“The navigator says we’ve only got fifteen minutes left before we get there,” Joe says, interrupting my concentration. “You’ve looked at that file for the last three hours. It can’t be that interesting.”

“What? No,” I mumble in confusion. Taking one last look at the mug shot, I discreetly close the  folder. “I like to feel as if I know them before I see them.”

“What’s there to know? He’s a criminal, doing his time. The fact we’re visiting him in prison makes it obvious, does it not?”

I cringe at his frankness. Joe’s direct nature often means we’re at loggerheads with one another. He’s determined to see the world in black and white, and my tendency to try and find the colour in everything has him often thinking of me as incompetent and naive. Especially right now. An unwelcome shadow, he makes me feel nervous and inadequate, and keeps insisting that I could use his assistance with the drive up. His sexist views on a woman entering an all-male prison are hidden under the chivalrous guise of keeping me company.

We’ve known each other for five years, both starting out in a competitive Legal Aid Graduate Program, fresh out of university. We ventured on to becoming full-time solicitors. Like many people, Joe became jaded, cynical, and a downright arse to work with.

I fought tooth and nail to be accepted in the graduate program, and after five years it’s still the only place I want to be.

Working for Legal Aid isn’t for everyone. It’s often disheartening and the results can be really ungratifying. Being a purely government funded organisation we’re not at the top of the food chain when it comes to the legal world. This job is all heart and no cents.

I’ve only ever wanted to practice law. I come from a family of solicitors, the difference? It’s their speciality. They love property law, and when I finished high school, I thought I did too. I was going to follow in my family’s footsteps. Work for my dad and eventually his firm would be mine. There was nothing my father loved more than showing me off as his protege. Until he realised I wasn’t.  

Often during university I would be required to visit different organisations and offices to see how they worked. Learning about their strengths and weaknesses exposed me to all the different branches of law. It wasn’t until I delved more into criminal and family law that I had my first encounter with Legal Aid.

Sure, I’d heard about it, but I never really grasped the magnitude and the importance of its presence in the field. For people who were socioeconomically disadvantaged and sought out legal advice; Legal Aid was a lifeline.

It was a world I didn’t know existed. I was fortunate in my upbringing, but it really was the first time in my life when I realised sometimes fortunate meant privileged, and that left a bad taste in my mouth.

I didn’t know how hard people were struggling, I didn’t know there were people who would rather be in jail, because that’s the only way they could guarantee a roof over their heads and three meals a day. I foolishly assumed that things available to me were available to everyone. That included legal representation.

I was from a cookie cutter family in the Northern suburbs of Sydney. It was like Pleasantville. The neighbours waved at you every morning, and helped you put your bins in at night. We had street barbecues and all the kids went to the same school. It was a close knit community that had never felt, heard, or been around anything remotely controversial.

My father insisted my save-the-world attitude wouldn’t pay bills, put food on the table, or gain me respect among my peers, but I didn’t care. The pull to do something different and meaningful was strong, and I was determined to put my strengths to good use, no matter how much that disappointed my family.

Looking out the car window, I see the big, grey, fenced building come into view. Joe shifts the car into park, and I slip the manila folder into my tote bag and make sure I have all the paperwork I need to meet my newest client.

“Make sure you don’t take any valuables inside.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Joe. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying, we’re meeting with criminals.” Opening the car door, I step out into the thick, humid air--a welcome relief to being stuck in the car with Captain Obvious for two monotonous hours.

Adjusting my outfit, I make sure my royal blue chiffon blouse is still tucked in, and nothing is unnecessarily exposed. Walking towards the guarded entrance, I toy with my quartz pendant that hangs off a gold necklace underneath my clothes. A gift from my grandmother, the only person supportive of my career, it serves as a constant reminder that I’m making the right choices, despite the obstacles.

We push through the heavy, automated glass doors, and the refreshing chill of the air conditioning envelops me from head to toe. Goosebumps pebble my clammy skin as I step farther into one of New South Wales’ most notorious correctional centres. The process to get inside is tedious but necessary. With visiting hours scheduled on different days for different people, today the prison is filled with solicitors doling out legal advice.

“Make sure your pockets are empty when you go through the metal detector. Nothing worse than everyone staring at you when you hold up the line.”

Looking down at my pocketless pencil skirt, I raise my eyes to meet his embarrassed stare with my exasperated expression. “How about we don’t speak to each other unless it’s completely necessary, yeah?”

“I’m coming with you to see this client.” He empties the pockets of his rumpled suit.

“Fine, just don’t speak. Please.”

