My name is Edward Whitaker. Im twenty-eight, and Im a solicitor. Yes, I have Downs syndrome. But thats just one of many things about melike my eye colour or my love for a proper cuppa with cinnamon. Though, sadly, not everyone gets that.
At Morrison & Co, I worked for two years as a legal assistant. I organised case files, did preliminary research, drafted documents. My work was spotless. I arrived earlier than everyone else, stayed later, because I loved what I did. My colleagues respected me, Mr. Morrison himself praised me more than once. It felt like Id finally proven that people with Downs belong not just in stereotypes, but at a real solicitors desk.
Then everything changed on a drizzly Tuesday in October.
“Edward, please, take a seat,” Morrison said when I stepped into his office. His voice was oddly stiff. “We need to talk about something important.”
My heart jumped. Life had taught me alreadywhen an adult says “important,” good news isnt coming.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no, quite the opposite. Your works been excellent. But” He hesitated. “Weve had a few complaints from clients.”
I frowned. “Complaints? About my work?”
“Not exactly. Its more about your presence.”
The air suddenly felt thick.
“Some clients have expressed concerns. They feel someone like well, like you might give off an unprofessional impression.”
“Someone like mehow?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Its nothing personal, Edward. Its just business. They pay substantial fees, and they expect a certain image.”
I stayed quiet. Then, slowly, I said, “So youre sacking me because of Downs?”
“Dont put it like that. Were just restructuring. You could work remotely”
“No,” I stood up. “I wont hide. Im a good solicitor, Mr. Morrison. And if youre firing me over my condition, thats discrimination.”
I walked out with my head high. Inside, though, everything crumbled.
That evening, in my cramped flat overlooking a noisy London street, I opened my laptop. If they thought they could push me out without a fightthey had no idea who they were dealing with.
The next few weeks were spent buried in case law, statutes, precedents. My desk was a mess of papers, my head full of arguments. I had everything: emails, performance reviews, colleague testimonies. Three weeks later, the claim was ready.
When the news broke, my phone wouldnt stop ringing.
*Solicitor with Downs syndrome sues former employer for discrimination.*
Plenty offered to help. I refused.
“If I cant defend myself,” I said, “what kind of solicitor am I?”
The trial began on a frosty morning. The courtroom was packed with reporters. Across from meMorrison and his three barristers. I was alone, but not really: my heart was full of faith in justice.
The judge, a stern silver-haired man, peered over his glasses.
“Mr. Whitaker, are you certain you wish to represent yourself?”
“Yes, Your Honour,” I replied firmly.
Morrisons barrister, a polished man named Mr. Reynolds, spoke first. His argument dragged on for nearly an hour: “legitimate business decisions,” “corporate standards,” “employers discretion.” He never said “Downs syndrome,” but every sentence reeked of it.
When my turn came, the room fell silent.
“My names Edward Whitaker. Im a solicitor. And yes, I have Downs. But thats irrelevant today. Because were not here to talk about my geneswere here to talk about my work.”
I presented documents, reviews, reports.
“These are the evaluations Mr. Morrison gave me: *Exceptional attention to detail. Reliable, dedicated.* Now he claims my presence *harms the firms image.* Tell me, what kind of image does a firm have when it sacks someone just for how they look?”
Witnesses backed me up. One colleague even choked up describing how Id helped him with his caseload.
When I cross-examined Morrison, the room was so quiet you could hear pens scratching.
“Mr. Morrison, was my work unsatisfactory?”
“No,” he muttered.
“Then why was I dismissed?”
“Because… some clients”
“So not my work? But *what* I am?”
He stayed silent. That said enough.
In my closing statement, I kept it simple:
“Im not asking for pity. Im asking for fairness. Judge me by what I do, not how I was born. Because today, its my case. Tomorrow, it could be anyones.”
The jury deliberated for three hours. The longest three hours of my life.
When they returned, the foreman stood.
“In Whitaker v. Morrison & Co, we find the defendant guilty of discrimination.”
I barely heard the applause. Just saw the judge, Justice Caldwell, give me a small nod and smile.
Six months later, I opened Whitaker & Associates. My first client was a woman in a wheelchair, fired for being “too slow.” The second? A deaf man denied an accounting job.
Now, in my office, next to my solicitors certificate, hangs a plaque:
*Edward Whitaker. Solicitor.*
No clarifications. No labels.
Because Im not a *solicitor with Downs syndrome.*
Im a solicitor. And thats more than enough.
