Chapter 2 Leila
Leila
I’ve always been able to spot him in a crowd, ever since my first day as a pupil thirteen years ago.
I was a fresh-faced twenty-three-year-old who knew everything about the law and nothing about life.
Julian Kesler showed me how to merge the two.
When Innovation Chambers in Durham offered me pupillage straight out of law school, I immediately went to their website and looked up my pupilmaster, as they used to be called.
They’ve since been renamed the less archaic and BDSM-sounding “pupil supervisor,” but I can’t ditch the habit of using it.
I remember the excitement I felt, hearing he was going to be my guide over the next twelve months.
Pupillage is the intense practical training period you must complete before becoming a qualified barrister, when you’re assigned to work closely with a senior member of chambers during the first six months.
In the second six months, you’re given your own clients, but your pupilmaster shapes you into the barrister you become.
The bond you form is long-lasting and special.
I spent hours searching the internet for information about Julian Kesler. I wanted to know everything about him; this was the man who would teach me how to be a brilliant advocate, construct crushing cross-examinations, deliver the most persuasive closing speeches.
Julian showed me how to do it all.
He’s talking in hushed tones to a couple of other barristers in the corner of the attic lounge. Rain lashes down the sloped windows behind him. Like most buildings in Durham, ours is beautifully old and we’re lucky to call it our professional home.
I cross the room toward him. “Can I have a word?” I whisper. It’s unusual to see him loitering in the corner at an event like this. Julian more often roams around the floor, making himself known to people.
He doesn’t answer, just subtly excuses himself in the very classy, elegant manner he inhabits, which I’ve come to recognize over the years.
Even after a full day in court, he retains the handsome features that have given him so many privileges: groomed dark hair with the slightest wild kink and silver streak shining through.
Large eyes, the color of dark ale. He has this ability to make you feel you’re the only person in the room. He follows me away from the throng.
“You’re panicking already, aren’t you? You’re doing the eye thing.”
Julian always says that my left eye does this weird twitchy thing when I’m really stressed out.
“Of course I’m panicking!”
I fully appreciate that from this moment on, Julian and I are professional opponents. I really ought to be holding my cards closer to my chest in terms of how nervous I feel, but this situation has gripped me by the throat. I can’t breathe.
“Just think of it as any other case,” he says, taking a sip of his warm wine. “But against me.”
“That’s the problem. You’ve got a good eleven years more experience. And you’re King’s Counsel. What if I mess up?”
He slides his hand around my waist, giving it a little squeeze.
“You’ll be fantastic. This is your chance to shine.”
“Fine for you to say. You’ve got the easier job. Who’s ever acquitted of murder?”
“There you go. Less pressure.” He smiles, giving me a casual, reassuring wink. Now that he’s King’s Counsel, he really only does murder cases—he could do them in his sleep and still win. “When they called to ask if I’d prosecute, I obviously jumped at the chance.”
“You knew I was defending when they offered it to you, and you still said yes?”
“I’d have been mad to pass it up. Such a prominent case. It’ll elevate both of our careers, not to mention the national recognition.”
I understand the logic behind it, but this case will be challenging enough. The nation casting its glare isn’t something I really want.
“I’m surprised they allowed it, given our relationship,” I tell him, more out of defiance than anything else.
I’m annoyed he took on the case, but I’m not surprised.
Julian would have been the Crown Prosecution Service’s first choice.
He is fierce, strong, and fearless as far as advocates go, and his conviction rate is very high.
The fact he’s prosecuting against his former pupil and younger wife will have everyone in the CPS rubbing their hands with glee.
They’ll see it as a clear win, and if I’m being honest with myself, Julian will see it that way, too.
As will everyone else.
“They made it very clear that, providing we act professionally and impartially, and have open and honest communication, there’s no reason why we can’t be opponents.
I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a husband and wife have gone up against each other in court.
You’re not suggesting I should have turned it down, are you? ”
“Of course not!” I lie. “It’s just—this is a big deal for me, and I want to do a good job.” I know how naive I must sound. I suddenly feel like a pupil again, walking into chambers every day desperate to impress everyone, particularly him.
“Have you read the papers yet?” he inquires.
