Final Hearing
Lost submissions and a preparation in vain – just another Tuesday where ‘final’ arguments are not so final.
Abiha Zaidi
Published on: 4 February 2026, 12:55 pm
The contempt matter ahead should take ten minutes. It’s been forty-five.
Senior lawyers on either side are doing their thing. How they love the sound of their voices. The judge gives them a week to file submissions. They continue the banter beyond the brief.
One senior is now telling a story about a case from 1997. The other senior laughs. The judge laughs. The court is their living room. How she wishes it was hers too.
She’s standing at the back, laptop sleeve cutting into her elbow. Been up since 5 AM. Slept at 3. Missed her morning run. The brief is perfect – twenty-three case laws, each one directly on point.
Index of authorities ready. The three perfect judgments. She knows they don’t have the luxury of time or patience for all twenty-three. Propositions table typed out. Relevant extracts. For ease of reference.
A senior briefly reviewed it last night and said, “This is good work. Go conquer!”
Ready to conquer. Or at least get by.
One senior is now telling a story about a case from 1997. The other senior laughs. The judge laughs. The court is their living room. How she wishes it was hers too.
Third coffee today. Swollen face. Darkened eyes. Head wash didn’t help. Nothing makes up for beauty sleep. Friends from the bar rush between their own matters, give her a pat – ”the big one, huh? All the best!”
Her junior is buying time in another court where she’s also listed. Or maybe he’s already back, buried somewhere in this packed room, trying to reach her. He knows better than to get too close on these groggy mornings. Reasonable distance is safer.
The big matter finally ends. The battery of lawyers starts collecting files. So many of them. More seniors than juniors. Three lever-arch folders. Loose papers spilling everywhere. They move slowly, checking each page like currency notes. The seniors leaving create a domino effect large enough to make her wobble. Her centre of gravity isn’t working today.
She sees her junior coming from the other end, his face covered under the flowing robe of a demitting senior.
Her matter is called.
She moves to the bar. No space. Files everywhere. Her junior wedges himself into a corner, holding both their bags. A senior’s elbow is in his face. He mouths something – either good luck or get me out. She can’t tell.