Free Law and Disorder by Tim Kevan

dismissive wave of the hand. There was only one answer as far as he was concerned, but just to make sure he pushed her over the edge.
    ‘The problem is, as I’ve mentioned before, if you do nothing now it may well come back to haunt you if things then get worse.’
    This was indeed a winning argument and over the edge she went as I just stood by and watched.
    By mid-afternoon it was the talk of chambers. Whilst I was supposedly making coffee I overheard one of the more senior barristers in chambers telling TheBoss, using the word ‘foolhardy’ and finishing with, ‘Well, on her own head be it.’
    Later I told Claire.
    ‘Of all the people to do it to. Poor innocent Worrier wouldn’t harm a soul.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘But why? What has he got to gain?’
    ‘Nothing. Nor is it because she’s a woman or anything like that. I think with him it’s just sport. Killing for killing’s sake.’ This was probably about right, although I still felt bad for not mentioning the book he had given me.
    ‘He aims, he fires and down comes the mockingbird,’ said Claire ruefully. Then she added, ‘But why didn’t you say anything?’
    ‘I don’t know. I tried,’ I ventured, as Claire raised a sceptical eyebrow. I was silent. I felt and probably looked quite ashamed. Seeing my unease, Claire didn’t pursue it further though I could tell she was disappointed. She ended the conversation with, ‘It’s terrible, this pupillage thing, and it’s only going to get worse.’
    The problem is that I fear TheBoss may have a point. Kill or be killed.
     
    Thursday 7 December 2006
    Day 49 (week 10): Solicitor party
    Out to a party at a solicitors’ firm this evening with TheBoss, who was feeling generous after another of his last-minute lucrative settlements.
    ‘Now, BabyB,’ said TheBoss. ‘There’s a pecking order at these sorts of things and you’d better get it right.’ He paused for effect before continuing. ‘Accident management companies chase ambulances, solicitors schmooze accident management companies and barristers fawn over solicitors. Fail to do that and you’ll have no practice even to lose.’
    Once there I ended up chatting to SlipperySlope, the senior partner. He’s got all the airs and graces of a country squire but a suit with stripes that would have done Arthur Daley proud. Maybe a legal version of Boycie from Only Fools and Horses might be a way of imagining him. He oozed his way over to chat to TheBoss who then eventually dumped him on me. Looking for something to say, I commented on the plush surroundings of the large room at Somerset House which must have cost an arm and a leg, which I guess would be appropriate for a personal injury firm.
    ‘How do SlipperySlope & Co. make the sort of money that can pay for a party like this out of personal injury cases?’ I asked, going for the subtle approach.
    ‘We’re alchemists, BabyB. Making gold.’
    ‘I see,’ I replied, politely.
    The champagne was starting to take effect and he warmed to his theme. ‘You know how?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Working forty-eight hours a day.’ He chuckled at what must have been an in-joke.
    ‘I don’t think I understand.’
    ‘It’s simple. When each little action like a quick letter or a ten-second telephone call can be billed as six minutes, you can accumulate a lot of hours in a short amount of time.’
    ‘Oh.’ Silly me. Kind of reminds me of that joke about the lawyer who died aged forty and was standing before Saint Peter at the pearly gates:
    ‘You know, I’ll sue,’ the lawyer says. ‘I don’t smoke or drink, I take regular exercise and above all, I’m only forty years old. There’s no way I should be dead.’
    So Saint Peter goes off and checks the records and replies, ‘I’m afraid that according to your time sheets, your age is at least one hundred and thirty-five just by hours billed alone.’
    Until this point the evening was going swimmingly. Until, that is, I stumbled across SlipperySlope’s