Justice, Prison Style

The adjudications room felt smaller than usual, the air thick with the stale scent of desperation and cheap disinfectant. I sat there, trying to channel my inner zen master, which, let’s be honest, was about as likely as a vegan getting a decent steak at the prison canteen. Across from me sat the cage fighter, his knuckles still swollen like deformed potatoes, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated menace. He’d had his fun, playing the ‘unprofessional’ fighter, and now it was time for the system to weigh in. Except, the system, bless its bureaucratic heart, seemed to have a peculiar sense of humour.

“Having considered the evidence,” the Governor droned, his voice a monotone that could lull a badger to sleep, “Mr. Henderson,” – that’s the cage fighter, not me, thank God – “is found not guilty of assault.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Not guilty? The bloke had turned another inmate into a human speed bump, and he was walking away clean? My barrister, a man whose suits probably cost more than my entire pre-prison wardrobe, gave a discreet sigh that spoke volumes.