Chapter Seventeen Tristan #2
I didn’t look at him as I rose again.
“The defence would suggest that estimate is generous.” I adjusted my gown. “Much of the Crown’s case rests on intelligence summaries rather than primary evidence. We will seek further disclosure, particularly as it relates to attribution and sourcing.”
My father turned his head then, looking at me. “Those matters will be addressed in due course. The Crown maintains the intelligence is robust and lawfully obtained.”
“Then there should be no difficulty in disclosing it.” I held his gaze and my nerve.
“Yes. All right.” Judge Avery held up a hand. “Disclosure timetables will be set accordingly.”
Bail was addressed next. Briefly. Practically.
“Bail to continue on existing conditions.” The judge looked at us. “No application to vary?”
“No, my Lord,” my father said.
“No, my Lord,” I echoed.
It was done. Clean. Predictable.
All the while, I was acutely aware of where Razor stood. Silent. Still. Watching. And of where my father sat. Immaculate, composed, thinking several steps ahead of me. As he always had. From the moment I’d learnt to walk. Worse when I’d learnt to talk and argue with him.
Two very disparate parts of my life were on each side of this room I’d fought to be in.
Then Judge Avery said, “Before we rise, I’d like a brief word with counsel only. In chambers.” Avery gathered his papers and rose. The words were neutral, almost offhand, but they carried the quiet authority of expectation rather than request. “Mr Slade will wait outside.”
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.
“This isn’t the way.” I glanced around. This was the private exit. The route only known to us servants of the court.
The man closed his hand around my arm, and I felt something sharp and pointy thrust into my side. “Yeah, it is.”