Page 21 of Corrupt

Billy kept staring at the laminate table as if it held the answers.

“Billy?” I turned to him, because addressing him might make him understand how this was his life. It took a moment, but eventually he lifted his gaze to me. Defensive, wary, terrified. “Here’s how this works.” I leant forward. “You’re thirteen. That means you’re under youth jurisdiction. The magistrates can’t send you to an adult prison. At this stage, the worst outcome is they might consider bail with conditions. They might give you a curfew, exclusion zones, that sort of thing.”

His mum exhaled shakily. “He never stays in. Never.”

“He might have to from now on.”

She nudged him. “You hear that?”

Billy said nothing. But he heard. I could tell.

So I continued, “I’m going to tell the court you’ve got no previous convictions, that you’re in school, and you’ve cooperated, and that this seems out of character. I’ll also tell them you’ve got siblings at home who depend on the family staying together.”

Billy’s leg bounces slowed a fraction.

“And when they ask what happened, I want you to let me speak for you. Not to hide anything but to keep you safe from saying something the prosecution might twist.”

He nodded once. Almost imperceptible.

His mum whispered, “Do you think he’ll… be alright?”

“I think he has a very good chance of being released today.” I closed the file. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

We moved as a trio through the corridors, the building humming with that familiar mix of fluorescent lights, cheap carpet, and other people’s fear. Youth Court was smaller, quieter, strangely intimate. A place where futures tilted on details barely filling a page. And I could feel myself slipping into the version of me that made sense. Measured, composed, one step removed. The Tristan who could handle this. The Tristan I’d worked so hard to become. Who could make a difference. Stop the cycle. But as we reached the courtroom, the ground shifted beneath me, the world reminding me there was a different version of me.

One who chased the darkness and the thrill of danger.

Because standing by the open door in a cheap off-the-rack suit was a man I’d only met once but would recognise anywhere.

Billy’s mum gasped. “Lennon!” She hurried over and hugged him, then he ruffled Billy’s hood, giving him a soft tap on the shoulder.

“You got this, yeah?” Lennon held out his fist for Billy to bump. “Eyes forward.”

He then glanced up and saw me. The blink of recognition hit us both, and my breath locked sharp behind my ribs. He was the last person I expected to see in this building. Razor’s oldest friend. The man he’d spoken about in the lazy, naked, after-sex voice still living under my skin. Another reminder that no matter how hard I tried to build walls between my worlds, Razor’s sharp edges had a way of penetrating through.

“Hi.” Lennon tilted his head as if he were lining me up inside his mind. He held out his hand.

I took it, shaking once. A silent plea buried in the pressure of my fingers. “Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.” I got my professional tone back in place. “Counsel for Billy Amos.”

“Lennon Foster.” He squeezed my hand with a subtle ‘I hear you.’ “I know the family. I’m Billy’s youth boxing coach down at the gym. Thought I might be useful as a character witness.”

“Character witnesses won’t be needed today,” I said. “And unfortunately, there are no public galleries in youth court.”

“Ah.”

“You could wait outside?” I nodded, but before Lennon could say anything else, an usher appeared at the doorway.

“Case of Billy Amos. Parties inside, please.”

Billy’s mum clutched his arm and hurried him through the door. I made to follow, but Lennon’s hand closed around my forearm, firm and shocked and furious all at once.

“This because of him?”

My stomach lurched. “What? No.” I assumed he meant Razor, because what else would he mean? For one awful beat, I wondered if he thought Razor had sent me, or worse, that Billy was here because of something tied to Razor’s world and I was the one he used as clean-up. “I’m a barrister,” I said through gritted teeth, forcing steadiness into my voice. “This is me. At work.”

Lennon narrowed his eyes. “Rich know?”

A flare of heat shot up my spine at the implication. “Can we…” I glanced towards the courtroom, the usher waiting. “Can we talk later?”