Chapter 1 Leila
Leila
The party has already started by the time I arrive back at chambers.
Well, I say party; “somber gathering” is a more accurate description, given the circumstances of the last seventy-two hours. I don’t understand why he didn’t cancel it. Then again, coming together in times of crisis is something the Bar is incredibly good at.
Besides, Chester Vernon would never allow the murder of a Crown Court judge to come between him and a good drink.
The sound of low-volume chatter spills out of the chambers lounge into the corridor.
It’s because of Chester—our illustrious, wildly eccentric, wine-loving head of chambers—that we’re known for boozy bashes.
Any day ending in a “y” has been used as a reason to party in the past. Today, though, is his fifty-ninth birthday.
To have your absence noted would be professional suicide, and he’s not the kind of man you want to make an enemy of.
While not technically our “boss”—barristers are self-employed—he is our elected, professional leader.
What he says, goes. Every set of chambers has one.
“Chambers” is a fancy word for “offices,” but you’re not allowed to call it that. Just another part of the tradition that comes with this job. I did actually call it an office once, during pupillage, and heads turned. I never did it again.
I scurry into one of the conference rooms. Well, as quickly as you can scurry while pulling a wheely suitcase behind you that contains a wig, robes, and a load of heavy books.
Even after all these years, it still gets caught on chairs, tables, and, on one unfortunate occasion, a condom display in Boots.
“Leila!”
Poking my head out of the door, I see Chester beckoning me toward the lounge in the arrogant way a mafia boss might summon a waiter.
God, I can’t be bothered with this tonight.
I won’t be allowed to leave until I’ve had at least three glasses of wine.
My icy blonde hair hangs down my back, untamed and wet from the rain.
After five hours under a horsehair wig, it’s not looking slick.
The last thing I want to do is parade myself in front of some of the most important people in the legal profession like a kind of bedraggled peacock.
“Five minutes, Chester!” I yell back, furious with myself. I should have gone straight home.
No sooner do I close the door than it’s thrown wide open again.
I can tell by the way it’s done that it’s Jim, our senior clerk.
He’s always in a rush to get somewhere. Jim runs at least four marathons a year and is in his late fifties but looks younger because all he eats is fruit and lean meats—and he likes to tell you about it.
“Been waiting for you to get back. You going in?” he asks, nodding toward the lounge. In his hand he’s clutching a thin brief, held together by pink tape.
Jim is responsible for getting cases in and distributing them to the barristers he thinks will be the best fit. Maintaining good relationships with clerks is vital if you want a healthy career. Thankfully, I get on with mine.
“Not really in the mood,” I tell him. After a long day in court defending a man accused of sexually assaulting his daughter, I have a banging headache.
“Great result today.” He smiles, alluding to the acquittal I secured for my client. “Already had the solicitor on, singing your praises.”
“Really?”
“Said you were hypnotic to watch.”
“Hypnotic?” I repeat, delighted. “I’ve never been called that before.”
Jim knows how excited I am to hear this. It’s been so difficult to carve out a name for myself.
“And…” he says, pausing for dramatic effect, leaning against the oak bookshelves that spread across the wall, “you’ve received a quote in the Legal 500.”
“Oh my god. Are you joking?” I squeal, before immediately clawing it back and composing myself.
Jim loves it when one of his barristers makes it into the Legal 500.
It’s a professional guide for clients that ranks sets of chambers.
If you impress the right people, they single you out with a glitzy quote that can do wonders for your career.
At thirty-six years old, this is a long time coming, given I’ve been a criminal barrister for thirteen years.
“What does it say?” I ask urgently.
Peeling a neon pink sticker from the brief in his hand, he peers through the glasses perched on the end of his nose. His short, silver-white hair sticks up at peculiar angles.
Leila Reynolds executes intuitive style and is an exceptional jury advocate. She approaches cases with a forensic eye and has a very clever way of interpreting evidence. Future bright star and KC in the making.
It feels surreal, hearing those words describe me. Being professionally recognized is so important and this is the highest form of it.
“Who nominated me?”
He knows why I’m asking.
“I don’t know,” he replies, fiddling with an elastic band from his trouser pocket.
“Can you find out?”
“I can try, but it’s not always possible,” he says sternly, letting me know he will not be taking my request any further.
“This is fantastic news, Leila. Take it for what it is. The opportunities it’ll send your way.
You’re an exceptional advocate—I’m hearing great things. Someone has obviously recognized that.”
He normally calls me Miss Reynolds, only ever calls me Leila when he’s gone into “dad mode,” which I never really mind.
