Chapter 8 Leila
Leila
The downside of doing talks and events is that you have to post where you’ll be. If someone doesn’t like you, or you have an ex-client who wants access to you, it tells them exactly where you are.
After checking my car thoroughly, I drove home and decided not to tell Julian.
I can’t even be sure the person was doing anything to my car.
Nothing was damaged or taken, and he’d tell me we don’t have any proof, which is true.
Besides, if I raise any kind of official alarm about being followed or watched, all kinds of red alerts would be enacted, which would cause far too much drama.
One of my colleagues tried a dangerous case a couple of years back and became the target of a terrifying intimidation campaign courtesy of the wider gang network.
It began with him being followed home from court, then progressed to threatening mail sent to chambers.
It wasn’t until a petrol bomb was posted through the letterbox of his family home that he finally took it seriously.
This profession comes with risk, one we take on when we step through the door of a criminal court.
You are prosecuting and defending dangerous people.
For my colleague, the petrol bomb meant police presence outside his house, enhanced connection to 999, a visit from the Ministry of Defense to make his house more secure—which included CCTV in every room—and police escorts for him and his wife everywhere they went.
I don’t want any of that. The last thing I need is people whispering about how I’m some terrified, incompetent girl, and that this case is too big for me.
I don’t have time to dwell on it the next day, as I’m in court until mid-afternoon.
Finishing earlier than expected, I head back over to chambers.
I really need to do some Millman case prep before evidence from the prosecution is served.
As I reach the old stone steps of our building, I see Chester coming out.
“Miss Reynolds.” He smiles, tipping his head ever so slightly in a bid to appear gentlemanly.
Chester Vernon is one of those older men who’s big on chivalry and manners.
I’ve seen him make a dash from one end of the robing room to the other just to hold a door open for a woman struggling under the weight of all the books she was carrying.
“Fancy a quick one?” he asks in a tone that would get him immediately disbarred by the Bar Standards Board. “I was just about to head home, but I’m much more interested in hearing all about this case you’re doing with your frightful husband.”
He’s acting more animated than usual, and his eyes have a glaze about them.
I catch the distinct smell of booze when he speaks, so I gather he’s been for a long, liquid lunch, which used to be very common at the Bar “back in the day before things went woke.” What’s likely happened is everyone else has gone home and he’s looking for an excuse to stay out.
The more inquisitive part of me wonders why. With a wife like Demi—half his age, looking like a model—shouldn’t he be running home?
I’d usually say no to a drink when I’ve got a huge case, but there’s something I wouldn’t mind talking to him about if the topic arises, so I decide to go. “Just one. I mean it, Chester. One, then I’m going home.”
After I’ve dumped all my gear in chambers, we head to a nearby bar. It’s just after 3 p.m., so there’s barely anyone here. Chester orders a large glass of red wine, and I ask for a small white, which he predictably promotes to a large to match his.
We choose a sofa in the corner, but not so close to the window where we could be seen. We have nothing to hide, but the Bar is a vicious place for gossip, and people can get the wrong idea. I ensure there’s a decent amount of space between us so there’s no ambiguity.
He places himself comfortably in the corner of the sofa, swinging one arm along the back of it.
His immaculately tailored black suit—no waistcoat, which immediately marks him out as being a KC in the robing room—makes him look stylish and distinguished, even at his age.
His dark gray hair is slicked back, culminating in small curls at the nape of his neck.
White streaks at either side of his head give him the appearance of a Harry Potter villain.
Slicked-back hair is a must for King’s Counsel; it adds to the mystique.
“So, Leila,” he bellows, “I hear you made an impression at some school last night? Demi saw it on the Instagram.”
“The” Instagram.
“Yes, it was a talk I did off the back of the blog I do.”
“Is this the ‘no flirting allowed’ blog?”
I give him a playful stare, letting him know his outdated views are inappropriate. “Chester, times have moved on.”
“Doesn’t sound any fun to me,” he puffs, rolling his eyes and reaching for his wine.
He’s a bit of a relic, but Chester was my biggest champion when I applied to chambers.
He was on my seven-panel interview for pupillage and asked questions that gave me an opportunity to shine.
I think he liked my spirit and confidence and was probably vocal in convincing the others to give me a shot.
I’ll always be grateful to him for that.
“How are you feeling about the Millman case?”
“Ready for the challenge but also terrified,” I confess.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I really want to use this opportunity to show people I’m up to it, but it feels like I’m doomed either way.
If I lose, I’ll look incompetent. If I win, I’m worried what might happen to my marriage.
I’m not sure Julian could handle it if I won.
Imagine the hit his ego would take. A woman. A non-KC. His wife.”
Chester is probably the only person I can admit this to.
“You’re up against it. Really up against it, here. Not only with the case, but with him. He’s a dirty player.”
Chester and Julian can’t stand each other.
Never have. It’s a tangible dislike whenever they’re in the same room.
