Last night I medicated my frustrations with a bout of
irresponsible alcohol intake. This evening I’m trying to write it off. My sense
of utter frustration at the Ministry of Dwindling Justice’s proposals to
introduce price competitive tendering in the criminal justice system is now mirrored by the process of selling and buying a property. Both matters have been foist upon
me in quick succession. Yesterday I met up with an old friend who I haven’t
seen in person for over fifteen years. He was a pupil barrister while I was
establishing myself in the murky world of prison law. We tried briefly, over a
pint, to identify the silver cloud in my husband’s sudden death last year. The fact
that he knew nothing about it was all we could muster. The bright side of the
PCT proposals is the magnificent wit, eloquence and insight published daily on faceache
and twatter by lawyers. They make me proud to be a member of the legal
profession. For the time being.
Meanwhile, having overcome the bank’s computer refusing to
offer me a substantially lower mortgage than I have currently, I viewed a
property that I believe could prove to be a home for me, but more importantly
the boychild and twinset. According to the Daily Fail I am a fat cat lawyer on £200
per hour. Perhaps the journalist can disclose evidence of this to my bank manager because I'm buggered if I can. I naively calculated the sum I would be able to invest partly on the basis of
sums owed to Frank’s estate following his retirement from a firm of solicitors shortly before his death.
Although an agreement had been reached while Frank’s heart was still beating
that the outstanding sum would be paid in monthly installments, I rather assumed
that his former partners of over approaching thirty years, some of whom I have considered
friends over the years, would want my children to have a secure home. Wrong again. I should
have known better than to ask. I was briefly a partner of the firm having
worked for them for five years. Nearly thirteen years ago when the twinset were
born prematurely at twenty-six weeks and looked distinctly like something from
the X Files, I was informed by another partner’s wife that I would be relocated
to an office some thirty miles from my home when I returned from maternity
leave. You can feel the love, right? Because of Frank's position as an equity partner I chose not to pursue an application for constructive dismissal. I regret very little, but I now regret that.
I am consequently finding it increasingly difficult
to care anymore. I still care about the effective delivery of justice, but in
all honesty I am struggling to give a shit about individual clients. It is
harder to sympathise with clients who assume that amongst my arsenal of
solicitor weaponry is a magic wand and crystal ball than it was in the past. As
a representative of mostly indeterminate prisoners, I tend to act for clients
over many years. One such client who was embarking on a mandatory life sentence
at a time I could get away with wearing tight tops and short skirts, wrote
to me recently to inform me that it was our seventeenth anniversary. During a
brief spell in the community he invited me to his wedding. A bond develops in
professional relationships that can span decades. There can't be many lawyers that have received congratulations cards on the birth of your babies, and condolences cards on the death of your spouse from murderers, rapists and the like. Oh and the Parole Board. In the face of losing my
career, I am struggling to assemble any enthusiasm for going the extra mile.
Today I feel defeated by disingenuousness: the falsehoods issued by Chris Grayling and Daily Fail journalists; and recalling
the correspondingly insincere “if there’s anything I can do” from the mouth of
Frank’s former managing partner at the time of his funeral. Sigh.
