Page 80 of Claim

In front of me.

Robe. Wig.

Tristan.

For a while, nothing else reached me. The room blurred at the edges as if my vision had narrowed deliberately, cutting away everything that wasn’t him. I took him in the way you take in a shoreline after weeks at sea. Proof of solid ground, proof you’d survived long enough to see it again.

The prosecution rising snapped me back to the proceedings.

“Your Honour. The Crown opposes this application. The defendant is alleged to be a senior figure in a large-scale drugs conspiracy. The seriousness of the offences alone justifies continued remand.”

I stared at the glass. Let the words slide.

“The incident in custody demonstrates precisely the risk we have raised from the outset. That this defendant is prone to violence and unable to regulate his behaviour.”

If I were honest, the bloke wasn’t wrong. But he was wrong about why.

“The Crown also notes the potential for interference with witnesses and the clear likelihood of further charges.”

Imogen rose. “If I may, Your Honour. Seriousness alone is not a bar to bail. Nor is unparticularised reference to ‘potential’ charges. The prosecution has had ample opportunity. None have materialised.”

She glanced towards the CPS.

“As for the incident relied upon, this was not spontaneous violence. It was the foreseeable consequence of a placement decision taken in full knowledge of existing intelligence. My client did not create the risk. The state did.”

Then, Christ.

Tristan stood. “Your Honour.”

The sound of his voice cut straight through me and I lifted my head fully, eyes locking onto him, unable to look anywhere else. This was the only way he could touch me now. With words. Control. And the law placed carefully between us.

“Yes, Mr Hale-Fitzroy.” The judge peered at him over his specs.

Tristan inclined his head. Calm. Contained. Beautifully steady.

Beautifully him.

“I address the custody incident relied upon by the Crown.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. As if he understood exactly how to make a room listen. “The prosecution invites the court to infer future risk from an event that occurred entirely within the state’s control. That inference cannot stand. The risk was known. The placement decision was made, regardless. What followed was not evidence of criminal propensity; it was evidence of a failure in risk management. To detain him further on the basis of that failure is not protective. It is punitive.”

The courtroom went still. Not a shuffle. Not a cough. Even the air seemed to hold. And Tristan finished with a brief nod and sat back down, as if he hadn’t reached across a system built to crush men like me and forced it to hesitate.

My chest felt too tight. I dragged air in through my nose and fixed my face into something neutral, something that wouldn’t give me away. I didn’t properly understand half of what he’d said. That language wasn’t made for ears shaped by streets and cells. But I understood the gist. I got that he’d stood up and told them I wasn’t what they’d decided I was. That I wasn’t just risk and violence and inevitability.

I didn’t know why that hit so hard, why it twisted sharp in my gut and set my heart skidding, but I knew no one had ever done that for me before. No one had ever stood up in a room like this and said I was worth something other than containment.

And Christ, it hurt.

Not because it was painful.

But because it was the first time I believed it might be true.

The court went on. Something about conditions. Imogen answered crisply. Approved address. Curfew. Electronic tag. No contact. Restricted devices. The CPS objected weakly. Risk. Optics. Seriousness.

The judge nodded. “I will adjourn briefly. Ten minutes.”

My heart slammed so hard it hurt.

They took me back down. Another bench. Another locked door. Time stretching itself thin. Then, when they brought me back, the judge was seated.