Chapter 14 Leila
Leila
Julian arrives home not long after me. The smell of whiskey follows him around.
He pours himself another one after throwing his suit jacket on the armchair, something he only ever does when he’s incredibly stressed out.
Slumping onto the sofa opposite me, he removes his tie while flicking through his phone.
“Good night?” I ask, in an attempt to drag him out of the weird state he’s in.
He doesn’t reply, clearly preoccupied with whatever—or whoever—he’s dealing with.
This is the hazard of being married to a barrister.
It’s not a nine-to-five job. There’s always an email to deal with, some evidence to review.
“Julian? Did you have a good night?”
He shoots me a surprised look, as if he’s only just realized I’m here.
“What? Oh, yes, darling.”
“Who was out?”
“Usual crowd.”
“Where did you go?”
“Advocacy skills 101?” He laughs. This is an inside joke between us. It’s difficult not to appear to be cross-examining someone when you’re asking questions. “Just had a few in the Elvet.”
“I’ve been to see your mum.”
“How is she?” he asks, tapping on his phone without looking up.
“She’s getting worse every week, Julian. I think you should go and see her. She was asking about you again.”
He throws his phone down beside him on the sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table.
“It’s hard seeing her like that. She’s not the woman I remember. I appreciate you going over there, but you don’t have to.”
Walking over, I sit next to him and swing my legs over his knees. Putting his phone away in his trouser pocket, he slides his hands over my legs.
“I just want to help her,” I tell him.
“But you’ve got your own life. You should be out on a Friday night with your friends, not staying in and playing backgammon with my mother! Why don’t you tell her you’re busy from now on?”
“I couldn’t do that,” I tell him. “I’d feel bad lying to her, and she looks forward to me going.”
“Well, I’ll pay for some help to go in.”
“Please don’t. She’d hate that. But it’d make her day if you popped by,” I tell him softly, slipping my hand into his hair, which finally raises a smile from him.
“OK,” he whispers. “I’ll call by in the morning after my round of golf.”
I remember the first time I watched Julian properly perform in court.
On week two of my pupillage, Julian prosecuted a rape case.
The trial was fascinating. I had, of course, completed many mini-pupillages—when you spend a week with a criminal barrister, usually observing a trial—but this was different. I was inside it this time. Immersed.
I looked on in awe as he delivered his closing speech to the jury.
There is something hypnotic about witnessing high-quality advocacy in a courtroom.
Anyone who says delivering a closing speech is a skill is wrong; it’s an art.
It’s been said barristers are actors without Equity cards, and that’s true.
The courtroom is your stage, your robes are your costume, and the jury is your audience. How successful you are isn’t necessarily based on what evidence is presented—it’s all about your performance.
I cringe thinking back to the innocent baby barrister I was when I joined chambers; the “law school way” I’d prepare sentences or skeleton arguments.
Julian would make me stand in his office, with ten minutes’ preparation time to simulate real life, and prepare a plea in mitigation for a case he’d be doing for real later that morning.
He’d sit behind his desk, lean back in his chair, head cocked to the side with his arms folded, and I’d panic, wondering if what was coming out of my mouth made any sense.
His eyes locked onto me and didn’t move; he wanted to see if I could handle the pressure of a courtroom.
Would I stand up to intimidation? I was convinced he could see my heart pounding in my chest. He’d then rip my submission apart.
He was utterly brutal. I hated him for it.
But I loved it, too. It made me a better advocate.
My whole professional life, I’ve wanted to be as good as him.
But I’m not stupid. There’s no doubt whatsoever that he sees me as an easy victory in this case.
“Darling,” he says, stroking my leg, “just a little thing about the plea hearing next week. I’m assuming since I haven’t received anything from the defense it’s going to be a guilty plea to murder?”
I remember what Julian told me on our weekend away, that this is how big trials are run. It’s not as if we’re discussing intimate details of the case. I’m not breaching client confidentiality; I’m just giving him a heads-up.
“No,” I tell him assertively. “I expect a not-guilty plea.”
“Oh! Right. OK.” He muses for a few moments. “Has he actually said that? Are those your instructions?”
“He isn’t saying anything at all.”
“I see. So, you won’t be serving a defense statement, then?”
The defense statement is the most important document in any criminal defense. It sets out exactly what defense you’ll be relying on at trial. Perhaps most importantly, it triggers disclosure from the prosecution; if they have any evidence to support your defense, they have to give it to you.
“I don’t see how I can in the circumstances.”
“No, of course. Yes. Obviously.”
I watch as he drums his fingers on the sofa in a rhythmic way. It’s subtle, but it’s something he does when he’s anxious. I first noticed it when I was his pupil; he did it when jurors entered court to deliver a verdict, and a pattern emerged. People talk with their actions.
Julian despises “defense ambushes” in trials. He likes to be prepared and know what defendants are going to say before he starts cross-examining them. Without a defense statement, he can’t do that.
“I’ll keep you updated,” I tell him formally. Julian taught me murder is the same as any other trial, the only difference being that someone has died, so the stakes are higher. But essentially, the process is the same. I need to have faith in my own ability.
“Certainly. Just planning ahead. Thanks for letting me know. I really thought this was going to be a straightforward guilty plea to murder, but it sounds like we’ll be having a trial?”
“Probably. It makes no sense, though. There’s no motive.”
“I’ll find one,” he says, tapping me on the leg and signaling he wants to get up.
I have no doubt he will.
—
Later in bed, Julian faces the opposite way to me, no attempt to connect. I remain awake for a while, overthinking everything.
Just as I’m dozing off, I see a light shining into the bedroom that appears to be coming from the back garden. It takes me a few seconds to work out it’s the security light. Not unusual—next door’s cat usually sets it off.
A few minutes go by, and the light is still on.
Julian is fast asleep, so I can’t ask him to go, and I’m far too cozy in bed to check for myself, so I pick up my phone and tap the security app to look at the CCTV we have covering the back garden to confirm there’s nobody there.
But someone is there.
On the black-and-white image, someone wearing a big, black coat and black woolen hat is peering through my patio doors in the middle of the night.
Frozen to the spot, I quickly glance at the time. It’s 12:23 a.m.
“Julian! There’s someone trying to break in!” I whisper frantically, shaking him awake. He barely registers what I’ve said, and I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but with my eyes on the screen, I jump out of bed to see this person for myself.
Switching every light on upstairs to let them know I am very much awake, I watch them quickly look up before turning around and running down the side of the house.
Rushing to the front bedroom, I see nothing of where they went until, about ten seconds later, what looks like a red Mini zooms down the otherwise quiet road.
A Mini? That’s not a thug’s car.
When I drag Julian out of bed, he’s more concerned that I’ve interrupted his sleep than anything else.
He thinks it’s an opportunistic thief looking for an open window on a Friday night.
He stops me from calling the police, saying we’d be wasting their time because what can we offer them by way of identification?
I didn’t get a good look at the person’s face, and we don’t have a registration for the car.
I can’t even prove it was their car. I go back over the CCTV and that reveals nothing, either—their coat, or perhaps a scarf, goes right up to their nose, and the camera is positioned high up on the wall, so it only captures the person from above.
There’s something about the fact that someone was here, at our home, that makes everything feel dangerous.
Closer. More threatening. The questioning at my event, the figure loitering by my car, the social media message—all those things happened, arguably, at a distance.
But this? This is a step too far. This is my safe place.
By coming here, this person has confirmed what I’d already started to suspect.
Someone is out to get me.