Page 103 of Claim

Custody moved, guiding Razor from the dock without resistance, pausing only once, long enough for his gaze to land on me, then away again as the door closed behind him.

Imogen tapped my shoulder, angling her head, and we followed the judge into the consultation room next to the court. Smaller. Quieter. No windows. A narrow table. Four chairs already positioned, as if this conversation was expected.

Imogen took the seat beside me without comment.

My father stood opposite.

Judge Avery didn’t sit. He placed his file down on the desk.

“This will not take long.” He removed his glasses and looked between us. “But it does need to be said. We have a defendant represented by a junior barrister, who happens also to be the son of the Crown’s lead prosecutor.”

My father’s expression didn’t change.

“I am satisfied,” the judge went on, “that all appropriate professional declarations have been made. I am not alleging impropriety.”

Imogen inclined her head a fraction. Acknowledgement, not concession.

“However,” Judge Avery said, voice still level, “this case carries political sensitivity, public interest, and, whether we like it or not, optical risk.” He turned to my father. “Mr Hale-Fitzroy, your position within the CPS is well known. Your presence here will attract attention.”

“I’m aware, my Lord,” my father bowed his head. “I have no intention of allowing personal matters to interfere with the conduct of the prosecution.”

“I would expect nothing less,” the judge replied. “Nevertheless, I will watch this case closely.” Then his gaze returned to me. “And you, Mr Hale-Fitzroy. You may act. You are properly instructed. You are supervised by experienced counsel.” A brief glance at Imogen. “But you are also at an early stage of your career.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You will not engage directly with the Crown outside formal channels. You will not allow this case to become personal. And if at any point I am given cause to believe that professional distance has been compromised—” He let the sentence hang. For theatrics. “—I will intervene. Decisively.”

Imogen spoke then, calm, unflinching.

“My Lord, I take full responsibility for Mr Hale-Fitzroy’s conduct. If the court has concerns, they come to me.”

Judge Avery nodded once. Satisfied. “Very well. Then we are clear.” He replaced his glasses. “This case proceeds as listed. Bail continues. Disclosure will be managed tightly. And both sides,” he glanced between my father and I, “will remember that the court’s patience is not infinite.”

The judge left first.

My father gathered his papers without looking at me.

Imogen touched my arm briefly as we stood. “Wait here a moment, I want a word with your father.”

I nodded. Watched her move back towards him.

Then I stepped out into the corridor.

It was quieter than before. The post-hearing lull. People dispersed, voices echoing farther away. I started back towards the courtroom, rehearsing what I needed to say to Razor, when someone fell into step beside me.

“Mr Hale-Fitzroy?”

I turned to face a man I recognised, but not instantly. Court services, maybe? “Yes.”

“They’ve moved downstairs.” He angled his body away. “Judge’s instructions. Easier to clear the corridor.”

“Moved what?”

He didn’t stop walking. “Your client. This way.”

Fine. I followed. If Razor was that way, then that was the way I went.

It was only when we passed the stairwell that my hackles rose.