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Eleanor’s lawyer had done his best to argue her case. She hadn’t known the workers were being exploited and demeaned. She had offered them jobs when nobody else would employ them, especially the ones just out of prison, and the immense cut she took had been necessary for her expenses. Those few who had been reported being made to work naked or groped by their clients – they must have negotiated that independently, and as such, could be argued to be the real criminals here. No matter what the client said, Pretty Maids in a Row International would never suggest they could get away with that.
“Objection,” said the prosecution. “We have already heard audio of Ms Kennick on the phone to an undercover officer, offering him those very services for an extra charge. Money, incidentally, that your maids never saw.”
“That was faked!” cried Eleanor, until the judge banged the gavel.
“And we have seen the standard Pretty Maids uniform,” continued the prosecution, passing the jury once again a photograph of a humiliatingly skimpy maid’s uniform, the skirt of which was so short the accompanying ruffled knickers would barely be covered.
“Your Honour,” began Eleanor’s lawyer, aware he was struggling but determined to earn his immense fee, “my client is a hard worker. A job-creator. An entrepreneur. Eleanor Kennick is a a feminist with a record of speaking at major women’s conferences around the world. She would never ask any employee to do work she wasn’t prepared to do herself.”
The judge peered down her glasses at the defendant, who sat proudly before her, sleek hair flowing over her shoulder of her Chanel suit.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” she said. “Members of the jury, you’ve heard the evidence. I will ask you to retire and consider your verdict.”
The jury shuffled out.
Little more than an hour later, everyone was back in the room. The verdict was guilty. Judge Merchant thanked the jurors and dismissed them.
“Will Ms Kennick please rise?”
Eleanor stood up, glaring at the bench.
“Typically, for non-violent crimes like this, the recommendation is community service. Given the extent of your trafficking and exploitation of vulnerable women, I would suggest this continue for a year.”
“Your Honour, can we ask the nature of the community service my client would undertake?” said the defence lawyer.
“Litter-picking, largely,” said the judge. “Motorways, parks etc.”
“Well, that won’t be happening for a start,” said Eleanor, waving her hand dismissively.
“Ms Kennick,” warned the judge, “I assure you, I will hold you in contempt if you do not let me finish.”
“I am not litter-picking in public. I cannot be seen picking up rubbish on a chain-gang like some criminal. So sue me.”
“What my client is trying to say, Your Honour,” interjected the counsel for the defence, “is that a public spectacle like this would harm not only my client but also her brand. The company’s stocks would plummet, and that could lead to job losses for innocent workers.”
“I see,” said the judge. “And are there many competitors in this field?”
“Many, but Maids in a Row has been the market leader for decades, Your Honour. My client’s nearest competitor is Pristine Cleaning.”
“Oh yes,” smiled the judge. “I believe I remember a public spat last year in which the CEO of Pristine Cleaning – Thomas Eastway? – told a journalist about the ethical issues we have discussed her today.”
The lawyer shuffled his paper awkwardly. “Well yes, but at the time, this was hearsay and potentially very damaging.”
“If memory serves,” said the judge, stroking her chin, “after winning a lawsuit against Mr Eastway, did Ms Kennick not go on to secure a £1 million advance for her memoir, Clean Queen? A memoir in which she portrayed herself as a champion of women’s rights and not only denied the exploitation of she had been accused, but also one in which she levelled counter-accusations at her rival –”
“– which he has not pursued in court,” added the defence counsel.
“Yes,” said the judge, “probably because Pristine Cleaning were left in financial tatters after you sued them, Ms Kennick. By a lawsuit for libel and defamation over supposed lies that turned out to be true.”
Eleanor opened her mouth but the judge held up a warning finger.
“I will accept your counsel’s request for private community service, Ms Kennick. I see no reason why your employees should suffer. No litter-picking for you.”
Eleanor breathed out, relieved.
“Instead,” said the judge, “You will pay compensation of £100,000 to each of the workers you harmed. I believe the number affected was 379. A total of £37.9 million.”
“But – but that’s too many – we can’t afford that!” Eleanor turned white.
“Yes you can,” said the judge. “I believe Mr Eastway has expressed an interest in taking over the company.”
Eleanor looked up to see a figure waving from the viewing gallery. Eastway. Her blood boiled.
“Ha!” she said. “He’s bankrupt!”
“Oh, but he’s not buying you out, Ms Kennick. You’ll be giving the company to him as compensation for the bogus lawsuit you filed. I’m recommending an order supervising any businesses in which you have a hand, and he’s offered to perform this role, should you break away and form a new company. Unless, of course, you would like the court to try you for perjury?”
“You can’t DO this!” screamed Eleanor.
“Ms Kennick, please,” begged her lawyer. But Eleanor had the red mist.
“Who are you taking money from, eh?” she jabbed a finger at the judge. “Who are you sleeping with? Eastway? Absolutely bent. I’ll see to it that you’re kicked off the bench. Disbarred!”
“Ms Kennick!” spat her lawyer, but he could not control his client.
“You’d be amazed how many powerful people would step in to help me,” continued Eleanor. “After all, it would be a shame if the press got wind of their… proclivities…”
The judge was taken aback. She composed herself until Eleanor had been wrestled back into her seat.
“Well,” said Judge Merchant, “I was going to leave it at that, but I see zero contrition here and the honour of the court has been severely impugned. So we have a choice. We can move for a perjury trial and you will likely go to jail, or we can arrange a different, more discreet form of community service. Since litter-picking is too public…”
Eleanor’s lawyer gulped. He had seen Merchant in action before. He knew how diabolically creative she could be.
“Umm, honestly…” he whispered to Eleanor. “I would strongly consider pleading guilty and taking the jail time.”
Eleanor did not look at him but continued to glare at the judge.
“Not a fucking chance,” she hissed. “I’m leaving here with my head held high.”
“NO!!!” screeched Eleanor.
“Would you SHUT UP?” said her lawyer, exasperated. “Do you want this to get worse for you?”
“How could it possibly get worse than me having to report to HIM?” hollered Eleanor. “Having to do community service under HIS supervision?”
“I give up,” said the lawyer, shutting his case. “You’ll receive my bill later this week.” And with that, Eleanor was left in the now-empty courtroom to think about her new sentence.
Later on, in her London Bridge apartment, Eleanor scowled at her ugly police-issue ankle monitor. A year of this bullshit. She would appeal as soon as she found a new lawyer.
A message appeared on her phone.
“KENNICK, E. [CASE 190GB016]: REPORT TO 113 BAXWELL GARDENS AT 8AM, 14 MARCH 2025 FOR COMMUNITY SERVICE. FAILURE TO ATTEND WILL RESULT IN POLICE CUSTODY.”
Oh, she would attend, all right. Tomorrow morning she would don her sharpest Gucci suit, taxi to Baxwell Gardens and give that smug bastard Eastway a piece of her mind. She would tell him exactly what she thought of this arrangement, assure him that she would find a way to connect him and the judge, and then she would get back her business before destroying Pristine Cleaning.