Chapter 5 Leila
Leila
Jack Millman is a thirty-two-year-old male from Hexham, in Northumberland.
As I told Julian, he went into the care system as a baby and has lived in more foster homes than he remembers.
He became a regular in the youth courts once he’d reached the age of ten, the age of criminal responsibility in England and Wales.
He also got in with the wrong crowd, which set in motion the revolving door of offending he was caught in.
It was only a matter of time before the violence started.
All that pent-up rage and anger had to go somewhere.
A boy let down by the system, abandoned.
His experience in the justice system merely confirmed everything he felt about himself.
A young man with no hope, no help, and nothing much to live for.
He is the reason I do this job, to be the person finally fighting in their corner.
The security guard walks Jack to the conference room in the cells of Newcastle Crown Court and ushers him in before slamming the door on his way out.
Jack doesn’t immediately look at me or his solicitor, Davina, but he’s changed since I last represented him.
He’s bulked up in terms of muscle, and his hair is longer. Wilder.
He sits on the black plastic chair at the brown table, both of which are nailed to the floor. He doesn’t slouch. His hands, handcuffed together at the wrists, rest gently on the table. The metal from the cuffs clangs against the cheap plastic top.
Jack’s outward appearance is that of a bouncer.
He clearly goes to the gym every day. Or used to.
Even through his tracksuit top you can see where the material clings to the muscles in his arms. He’s tall, around six foot two.
Already, my lawyer mind is thinking about how this will affect his defense.
What match was fifty-six-year-old Anton for a strong, thirty-two-year-old doorman?
The tattoos on his forearms peek out from the cuffs of his sweatshirt and burst out onto his hands. Another climbs past the neckband and up to his jaw. The more traditional jurors won’t like these. They’ll assume he’s a thug, and first impressions count.
Despite all this, behind the tattoos and the muscles, Jack seems like a little boy. One who was never given a break in life. He looks as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Some clients are awful. The ones who couldn’t care less about the hours, blood, sweat, and literal tears you put into their case.
The sleep you lose over them. Getting up at 4 a.m. to write their closing speech so it’s ready by 10:30 a.m. sharp.
You’ll secure an acquittal and, in turn, their liberty, and they’ll stroll out of court without so much as a thank-you.
Jack isn’t like that.
“We really have to stop meeting like this, Miss Reynolds. People are gonna start thinking I’m some kind of common criminal,” he says, with the faintest hint of a smile.
His black, cheekbone-length hair is messy and unstyled around his face, which hasn’t been shaved for days.
“Somewhere a bit classier next time? Nando’s? ”
I can’t resist smiling.
“Clearly you missed me too much,” I joke back, but then follow what I said with a steely look. This is serious. I open the brief in front of me.
“How are you, Jack?”
The bravado melts away. He swallows hard and looks down at the table before answering. I struggle to drag my eyes away from his handcuffed hands. I can’t imagine how awful it must be, being restrained like that.
“All right, considering. I wouldn’t say I’m doing well, but I suppose I’m coping.”
“Good. I’m here to do the best I can, Jack.
I need you to know that,” I reply, faffing around with my papers so we don’t descend into any kind of sentimentality.
I acquainted myself with his antecedent history before the conference and it was a depressing read: burglary, theft, drugs, violence.
But nothing in the last five years, not since I last represented him.
He’s really tried to turn things around, by the looks of things.
“I know you’ve been here before, but I’m going to set out how this works, so we’re all clear.
” I smile at him. “You won’t enter a plea today; we’re just setting a timetable.
You’ve instructed me to represent you, and I will assess all of the prosecution’s evidence.
Based on that and what you say about the offense you’re charged with, I will advise you on whether to plead guilty or not guilty. ”
“I’m not guilty,” he interrupts calmly.
My eyes flit toward Davina, his solicitor, for a second; she doesn’t take her eyes off Jack.
“It’s not a decision to make now,” I reiterate. “We’ll discuss it in due course.”
