irritated. “Visits aren’t running for seg prisoners today.”

The words were delivered with the finality of policy, as if that alone ended the discussion.

“This is a legal visit.”

The officer didn’t look up. “Prisoner Slade was involved in a volatile and violent incident, putting himself and others at risk. He’s currently in segregation. Visits are locked.” He returned his attention to the screen. “You’ll need to come back another day.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” I kept myself level despite my irritation surfacing. “Mr Slade is my client. This visit is legally privileged and directly connected to an active bail application.”

The officer folded his arms. “Segregation status overrides—”

“No,” I cut him off. “It doesn’t.”

The officer shook his head. “Look, mate—”

“I’m not your mate.” I kept my tone grounded despite every nerve screaming. This was precisely why counsel weren’t supposed to act when emotion was involved. But emotion wasn’t what drove me now. Training did. And resolve. “Segregation does not suspend a prisoner’s right to consult counsel. Denying access interferes with legal professional privilege and places this establishment in breach of Article Six.”

The silence that followed was loud.