Chapter Ten Tristan
chapter ten
Tristan
I parked in a visitor space and checked my reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Idiot.
As if it mattered what my hair looked like. As if that was what today hinged on. And yet my hand came up anyway, fingers smoothing, correcting. A habit born from a lifetime spent in rooms where presentation counted as much as substance.
Or maybe it was something else.
I forced my hand back down.
This wasn’t chambers. It wasn’t court. And it certainly wasn’t a dinner table where smiles were currency and composure passed for control. The man I was about to see didn’t need me polished.
Yet I was.
And some quiet, treacherous part of me wanted him to look at me and remember. To call me pretty again. Beautiful if he thought it.
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.
And it was mine.
The officer straightened. “He’s not available.”
Not available.
Which usually meant one of two things: he was hurt badly enough they didn’t want witnesses, or someone had decided this didn’t need to become a paper problem yet. Either way, it wasn’t about availability. It was about visibility.
I swallowed whatever tried to rise in my throat and opened my folder. “Then I’ll need your name.”
The officer frowned. “Why?”
“For my record.” I looked up at him as I slid my pen from my inside pocket and clicked it open. “Because if access is refused, I’ll be recording that refusal in writing and notifying the Governor immediately.”
Silence.
I lowered my gaze and put the pen to the page. “And I will inform the court that my client was denied access to legal advice following a violent incident sustained in custody.” I glanced back up. “An incident for which the state has a positive duty of care.”
That landed.
“Any continued obstruction,” I scribbled a note in the corner of my file, “will be placed before the judge as a material change in circumstances affecting the lawfulness of his continued remand.”
The officer’s jaw tightened.
“And just so we’re clear, if bail is granted on that basis, the refusal today will be traced. By name. Could mean a disciplinary for you.”
The officer exhaled sharply then reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Control. Can I get a supervisor to legal visits?” He looked back at me. “Take a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
He didn’t argue.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. And I stood exactly where I was, folder tucked under my arm, gaze level. Every inch the inconvenience I’d been trained to be. Learnt from my father. Learnt because of him. I’d become a nuisance to him as much as I could be to everyone else.
Eventually, a senior officer appeared. “What’s the issue?”
“I’m here for a scheduled legal visit.” I addressed him directly. “My client is in segregation. I’m being denied access.”
The supervisor checked the screen. “He’s on basic regime.”
“Which is irrelevant. This is a legally privileged conference.”
Another pause. A calculation.
Then a nod.
“We’ll escort him up,” the supervisor said. “You’ll need to wait.”
I watched him clip the radio back onto its holder as the first officer turned away. Somewhere behind those walls, Razor was being moved again. And the certainty settled in, cold and unwelcome, that whatever they brought me would not be the man I’d last seen. But at least he would be seen.
I’d made sure of it.
They led me to the legal interview room.
The same one as before. Same bolted table.
Same scuffed chairs. Same reinforced window in the door.
I sat, set my file down, and checked my phone long enough to send a brief message to Mercer: Client placed in segregation following violent incident.
Access initially refused. He needed to know. Immediately.
Then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I knew exactly what this was. A petty delay.
A quiet reminder of who controlled the doors.
I had other meetings today. Other files.
Other obligations. None of them mattered.
I would sit here until they brought him up, or until the walls fell in around me.
Eventually, movement outside the door caught my attention.
Shuffling. Keys. Low voices. And through the narrow window, two officers escorted a prisoner.
Head down. Hands cuffed in front. Grey sweats.
Nothing distinctive at first glance. Nothing more than another body being moved from one place to another.
Yet my heart kicked hard enough to make me swallow.
I forced myself still. Forced everything I was feeling back into the narrow lane of professionalism that hadn’t yet collapsed under the weight of this case.
Then the door opened.
And fuck.
Razor was wrecked.
Bruised. Swollen. Blood dried and smeared dark into his skin, cuts half-cleaned and congealing.
His face was a map of damage, one eye so puffed I wasn’t sure he could see out of it properly.
His T-shirt was torn, stained with red and flecks of what looked like food.
And he didn’t walk so much as shuffle, as if every step was pain and his body no longer trusted itself.
This was worse than the last time. Significantly.
One officer spun him sharply towards the chair, grip firm and unnecessary. Razor sucked in a breath, pain flashing clean and bright across his face.
I stood without thinking.
Every instinct in me screamed to tell them to stop.
Be careful. Leave him alone. But I said nothing.
Then the cuffs came off. Metal clinked. Final.
And the officers nodded at me. I returned it, curt and controlled, and they stepped back out, the door closing behind them.
But not all the way. Waiting. Watching. Razor lifted his head.
Or tried to. And his eyes found me. Or I hoped they did.
It was hard to tell through the swelling.
So much for fixing my hair.
“Jesus,” I breathed out.