Fiction | April 16, 2015

These men looked as rumpled and sleazy as characters out of a Raymond Chandler novel. Talk about Jarndyce v Jarndyce, nothing had changed in this world in over a hundred and fifty years, although the tribunal itself was a product of the postwar era, instituted in a time when the working poor were given some legal rights. Eileen had the same thought entering the building that she had had the week before: she was entering the graveyard of justice. She had girded herself as she turned the corner off Fleet Street and came down to the square, and during that walk she had told herself not to be fooled or become overly optimistic. This was not a fair hearing. The appeal’s tribunal had already dismissed her claim in November, exactly half a year ago, writing that she had no reasonable grounds to succeed with an appeal. This was going to be a formality, one last chance to make her point about what had happened and how the lower court’s judgment contained errors of law. It was going to be Eileen’s last aria.

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