Page 8 of Claim

So I sat there, hands cuffed to nothing, and understood with bleak clarity, that I had no defence.

All I had was containment.

The mouthpieces carried on talking. About time. Patience. How these cases took longer when there were multiple moving parts. As if time were neutral. As if it didn’t grind men down while everyone else debated process. They weren’t the ones in here. Patience is hard when all you have is time.

Then Ellwood cleared his throat. “We need to discuss representation.”

“What? Why? You represent me, right?”

There was a notable pause. Then, “This case has developed in a way that exceeds what our firm is best placed to manage.” Ellwood glanced at Davies. Fractional. Pre-arranged. “There are indications that this prosecution may attract wider scrutiny. Political sensitivity. Press interest. Additional oversight.”

I waited.

Davies stiffened. “We believe a firm with specialist experience in complex organised crime cases would better serve you.”

I scoffed. “What the fuck do you do then?”

“We’re mostly low-level crime. Possession charges. Street supply. Clean evidential chains. Your case…has names attached to it that, quite frankly, are frightening.”

I arched an eyebrow. “What names?”

“Names we wouldn’t do you justice fighting against.”

“So, you’re dumping me?”

Fucking hell. When the piss-poor firms give up, it’s obvious I was a no-win.

I looked at Davies. “Is someone leaning on you?”

Silence.

That told me everything.

“Fuck.” I clenched my fist on the table. “So what happens now?”

Suddenly, it wasn’t just the prison I had to worry about. Nor just the waiting, or the remand, or the CPS hovering like vultures deciding which charge to drop first. It was the realisation that I could become administrative. A man misfiled. A case stalled because no one was pushing it forwards. I was slipping through the cracks in here, time stretching thin while they decided what else to hang around my neck. If these two walked away and no one replaced them, my hearings would drift. Adjourned. Relisted. Forgotten.

Rot was slow. That was the danger of it.

Ellwood must have seen it on my face because his tone changed. Less polished, more careful. “There will be no gap in representation. We won’t withdraw until new solicitors are formally instructed.”

“And if they’re not?” I asked.

“They will be.”

I knew I wasn’t innocent.

Not of the work. The routes. Nor protecting men who didn’t deserve it by building something that could only ever end like this. But guilt isn’t the same thing as being caught. And they’d skipped that step entirely. So, yeah, I wanted my day in court. I wanted to get out of here. Wanted the chance at least.

No one deserved to be warehoused without resistance.

Then it came back to me.

A memory I’d shoved out of reach because it hurt too much to hold.

Sentencing bias. How people from poorer areas get hit harder by the courts than people who do the same crimes but can afford decent lawyers.

He’d said it lightly. As if it were theory. As if it lived on paper instead of in cells like this one. As if it hadn’t been a warning.