“Sir. Ma'am. Please sign in and then follow me inside.”

The silence thickens between us as we walk deeper into the block. Minimum security isn’t full of the worst criminals, but there’s still an element of fear that always plays in the back of my mind. Visiting inmates is always the perfect example of how quickly your life can change. One moment you’re free, and then you’re not. And being inside changes you, no matter what you did or why you did it. Without exception, I try and treat all my clients equally. I almost always meet them with guarded optimism and leave with a heavy heart.

Sitting on the metal chairs, it’s obvious there’s nothing comfortable about this place. It’s sterile. Furniture bolted to the floor, each item significantly spaced from the other--the prison visiting area is a stark reminder that it’s all about isolation, separation, and loneliness.

“We’ll be bringing the inmate out shortly,” the officer says. “I know you guys know the rules, but to be sure: no inappropriate touching, hands need to be visible at all times, and scream if you feel unsafe.”

I roll my eyes at his failed attempt at being funny before I lower my head and have one last read through of my notes. It’s important to make sure I’ve stored all the imperative details. There’s no room for error when you’re delivering such important news to your client.

I hear the loud buzz followed by the unlocking of an electronic door in the background. With my head down as I scribble some last minute reminders, I’m oblivious to how quickly my client reaches us.

“Ms Lane, the inmate is here as requested.”

I turn the paper over and slam the pen down. I stand too abruptly and jolt the table. The pen begins to roll off, and we all stare at it’s inevitable decent. The tink it makes when it lands on the concrete floor snaps us all out of the zone.

Crouching down to pick it up, I notice movements that mirror mine, fingers reaching for the pen just as a I whisper urgently, “No. Don’t.” The hand backs away, and I swiftly pick up the pen. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over a pen.”

Together we rise, and my eyes finally land on Jagger Michaels.

I force myself to stand my ground, even though his presence unnerves me. No amount of reading could’ve prepared me for the person in front of me. The photo I studied on the way up here was a teenager. Just a kid. The guy that’s been hidden behind these four walls is a man. A built, broken, hollow man.

Like a deer in headlights, I stare. And he brazenly stares right back.

I try to direct my attention elsewhere, but his bleak, lackluster eyes call to me. They keep me locked in place, while my empathetic heart begs me to help him.

His eyes are the darkest shade of brown I’ve ever seen, bordering on the edge of black. Dead. Lifeless. With day old stubble across his jaw, it hides how hard he’s clenching his teeth. His distaste at this meeting is apparent.

It’s understandable. He isn’t expecting me. With no warning and no time to prepare, he has no idea that I’m about to drop a bomb and change his life.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Michaels. I’m Emerson Lane, your solicitor.”

“It’s Jagger.”

It’s in this moment Joe decides to stand up next to me. Jagger purposefully turns to face him, his stare deliberate and intimidating. Tension radiates throughout his body, accentuating the way he fills out the hunter green prison wear. My eyes roam over the breadth of his shoulders, his sinewy and sculpted biceps, the way they refuse to be restricted by any amount of clothes. Everything about him makes it impossible to turn away.

My gawking is unprofessional and unethical. Shaking myself out the stupor, I gesture to his chair. “Okay. Jagger, please have a seat.” As we all sit down in unison, the two men continue to glare at one another, both insisting on asserting their power.

“How are you?” I ask.

The softest chuckle sounds from his throat, and a slight smirk graces his face, “Can’t complain.”

“Do you have any idea why we’re here today?”

He shakes his head nonchalantly, and the few relaxed seconds between us disappear. The muscles in his jaw return, prominent as ever. “Your eligibility for parole has come up, and the State Parole Authority has accepted your request for release.”

He lowers his head to his hands, and his shoulders rise and fall with burden.

“Jagger.”

He doesn’t respond.

Uncharacteristically my fingers itch to reach across the table. “Jagger,” I repeat softly. “Are you okay?” My hand glides slowly across the table, only to have Joe’s hand fall on top of mine forcefully.

“Ouch,” I whisper.

At the sound of pain in my voice, Jagger raises his head, and his eyes stop at our joined hands.

“Let go of her,” he orders.

I try to inconspicuously drag my hand out of his grip, desperate to defuse the situation.

“Excuse me?”Joe answers in shock.

“You hurt her. Didn’t you hear her?”

“Hey. Guys,” I interrupt. “Let’s not get off track here. Jagger, how do you feel about your news?”

Tearing his eyes from Joe, Jagger’s pools of sadness meet my hopeful expression.

“I don’t want it,” he announces. “I’m not leaving here.”