Page 3 of Claim

The words followed me out of the courtroom like a shadow. Justice, it turned out, was not blind so much as crowded. And outside Court Two, the noise rushed back in. Footsteps on stone, muted conversations, the echo of raised voices bleeding through thick oak doors. The Royal Courts of Justice had been in my life so long it almost felt like home.

The CPS junior I’d just bulldozed brushed past me, too close to be accidental. “Enjoy the victory,” he sneered. “They don’t always last.”

I slowed. Turned my head.

There had been more of this lately, too. Others seeming keen to see me stumble. Another Hale-Fitzroy stepping onto the floor, another name they didn’t want owning the room. Trouble was, they’d sadly misjudged the inheritance.

“Neither does overreach,” I called back and walked on.

I shrugged out of my gown and folded it carefully over my arm. I was meticulous about that now. About everything. Sloppiness invited scrutiny. Scrutiny invited questions. Underneath, my suit was dark charcoal, conservative to the point of anonymity. White shirt. Black tie. Nothing to suggest ambition or rebellion or personality.

I’d learnt quickly that the safest thing to be, was forgettable.

Imogen Barrett KC appeared at my shoulder as if summoned by thought alone. “You didn’t chase it.”

“No.” I shook my head. “There was no need.”

She watched me for a moment, taking inventory. Imogen missed nothing. She never had. “You trusted the bench.”

“I trusted the law.”

“Careful. That’s how people get disappointed.” She gave me a poignant look then turned to leave, but in an afterthought, she turned back and I was fully prepared for a lecture. “You’re settling. Don’t mistake that for protection.”

No lecture then. A word of advice. “I won’t.”

I was fully qualified now. Signed off weeks ago. The ink on my practising certificate was barely dry, but it meant I could accept briefs. Act as junior counsel. I was still under Imogen, of course. Scrutinised. Mentored. But I was legitimate. Allowed to act on serious cases, junior to a silk—A King’s Counsel.

She smiled. Brief but genuine. Then gripped my arm. “How’s your father?”

My father.

Charles Hale-Fitzroy KC.

For most of my life, a presence so constant it had felt immovable. A man whose name carried weight long before I understood why, whose voice had once been the background noise of my childhood. Dictation tapes, late-night phone calls, the low murmur of strategy drifting down corridors.

Lung cancer had done what nothing else ever had. Slowed him down. Forced him into stillness he’d never learnt how to occupy. He was still in treatment. Chemotherapy measured and relentless. His energy hollowed out before it ever touched his pride. Some days he sounded almost like himself on the phone. Others, he couldn’t finish a sentence without stopping to catch his breath.

He’d watched me be called from hospital chairs and oncology waiting rooms. Watched me finish pupillage under Imogen’s supervision, no longer able to be there in person, but unwilling to look away. I knew he followed my cases. And he still asked questions he pretended were casual.

I swallowed. “Managing. Tired. Still… himself.”

Stubborn. Brilliant. Trying to pretend this was temporary. I worried about him more than I ever admitted.

She smiled. Nodded. Squeezed my arm, then disappeared back into the stream of black gowns. I stayed where I was for a moment longer, letting the corridor empty and refill around me before drifting my gaze towards the noticeboard at the far end of the hall, where the remand lists were posted every day. Plain white paper. Typed names. No context. No humanity. Data points arranged in neat columns.

I didn’t move towards it.

I hadn’t since the hearing.

That restraint had cost me more than anyone realised.

I turned away and headed back towards chambers.

Temple Crown Chambers was quieter than the courts themselves and the clerks barely glanced up as I passed. Recognition without fuss. That was new. I was no longer a pupil trailing in someone else’s wake. I was on my feet now. Accountable. Visible.

“Tristan.” Marianne, one of the senior clerks, caught my sleeve as I passed. “Your name came up on a call this morning. CPS. Asking about availability. Future listings.”

“That’s…unusual.” I frowned.