Page 2 of Border Control

Pulling in a long, shaky breath, I force my legs to stay straight even though my knees want to give way. “Listen to me. They branded their victims criminals because it’s easier than admitting what they did to her, to you, to all of you. I know that. And I promise you…” My voice dips, softer, steadier, willing him to hear me. “I will make them pay. Not just for her, but for you. For your kids. For all two hundred and seven families they’ve destroyed.”

Every single one of the carers who were accused of misbooking their time and branded as thieves, and fired for gross misconduct, or stripped of their professional licences. All because of a software error.

Liam’s jaw works, tears streaking his unshaven face. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” I tug gently, easing his grip from my arm. “But right now, you need a meal. There’s a café three streets down, St. Clement’s. Tell them I sent you. They’ll give you free food for a few weeks, they even have special hampers for kids. I’ll cover it.”

Bloodshot eyes widening, he takes a stumbling step back. I glance at my wrist and he follows, looking at the red mark on my forearm.

He gulps. “I’m sorry, I would never do something like this. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“That’s alright.” I push every ounce of reassurance I can muster into my voice. I reach into my jacket, pull out my business card case with shaking hands. They steady as I go through the familiar motion of opening it up and pulling out a thick card, embossed with Clark and Gibson, my name, and my work phone number.

I hold it out to him. “I understand what you’re going through.”

Because I do. I feel the unfairness choking him every day, the corporate cruelty which cast his fiancée as the heartless thief, without stopping to really understand her. And now she’s gone.

Someone has to pay.

He looks at me, like he wants to believe but can’t quite.

“Go,” I press. “Go before security comes.”

Liam stoops, snatches the card, then turns and stumbles out of the alley, shoulders bowed as he walks back into the sharp spring sunlight.

I stand with coffee staining the pavement, the cup crumpled, papers scattered like broken glass, and my heart hammering so loud I can hardly think. A scream crawls up my throat.

All I can see is Liam’s face, and behind him, the hundreds more.

As soon asI get to the office, I go to the restrooms and confront myself in the mirror. Scowling, I tame my hair into submission with a brush and change my coffee-stained shirt. Are my eyes reddening? Is that puffiness?

I snatch my Chanel lipstick from my purse and slick it on. Bright pink. Bold, but muted.

I can handle this. I've got this. I have to do this.

For Dad.

Fully armored, I march to my first meeting. Cold air from the conference room slides up my arms as I open the door. There’re fourteen others here already, sipping coffee cups from a medley of cafes, but really, today could have been just me and the barrister. I sit down right next to him, sliding my laptop out of my satchel.

John gives me a nod and chugs down his extra large coffee. His caffeine addiction is surpassed only by my own. “Hey, Laura,” he says with an easy smile.

“Good morning.” John has the hard job of recalling and presenting all the case information in an engaging way in front of the inquiry panel, but it’s my casework he’ll be bringing up, my research, my precedents, my careful consideration of what evidence to present and when, and my key questions to ask witnesses on every day.

“Ready to talk about Accu-time?” he asks without preamble.

Opening my laptop, I sit up a little straighter, consulting the copious notes on little digital post-its. Everything related to thiscase comes down to me, and my organizational skills are crucial to keep our work ordered so we represent the victims perfectly.

“Yes, everything for the first day’s strategy. We need to set the scene and let the panel know what they'll learn. I think we should go for the jugular straight away: set out the impact on those wrongly accused.”

John nods. “Right, right, let’s look at those notes you sent this morning. Very thorough and organized, as usual.”

“Good, I knew you’d be great. So here’s how I see it.” I take John through the opening notes I’ve built, but it’ll be up to him to bring his showmanship at the trial. Once again I thank my stars I didn’t decide to go for being a barrister. Standing up in court all day isn’t my idea of a good time, and it's the solicitors who really get things done.

“Now, here’s the strategy for cross examining the Accu-time lead developer,” I begin, when the door opens and Morgan, a partner at the firm, strides in.

His belt’s losing the battle against a well-fed stomach, the buttons of his pinstriped waistcoat clinging on like overworked interns. He pats his balding head with a silk handkerchief, nevermind the fact it’s March and not remotely warm.

“Apologies,” he booms, not sounding sorry at all. “Got caught up with something important.”