“My plea won’t change. I’m going not guilty.”
Ninety-nine percent of clients say they intend to plead not guilty at the first hearing, but it’s my duty to set out what the situation is from a defense point of view at the outset.
“Jack, when you called the police at 11:07 p.m., you said, ‘Judge Smythe from Durham Crown Court is dying in my flat.’ When the operator asked what happened, you replied, ‘I’ve been here all night. He’s seriously hurt.’ You then gave a no-comment interview.”
He nods, not taking his eyes off mine.
“I don’t suppose you know where your phone is, do you? Mobile phones can offer a real insight into your life and be helpful in these cases. It’s very unusual that it wasn’t at your apartment.”
“I don’t know where it is, and it’s not gonna turn up anytime soon,” he says, shaking his head.
I stare at him, waiting for him to continue.
“It was stolen, a few hours before the incident.”
I notice his carefully worded language. The incident.
“Where and when did you last have it?”
“In the club. I was working, moving around a lot. It’s difficult to say when it went missing. I only realized when I needed to call 999.”
“How are you so sure it was stolen and not lost?”
“There are things on there that could be dangerous if they got into the wrong hands. It’s either in my pocket or in my flat. It was stolen.”
Davina remains silent, despite this revelation—she knows that to probe too deeply now would be dangerous; he’ll tell us when he’s ready—but I have no doubt he’s just said what he did deliberately.
“Can you share with us what was on your phone?”
“Nope,” he replies in a clipped tone.
“Look, Jack, I appreciate there are perhaps sensitive matters behind this case, but if I’m being honest, unless you have a convincing defense,” I go on, “it’s not looking good.”
“We’d better start thinking of some good defenses, then,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
This was a problem in our last case. He doesn’t behave in a way that indicates that he’s aware of how much trouble he’s in until it’s too late. It’s inappropriate, but his natural charisma allows him to pull it off. I hope it’ll work in his favor in front of a jury.
“Jack,” I say seriously, “this isn’t like the other times you’ve been in court. You’re charged with murder.”
“They can prove I did it, then,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s how it works, right? Innocent until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt. If you think I’m making this in any way easier for them by giving them an inch so they can take a mile, you’re dead wrong.”
There’s a firmness in his voice now I didn’t see last time, a stubbornness.
“Jack, you’ve already given them enough ammunition to prosecute and likely convict you.
If I were prosecuting, I’d be feeling confident right now,” I tell him honestly.
“You were found at the scene, admitted you were there all night, and you failed to give an explanation for anything in interview. It won’t look good to a jury. ”
“You’ll get your answers, but not until the trial.”
I look at Davina, but she is still watching Jack. She’s been silent throughout, sizing him up. Until now.
“Let me get this straight,” she asserts in a calm Geordie lilt that sounds mildly menacing. “You want us to let you swan into the witness box in a murder trial, with no idea of what you’re going to say?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Can you believe this?” Davina laughs, turning back to me.
“Jack,” I intervene, “I can’t put forward a defense if you don’t talk to us, which makes it difficult to convince a jury you’re not guilty. All I’ll be able to do is test the Crown’s evidence and throw doubt on its credibility. It’s high risk.”
“It’s bloody suicide!” Davina butts in. “Jack, you have no idea if what you’re going to say even amounts to a real defense. You could play right into the prosecution’s hands. We are here to advise you. You’re playing with your life here.”
“It’s my call,” Jack says, unswerving. “If I wanted lawyers who played it safe, I’d have gone elsewhere. But I need someone with a backbone, someone who isn’t afraid to take a risk.”
Of course. This is our unfinished business. My opportunity to make things right.
At law school, it was drummed into us that nothing is more important than fighting fearlessly for your client. You must go above and beyond to explore all avenues, seek out the best defense, pursue anything that could secure an acquittal.
The other thing that was stressed, perhaps even more so, was the importance of following your client’s instructions.
You can do nothing without the consent or permission of your client.