“No, I haven’t had the chance…”
“Looks pretty damning at this early stage. Don’t think he’s got a defense, so it probably won’t even be a trial. I imagine an early guilty plea. You’re worrying over nothing.”
After Julian hands me a glass of wine to calm me down, I try to act normal and chat with members of chambers, but all I can think of is the case.
Colleagues insist on coming over to “congratulate” me on securing “the brief of a lifetime,” saying Julian and I will be “fighting it out to the death,” as if we’re starring in a Marvel film.
“Well done, Britney!” slurs Nigel, a high-functioning alcoholic who still somehow manages to run a very successful criminal practice.
“Britney” is my chambers nickname and was given to me in my first week.
Everybody gets one. The men are assigned names pertaining to a variation of their surname; Julian’s is simply “Kes.” Ridiculous.
It’s different for women; we tend to be named after someone we vaguely resemble.
When I joined chambers, I had long, blonde hair that contrasted with my big, brown eyes, so I was initiated as “Britney Spears.” The only people who don’t call me this are Jim, Julian, and Chester.
People crowd around Julian and me, clamoring for the tiniest morsel of inside info. As always, there are even some veiled suggestions that I got the case because of him.
“Wow! Very unusual for someone so junior to receive such a case. Unheard of. You must have made the right connections!” says Ophelia (aka “Legally Brunette”), daughter of a High Court judge, who scraped a pass at law school and clearly doesn’t understand what nepotism—or irony—is.
I know what they’re getting at. It’s the same thing they’re always getting at—that I only get good cases because of my husband. Because when you marry a KC, that gives you a leg up. You’re suddenly “someone.”
“Got to hand it to him,” Simon bellows, thinking I can’t hear, clutching a glass of red wine like his life depends on it. “Kes has played this one well. Get his younger, inexperienced wife to defend the trial of the decade. Guaranteed a win!”
Roars of laughter follow.
Brilliant.
I’ve always been surprised by the brutality of Bar humor. Barristers don’t hold back. You need a thick skin and absolutely cannot complain, otherwise you’ll be seen as weak and told to lighten up.
I consider butting in and saying, “I was asked for specifically,” but I don’t. It wouldn’t make a difference. They don’t want the truth; they want gossip and drama. They thrive on it.
You need to know how to play the game.
I landed the case they all want. The murder of a judge is career-defining. They don’t think I deserve it. So, the only way to win the game now is to prove them wrong.
Somehow.
“Apparently, he was killed at the defendant’s flat, which is above the club…”
“Who’s the accused, anyway?”
“A doorman at Temptation. It happened late Friday night, it seems.”
“What the hell was Anton doing there?”
Julian and I glance at each other from opposite sides of the room as the gossip swells. He rolls his eyes and distracts himself by chatting with a group of colleagues. Neither of us should be hearing this.
But I’m not surprised they’re asking questions. The place where he was killed—sorry, allegedly killed—is a place you wouldn’t expect someone like Anton Smythe to be, yet it’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect him to be.
Temptation is an elite men’s club in the center of Durham.
Members only, and there’s a rigorous vetting process to become one.
Very few people are allowed access to the venue, so it’s shrouded in mystery.
Owned by millionaire Edward Sorrington, it may profess to be a decadent, luxurious venue, but the reality is it’s dripping in illegal activity.
A haven for dirty deals, high-class prostitutes, drugs, and money-laundering, it almost always involves the most respected people in our community, ones with teams of expensive lawyers making sure the news never gets published.
The only reason I know so much about Temptation is because of the case I did years ago when I defended—guess who?
Jack Millman.
“It’ll be something to do with a pretty young girl, I’m sure…” Phoebe (“Shieldsy,” because the men say she reminds them of Brooke Shields) says, much to the dismay of everyone listening. “Oh, come on! We all know he had a wandering eye.”
No one responds. Instead, they gaze down at the floor, refusing to engage. But we are all thinking it.
His Honor Judge Anton Smythe must have been in his late fifties.
But he was attractive, as far as older men go.
He had a confident, charismatic air about him, as most male members of the judiciary do.
The years had been kind to him, and he retained his good looks; intense dark eyes and a full head of silver hair. Very old-school, dapper.