Free Lover in Law by Jo Kessel

“Make the most of today because it will be your last,” he whispered menacingly.  Then I woke up, in the midst of sheets clammy with the sweat of fear. From the angle of restraint, his chin had appeared longer, the bulbous tip to his nose more bloated. Prior to the death threat, he’d been spitting and swearing from the confines of his claustrophobic cell, a grim square of concrete, with only a heavy-duty steel door with barred hatch to break the monotony. I was being accused of incompetence, of not being able to procure bail for an innocent man who’d clearly been framed.
     
    Thankfully dreams aren’t always our reality. I’d got Scott bail, but he’d had to spend the night in custody first. He hadn’t been amused. “You expect me to crap in that?” He’d pointed at the skid marks staining the ceramic bowl for a toilet. I’d said I understood his distress, but there was nothing we could do. It would hopefully only be until morning, when he’d be in court first thing. As a man of good character, with no previous convictions, bail was a possibility. “I’m a celebrity. Can’t you get me out of here?” he’d pleaded. 
     
    Bail had been set for 250k, on condition he surrender his passport, report to a police station once a week and not go within a mile of Elizabeth Simons or Cameron Matthews.  The bail hearing was a couple of weeks ago now though. I think what unsettled last night’s sleep was the anonymous letter I received yesterday. Bashed out on an old-fashioned typewriter, it was all of two lines:
     
    “Be aware this isn’t the first time the partner of someone Scott Richardson’s dated has died. See William Nichols, deceased husband of Verity.”
     
    First I’d checked for a frank on the envelope, but it was hand delivered. Then I’d gone online, punching the name William Nichols into Google’s search engine. A small Obituary from The Times came up straight away. Mr. Nichols, aged 43, was an extremely wealthy entrepreneurial property magnate who dropped dead at his desk three years ago, from a massive heart attack, leaving behind a wife called Verity. When I switched my search to her, a few gossip column snippets popped up. A while back, Verity Nichols had been one to watch on the Brit Art scene, up for the Turner prize. She had indeed stepped out with Scott Richardson, as a couple of photos indicated. When I’d mentioned my concern at these findings to Anthony, he told me to let it go. Even if it was more than a coincidence, I shouldn’t want to know. My job wasn’t to find out my client WAS guilty, it was to defend him when he said he wasn’t. Scott had never been charged with the death of William Nichols. This could never be used as evidence and I should dismiss this anonymous tip-off as an interfering prank. 
     
    All this I’ve clearly found disturbing, although I’ve never been a reliable sleeper at the best of times. There’s more rubbish in my head than pigswill. I’ve tried to counteract insomnia with a tranquil colour scheme, rich lilac and white. The bed’s an iron-frame monster from Selfridges. It cost an arm and a leg, but when you consider a third of our lives are spent in it, it’s worth every cent. The mattress is impossibly deep, a real princess and the pea affair. 
     
     This morning, I blamed Adam, not Scott Richardson, for my crap night. I said that he’d kept me awake making funny little popping noises with his mouth and that he’d stolen my air, stubbornly refusing to roll over (I’d shoved many times), leaving his head too close to mine. He refused to take responsibility.
     
    “Why didn’t YOU turn over?” he asked.
     
    “You know I can only sleep on my right side,” I snapped.
     
    I’ve been doing a lot of snapping of late. Storing up a long list of misdeeds to bombard him with. Much of which is legitimate, but all the sort of stuff that didn’t used to get to me. Like forgetting to take tissues out of his pockets before loading clothes into