You may not run a defense without consulting them first. You cannot raise any significant submission without their support. They are very much running the show.
That message, now, is loud and clear.
“Who’s prosecuting?” Jack asks, leaning back into the cheap, plastic chair.
I take a deep breath before telling him. It’s not the best news to give a client.
“I need to speak with you about that. It’s Julian Kesler, KC.” I pause. “My husband.”
He gives a little laugh and looks down, as if to compose himself before bringing his eyes up again to meet mine.
“Are you joking?”
“I’m not. Because we’re both self-employed, we are permitted to be on opposing sides of a case and will adhere to the highest standards of confidentiality, impartiality, and integrity, as dictated by the Code of Conduct. But you’re entitled to sack me and instruct other counsel if you’d like.”
“Is he any good?” he asks.
“Very,” I tell him honestly.
“Is he better than you?”
“He’s very experienced. I’m just being transparent with you.”
“Miss Reynolds doesn’t miss a trick, Jack. You can rest assured you are in the safest hands,” Davina interjects.
Jack shifts toward Davina. “I know. I don’t like lawyers.
Never have. Even though our last trial didn’t go the way we wanted it to, Miss Reynolds is the only person out of everyone who’s ever represented me who didn’t treat me like I’m stupid.
” He angles his shoulders back toward me.
“You know what happened last time. I need you to prevent me from falling into another trap.”
Davina’s eyes shift between us. Her job in client conferences is to note down what is said for future reference. I see that her pen was set down minutes ago. She’s not been recording this conversation. And that is also, I presume, why he asked for Davina.
“I won’t let that happen again, Jack,” I say. “You have my word. But this strategy will be difficult, procedurally, I mean. Please reconsider.”
“I can’t, Miss Reynolds,” he says sternly. “If I were to talk, then—”
He cuts himself off before looking away, shaking his head and taking a deep breath. I give him a second to recalibrate.
“This situation, this case. What…happened,” he tells us. Jesus, he can barely bring himself to say it. “It goes high up. Much higher up than me. I’d have to expose people, put myself at risk. People would get hurt. That’s all I’m prepared to say—for now.”
My head turns toward Davina to see what she makes of this. Her face gives nothing away, but it’s clear she’ll be concerned about Jack’s attitude going forward.
“Who are you protecting?” I ask him.
“No comment,” he says, shaking his head.
—
Jack stands up in court to confirm his name and date of birth, then sits back down, dwarfed by the huge sheets of glass that surround the dock in Court 1.
You can feel movement in the air from shuffling journalists.
I vaguely recognize Anton’s wife and his son in the public gallery.
She still looks to be in shock—emotionless and distant, her thin frame hidden by a big, black coat with a fur collar.
Her shoulder-length black and silver hair pulled back in a way that would look chic in different circumstances.
Their eighteen-year-old son, Quinn, sits next to her, wearing a black suit and tie.
He keeps his head down the whole time; the hearing is obviously too much for him.
My nerves ignite the second Julian glides through the doors of the court in the way KCs do.
The professional gap between us flashes like a beacon.
We may be sitting at opposite ends of the same long, wooden bench at the front of the court, but the differences in our professional dress mark us as unequal.
As King’s Counsel, he has earned the right to wear a silk robe, not one made of wool, like mine.
His is lighter and has a more free-flowing movement to it; the one draped around my shoulders is heavy and cumbersome.
Silks are elite advocates, appointed by the King. And they make sure everyone knows it.
The hearing lasts only seven minutes and is uneventful. The defendant will enter his formal plea to the charge in just under one month’s time. No application for bail.
I leave court with a sense of dread closing in on me, like fog on a cold winter morning.
I feel I’m being tested and failing at the first hurdle in this impossible race.
What are you supposed to do when you can’t fight fearlessly because your client won’t talk?
How can I put the best defense together with limited instructions?
I feel that I’m going against everything I was taught as a barrister.
But, as Jack insinuated—cleverly, many times throughout his conference—I don’t really have a choice.
I owe him.