Chester would love to kick Julian out of chambers, but his professional fees are huge and because we all pay a percentage of them into chambers, he brings a lot of money in.
“Incompatible personalities” isn’t a good enough reason to send him packing.
“Oh, come on, he’s not that bad,” I protest, even though we both know he is—that’s why he’s so good at what he does. “He was my pupilmaster, remember? I know all of his tricks. Seriously, though, do you have to wind him up at every opportunity?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says innocently, taking a sip of his drink with the slightest hint of a smirk on his face.
“I saw you at the memorial. Sienna.”
He delivers a questionable side-eye my way, like a toddler being told off for stealing a biscuit.
“Look, I care for Sienna. She’s a bloody good woman and a loyal solicitor. She sends me decent cases,” he explains, attempting to justify his actions. I’m not buying it. “OK, fine. I’ll stop. Just watch yourself. Julian’s cocky and I loathe cocky. He’ll do whatever it takes to win.”
“So will I,” I whisper menacingly with a wink.
“That’s my girl!” He laughs, raising his drink to mine. The music in the bar is turned up a notch as we sip from our oversized glasses.
“Leila, I hope you know you can come to me for help or guidance. I’m always here, professionally or personally,” he says, reaching out and very gently placing his hand on the top of my leg. His fingers curl around, ever so slightly, to the inside of my thigh.
I look at him with a cold stare. He quickly removes his hand and runs it through his silver hair. He’s crossed a line, and he knows it. I should rant and rave at him right now about how he’s overstepped the mark, but I don’t.
I consider it for a few seconds. It’s the right thing to do.
But.
I really need to ask him something. And I can’t do that if I launch a tirade of feminism at him. And he’s my head of chambers; he could make life very difficult for me if he wanted to. Chester is known for being a great ally if you’re on his good side—and lethal if you’re not.
Something deep inside is still niggling away at me after seeing the way Demi acted at Chester’s birthday party a couple of weeks back.
“Sorry…sorry…I shouldn’t have done that…I suppose I just…” he mumbles. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just…I’ve a lot going on at the moment. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, despising myself. Just last night, I was empowering students not to stand for this shit, and now here I am, planning on using what just happened to my advantage. If I need information from him, now’s the time to get it. It’s a classic cross-examination technique.
“Forget it, Chester,” I say dismissively, moving even farther away from him. “How are things with you, anyway? How’s Demi? She looked beautiful at your party.”
“What?” he says, distracted, leaning back into the sofa. “I tell you what, Leila, I’m not doing this again.”
“Doing what?” I ask, forcing a huge gulp of wine down my throat.
“Marriage.”
“What do you mean?” I try not to ask too quickly.
“I think she’s having an affair.”
I knew something was going on. I knew it.
“What? Demi? No.”
“Was. Is. I’m not sure. But something’s up.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, firstly, I’m not as oblivious as she thinks I am. Secondly, I’ve been there and done that, haven’t I? I know the signs. Serves me right, I suppose.”
Chester had just split up with his first wife when I joined chambers.
He had the look of a broken man, one who had ultimately messed up and lost everything: his wife, his home, his life.
Risked it all for the thrill of another woman.
It’s not difficult to see how he managed it. Even now, he oozes charisma and charm.
It took him a couple of years to get over what happened.
I rarely saw him around chambers during that time.
Apparently, he didn’t like coming in, being around people.
I think he drank a lot. After that, he became a bit of a cliché; bought a fast car, a city apartment overlooking the river.
Every Friday night he’d be surrounded by young women in champagne bars—no expense spared.
“I’m fifty-nine years old, Leila, and what have I got to show for myself? On the way to two failed marriages and a kid who won’t speak to me.”
Honestly, he’s an intelligent man. How can he not see that actions have consequences? And yet, for some stupid reason, I feel sorry for the idiot.
“It’s never too late, you know. To make things good with Elise.”
Everyone in chambers knows Chester’s daughter hasn’t spoken to him since he cheated on her mother. I think he maintains a strained relationship with his son, but the daughter wants nothing to do with him.
“She made her views about me clear a long time ago. It is very much too late.”
There’s a sadness and fragility to him as he says this.
“So, what are you going to do about Demi?” I ask, attempting to drag him out of his melancholy.
“She’s been so erratic these last few months. Distant. Going out at weird times, not saying where. She’s unpredictable. It’s like she can’t stand to be near me.”
“Maybe it’s not an affair. Perhaps it’s something else. Maybe she’s just stalking people and then killing them,” I say, deadpan. He throws his head back and laughs, which sets me off, too.
“Do you have any idea who it might be?” I ask.
“No. Not yet,” he says calmly. But the emphasis on “yet” is intended to convey he will soon enough. “She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. She’ll trip up at some point, and I’m watching her like a hawk now. But I’ll tell you something, I won’t be made a fool of, Leila.”
Now that, I believe.