A court runner stands there. “Jury’s coming back, sir,” he says.

I drop the cigarette to the floor and grind it out before throwing the butt in the bin. “Thanks, Brian.”

He looks at me disapprovingly. “Thought you’d packed that game in.”

“I have. I just have the one now while the jury’s out.” I wink at him. “It’s my only vice.”

He rolls his eyes. “I heartily doubt that, sir.”

Laughing, I follow him back into the bowels of the Bailey and the labyrinthine corridors that run everywhere. “Showtime,” I mutter.

When I stride back into the court, my robes flapping behind me, I find my client sitting there.

“Sit up straight,” I say quietly.

My junior barrister, Darryl, pats his hand. “Soon be over,” he says.

I turn to Sean, my pupil, who is sitting in the first row behind me. He’s a tall, thin, anxious-looking young man. “What do you think, Sean?”

He leans forward eagerly. “I think you’ll win, sir. That was a brilliant defence.”

“Which bit was brilliant?”

He blinks. “Well, all of it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need you blowing smoke up my backside. I know I’m good.” Darryl rolls his eyes as I continue. “You should be analysing everything and be prepared to tell me the good and the bad. How can you learn, otherwise? I’ll speak to you this afternoon, and hopefully, you will have a more comprehensive answer.”

I turn back to the table. “Have you sorted out the rehab for Mr Simpson?” I ask his solicitor.

“Yes, Magnus. It’s all arranged for if he’s acquitted.”

I clap his back in thanks, and then we all look up as the jury is announced. They file back into the jury box, looking resolute.

I look over at Simon to find him glaring at me. I shoot him a wink and he grimaces.

“Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Bannister asks. He’s a good old sort for a judge even if he can bore for Britain. A bit big-headed, but name me one who isn’t. At least he isn’t a dyed-in-the-wool spokesman for the return of flogging and capital punishment on every street corner.

The jury foreman stands up. He’s thin and earnest. “We have, my lord.”

“And what is it?”

“Not guilty.”

A wave of emotion flows over the courtroom—some of it hostile and some of it relieved—and my client slumps in his chair.

I stand up as the judge dismisses the jury. “Well, that’s that,” I say cheerfully. My client struggles to his feet, and I hold out my hand. “Congratulations, Mr Simpson.” He shakes my hand, his palm cold and wet, and I lean closer. “Make better choices after this. Most people only get one Get Out of Jail card in their lives. You’ve used yours up.”