Despite the fact that Jim is a clerk, I have more in common with him than the other barristers.
We both come from working-class backgrounds around Newcastle.
He has a thick Geordie accent, similar to mine.
I’ve been advised to “water it down” over the years, but I refuse to get rid of it.
I’m fiercely proud of my roots and have always found clients and jurors relate to me more than my privileged colleagues because of it.
“You’re right.” I smile at him. “I’m grateful.”
“Anyway, I’ve got a new brief for you. Came in an hour ago. Client was very specific that he wanted you and nobody else.”
He holds the brief out toward me, and I take it.
IN THE CROWN COURT AT NEWCASTLE
R v Jack Millman
That’s all it says on the front. When you’ve represented as many people as I have, most of the names blend together. Some spark recognition, but you can’t connect them to a face. Others, you don’t forget.
Like this one.
“Are you going to bloody look at it, or what?” Jim asks. I pop the bow on the ribbon and open the brief. A chill radiates through my body when I see the full name.
Both of them. On the same indictment.
I read the instructions from the solicitor:
PARTICULARS OF OFFENSE
On Friday, September 6, 2024, JACK MILLMAN allegedly murdered ANTON SMYTHE. He gave a NO-COMMENT interview and appeared at Durham Magistrates’ Court on Monday, September 9, for a first hearing. Proceedings will be transferred to Newcastle Crown Court and counsel is instructed to defend hereafter.
There’s hardly anything to the brief, but there wouldn’t be at this stage. It’s flimsy, fewer than ten pages.
The murder of His Honor Judge Smythe on Friday night sent shock waves through the legal community. News spread on Saturday afternoon after his wife told close friends, and information like that doesn’t remain secret for long.
At first, people speculated it must have been a tragic “wrong place, wrong time” type of incident, but as more details have emerged, that has seemed increasingly unlikely.
“Leila?”
I realize I’m staring at the paper and that my heart rate has increased. I’m used to the adrenaline that comes with the job, but this is on another level.
“You want me to lead a murder trial?” I ask. The words sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth. I feel embarrassed saying them. “I can’t. I’m not a KC. I’ve never gone near a murder before. I’ll have to return it. I’m not doing it.”
“Don’t freak out,” Jim says calmly, as if he were talking to a toddler who’s just realized they were riding a bike without training wheels.
“I can’t just defend a murder trial. And not this one! The murder of a judge! If it goes wrong, I’ll look completely incompetent, and I’ve no chance of winning. Why do I have to do it?”
“Because Jack Millman specifically asked for you to represent him. Cab-rank rule, Miss Reynolds—if a client wants you to represent them, you can’t turn them down unless you’re not qualified for the case. I’ve spoken to Chester; he thinks you are.”
“Does he?” I frown but am secretly delighted Chester believes I can pull off something like this.
“I understand why you’re worried,” Jim says in his “dad voice.” “The last time you represented him was…problematic.”
As understatements go, it’s a big one. I represented Jack Millman five years ago for assault, and that case made me question everything—the law, the system, whether I should even do this anymore.
“But you’re more experienced now,” he goes on. “And you must have done something right because he wants you again. I thought you’d be pleased. Big, juicy case. Something like this will throw you into the legal stratosphere. You heard the quote: ‘future KC.’ You could be, after this.”
“It’ll be messy,” I tell him. “I can feel it.”
“Well, he also ‘doesn’t trust barristers,’ apparently, just to add that to the mix.”
“Sounds like him.” I sigh. “Who’s the solicitor?”
“Jessops. Davina called me about it this afternoon. She’s content for you to defend.”
This, in itself, is a red flag.
Jessop Solicitors is the biggest firm in Durham. Run by solicitor husband-and-wife team David and Davina Jessop; they get all the big, dubious cases, and always advise their clients to answer no comment in interview. If you’re represented by them, there’s always more to the story.
“OK, so which barrister is prosecuting it?”
He attempts to phrase something several times before coming out with “That’s the other tiny little thing I need to mention.”
I know exactly what he’s going to say.
“Tell me this is a joke, Jim.”
He doesn’t reply. He screws up his face, pretending to be sorry, but—make no mistake—he’s relishing the drama.
“Jim,” I say, perching on the edge of the desk and pushing my fingers hard into my temples. “Please don’t tell me my first murder trial is going to be prosecuted by Julian. He taught me everything I know.”
Not Julian, please not Julian. My pupilmaster, the best barrister in chambers, the one who trained me, nurtured me. The most feared prosecutor on our circuit.
And my husband.