Clutch of the Law

In a city that seems carved from soot and sodium light, a lone motor-cyclist—played with feral precision by Helen Gibson—slides through curfewed streets, her gloved hands the only flesh visible between leather and legend. The Law, here, is a mechanical gullotine on wheels: traffic-court verdicts delivered by nitro-injected pursuit. Gibson’s character, known only as ‘Clutch,’ once a courtroom sketch artist, now ghost-rides her hog across jurisprudence after the judiciary auctioned her sister to a private prison conglomerate—an echo of the flesh-markets in Auction of Souls. Each night she intercepts sealed subpoenas, swaps them with forged pardons, then vanishes into the smog like a rumor that refuses documentation. The plot coils tighter when a by-the-numbers constable—think Reign of Terror’s Robespierre reimagined as meter-maid—discovers that every pardon she issues resurrects a ghost-plaintiff who sues the city for wrongful death. By the time Clutch learns her own name tops the next docket, the film has already detonated its third act: a courthouse chase lit entirely by muzzle-flash and stenographer-sparks, where jurisprudence becomes a contact sport and the only verdict left is the squeal of her back tire on marble.