Chapter 7 Leila
Leila
One of the things I love most about this job is getting outside the courtroom and using my platform to help young, aspiring barristers—especially women—enter the profession.
I started a legal blog back when I was at law school, hoping to give a realistic account of what it was like to study at Cambridge.
Chats at the Bar gradually became a hit among law students, but those followers had already been successful, to a certain extent.
I wanted to do more, ignite a spark in those who were surrounded by people who threw cold water on their ambitions, much like I had been at their age.
“Good evening, everyone!” I speak into the microphone. “Thank you for inviting me to your wonderful school. It’s an honor to be here.”
I tell them my name is Leila Kesler by marriage, but because female barristers are always referred to by their maiden name, I am professionally known as Miss Reynolds.
We dive straight into the Q the floor is theirs to ask whatever they like.
“What made you want to become a criminal barrister?” inquires a girl in the front row.
It’s always the first question, and my answer is always the same.
“I actually had no clue what I wanted to do with my life until I was about sixteen,” I answer truthfully.
“Around that time, I met a barrister through my school and was fascinated by his job. He spoke with such passion about criminal law, running trials, cross-examining defendants. I knew then that it was what I wanted to do. Meeting that person changed my life.”
“I love that, Leila!” Rachel, our host and head teacher, says into the microphone. “Never underestimate how influential the right person can be. OK, next question…”
She moves to a girl in the second row.
“Is it realistic for people like us, who don’t go to a private school or come from wealthy backgrounds, to get into criminal law? My parents say I’ve got my head in the clouds.”
Rage starts to gather in my body.
Nothing makes me angrier than a parent dampening a child’s desire to do well for themselves.
“Fuck that,” I say calmly into the microphone. It has the intended effect. Gasps and giggles rebound around the room. “You’re all smart, driven, intelligent young people. You can do anything you want. Prove them wrong.
“I went to a school just like this one, and I had nobody in my corner, either. You’ll be told it’s not for you, that it’s impossible, you’re wasting your time. Ignore them. You need to be your own champion. That’s OK. I believe in you. I believe in all of you.”
“Leila, off the back of that, do you think you’ve been disadvantaged in any way because of your working-class roots?” Rachel asks.
“Absolutely not!” I shoot back. “Your background is an asset, not a flaw. I didn’t have money or contacts, but I had grit, steel, and determination—just like you.”
The room bursts into applause.
“Leila!” another girl shouts. “What changes do you think need to be made post-#MeToo?”
It’s a change of topic, but I was expecting it to come up tonight.
“The #MeToo movement has given all of us a platform and the courage to call out and extinguish latent sexism in this profession. I’ve seen women having to put up with leery male solicitors, or being told, ‘I’ll send this brief to someone else if you don’t comply.
’ Women feeling that the only way they’ll succeed in this career is because of how they look or who they’re willing to sleep with.
No more. We must stick together. We are worth more than that. ”
People whoop and clap in agreement. To see a new generation of potential lawyers talking openly about preparing themselves to tackle this makes me think change really is possible.
When the noise dies down, Rachel moves to a girl at the very back of the auditorium. I can’t see her at all. I can only hear her voice.
“Could I just ask, off the back of the #MeToo stuff, which is all very empowering and current, et cetera,” she says.
Condescension dances on the surface of her voice.
“Are you saying that girls should never consider performing sexual favors in this profession even if it would significantly advance their career?”
It’s an odd thing to say, particularly in today’s climate, and it’s loaded with a tone I don’t like.
“You’d be gaining success via the back door. So, no.”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asks, surprised. The room is silent.
“No.”
“Were you ever tempted?” she challenges. “When you were younger, especially coming from such a disadvantaged background?”
I pause, aware that I have hundreds of eyes on me, and I don’t like what she’s insinuating. The heat from the stage lights is starting to make me sweat.
“I wasn’t,” I reply firmly.
“Your husband is King’s Counsel, isn’t he, Leila?”
The host sees where this is going and takes the microphone away from the girl asking the question. Or is it a woman? She sounded older than a teenager. And there was a familiarity in her voice I couldn’t place.
“We only have time for one question each, I’m afraid!” Rachel says, moving on, and I’m grateful for her tact. As the next girl asks her question, I smile, but my mind is reeling. Who would ask a confrontational question like that?
The Q&A lasts for another hour. At the end, some attendees approach the stage and ask for selfies, which I don’t mind. It’s good publicity for Chats at the Bar.
It’s dark when I leave, just past 8 p.m. My car is at the far side of the car park, dimly lit by one tall lamppost at the other end. There’s a car parked next to mine and a few others scattered around, but most have gone. I wish I’d parked closer to the entrance.
My pace quickens as I approach my car. Reaching into my handbag, I fumble for the keys and press the button to unlock the door so I can get straight in. As the reverse lights flash, a hooded figure is illuminated at the rear. The person jumps slightly, then turns sharply to walk away.
“Hey!” I shout out instinctively.
The figure doesn’t stop, moving farther into the dark.
A feeling of dread settles around me. Why was someone by my car?
Something is off. And my instincts are very rarely wrong.