“You should have just paid her off,” my mother said, “that’s what Lawrence would’ve done.”

My whole life I had done what Benny and Lawrence would’ve done, living with the specter of my dead brothers, making sure that my parents were proud enough of me to diminish the pain of their loss. But this time I had got it wrong. I was furious. With them. With Melissa for not being good enough. With Benny and Lawrence for dying and leaving me to be everything to everyone. It was exhausting. I made a pledge to myself that night to live my life for me, not for them, not any more. Of course, though, in the end it turned out that my parents were right. My marriage was a very costly mistake and one I am still paying for, even a decade after the divorce. Fucking Benny and fucking Lawrence wouldn’t have ended up in the same mess that I’ve managed to make for myself.

Would either of my brothers have made a career in the law? Or would they have become doctors or investment bankers or done some other important thing? Whatever they had chosen they would have made my parents proud. Perhaps this would be the case that finally showed them what I was capable of?

The interview suite is actually rather fancy, far better than a lot of places I’ve interviewed my bottom-feeding clientele over the years. The wooden table is admittedly some kind of reproduction, a veneer over cheap plywood, but at least the seats have actual cushions on them so my legs don’t mold to the shape of hard plastic.

He sits in front of me, behind a flimsy perspex screen designed only to deflect the unseen virus, hands resting on the table. I have requested that he is out of cuffs, a little symbol of my trust and something I do for all my clients, and he seems grateful for the gesture. There is a smattering of stubble across his jawline that only makes him look more handsome, but his eyes are dull and you can see the tiredness on his face.

A proper mug is beyond the wit of the prison service, so I have brought him a latte from the coffee shop next door.

“Did you wipe it?” Chris asks, pointing at the plastic disposable lid.

It takes me a second to realize that he’s worried about the virus. “That’s your concern?”

He shrugs. “Safety first and all that.”

I feel like asking if he wants to put a fucking mask on too, but I need to keep things friendly. “Of course I wiped it. Don’t want to take chances, do we?” He smiles and takes a sip, closing his eyes as the warm milky drink slips down. He’s cocky and unperturbed by the severity of his situation. I like that. It’s easier when they feel invincible.

I watch him for a few moments, getting a feel for the man they have accused of some pretty outlandish crimes. Eventually, I put down my own coffee cup and pick up my pen. “How about you tell me what really happened, eh?”