Chapter 16 Leila
Leila
“I’ve just had to ward off three journalists harassing me about you,” Davina says, throwing a large bundle of files down onto the table in the robing room.
To a casual observer, I’m calm and cool, sipping the dregs of the filtered coffee I bought from the café and leaning back in my chair, my legs crossed, as the heavy black robes I wear fall elegantly to the floor.
My pristine white collarette, which sits snugly around my neck, stands out against my favorite black, fitted trouser suit.
It’s my power suit, the one I wear for special cases.
Something about the cut makes me feel confident.
But I am not confident. It’s all an act.
“What do you mean, ‘harassing you about me’?” I ask, placing the white cup down onto its saucer. A faint lipstick mark kisses the rim.
“They know you’re married to the prosecutor,” she says. “It gives an already juicy case extra frisson.”
I roll my eyes and start gathering my stuff.
I knew this would happen. It isn’t a big deal; married barristers come up against each other frequently in this job and the press know it, but they will make it out to be an issue here because of the nature of the case.
They will pit us against each other, and it could eclipse the case itself.
It’s also likely to draw unnecessary attention to us.
That’s Julian’s territory—I’m not a fan of being under the microscope.
All it will do is highlight my inexperience.
If a juror sees it, it could influence their verdict.
“Right, well, that sounds like something I’ll worry about tomorrow,” I say, standing up. “Let’s enter the lion’s den, shall we?”
We’re the first case on in Court 1 of Newcastle Crown Court in front of His Honor Judge Byson. Jack Millman will formally enter his plea to the charge of murder.
Julian stands outside court, talking to some police officers. His confidence oozes out of every pore. I do a cursory nod as I walk by, aware people will be watching. I want to appear professional.
We drove separately to chambers this morning; it didn’t feel right to arrive together.
It was a weird atmosphere in the house as we both got ready for work.
Usually, we chat about the day ahead and I sing along to whatever is on the radio.
Not today. We shuffled around each other, barely saying anything as we prepared for war.
We’ve had a challenging weekend. Julian kept getting angry every time I mentioned the intruder at the house on Friday night.
I finally told him about the incident with the car and mentioned the other weird things happening, including the message on social media.
His response was to simply “turn it off.” He said I should remain vigilant but not be overly concerned, claiming that these things happen sometimes, and it’s easy to think they’re related but that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
He conceded it’s natural to be paranoid when involved with a case like this, but I need to remain focused on the trial and not let these things affect my judgment.
He is, of course, right. The only thing to do is put it all to the back of my head for now.
I’ve got more important things to worry about.
As we approach the door of the court, a middle-aged man with neat, combed-back graying hair and a trimmed beard walks toward us.
Next to him is a woman who looks as if she might be his age, but her face doesn’t match the rest of her.
Her blonde hair is in a slick, low ponytail, contrasting with the sharp, fitted black dress she wears with black patent stilettos.
Her immaculate cream Louis Vuitton handbag sits obediently beside her leg.
“How is he holding up, Davina?” the man asks.
“Sorry, who…?” I ask, pretending to be confused, even though I know exactly who he is. The biggest crime boss in the northeast.
“Miss Reynolds, this is Eddie Sorrington and his wife, Daniella. Eddie owns Temptation,” Davina says, to which they smile and shake hands with me. “Eddie and Daniella are good friends with Jack. I think it was you who got him the job at the club, wasn’t it, Eddie?”
“Yeah, after he came out of prison. He needed a break, especially after…you know…so I gave him a job. Was it you who dealt with him for all that back in 2019?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Hmm.” He nods, making eye contact with me. “I’m sure you’ll do him justice this time around. He had a bit of a rough ride after that. Upset a lot of people. I’m sure you can imagine.”
Yes, I know.
“He’s a hard worker,” he goes on. “Very loyal to those who stand by him. He always does the right thing.”
“Does he?” I ask.
“Always. I took him in and gave him chances when nobody else would. Got him out of the system doing odd jobs for me. We liked having him around, didn’t we, Daniella? He was like a brother to…”
Something changes in his demeanor. The steely exterior drops and the glamorous wife—who has served as a prop until now—discreetly reaches for his hand.
“We suffered a bereavement a while ago,” Daniella says, robotic in tone. Her mouth is the only part of her that moves when she tells us this. She exhales slowly, as if it hurts physically to push the words out of her mouth.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell them both, but don’t inquire further. I always think you can tell when grief is raw and needs to be handled with care.
“Please look after him, Miss Reynolds. Jack is a good man,” Eddie says. His voice breaks a little bit. He swallows hard to compose himself.
“We really appreciate you coming to support Jack,” I tell him. “We’ll let him know you’re here.”
—
The public gallery is packed. Journalists fill the jury box, a common sight for short hearings where there’s significant public interest and a jury isn’t yet required. The air is thick with tension.
Two loud knocks echo through the courtroom, indicating the judge is about to appear. My heart starts galloping. I hear the blood in my body pumping in waves. His Honor Judge Byson appears on the bench to a cry of “All rise!” and that’s it. We’re off.
A jangle of keys is heard coming from the back of the court and the door from the cells to the dock opens. Everyone turns to look.
Jack walks through the door, momentarily shocked by the eyes fixated on him.
He freezes, like a deer caught in headlights.
Giving him the subtlest of smiles, I attempt to get him to focus on me.
He catches my eye and doesn’t let go until he sits down behind the monolithic bulletproof panes of glass in the dock.
The usual housekeeping matters are addressed before the formal indictment is read by the clerk.
Asking Jack to stand, he holds up a piece of paper and reads the charge aloud.
“Jack Millman, you are charged with murder, pursuant to common law. The particulars of the offense are that on Friday, September 6, 2024, you murdered Anton Smythe. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
I turn around to look at him, as does everyone else in the courtroom. The silence chokes us all as we wait for his answer.
“Not guilty.”
“Please sit down,” the clerk instructs. Whispers echo around the courtroom.
My husband jumps to his feet to address the judge. His mission for a conviction begins now.
“Your Honor, the Crown has not had sight of a defense statement,” he remarks in his court voice.
It’s slightly different from the one he uses at home: more clipped, posher.
Louder. It’s also laced with annoyance. “Despite repeated attempts to contact Miss Reynolds about this over the past week, no document has been forthcoming.”
Oh. I see. Like that, is it? Right.
Julian knew I wouldn’t be serving a defense statement because I told him, so why is he trying to make me look incompetent in front of the judge?
“Miss Reynolds, why on earth has a defense statement not been served? Are you aware this is a murder trial?” Judge Byson asks, waiting for answers I don’t have.
I rise to address the court, irritated by both my husband’s unnecessarily aggressive stance and the patronizing tone of the judge, who speaks to me now as if I’m a teenage girl.
“As matters currently stand, Your Honor, I am not in a position to properly draft one. I have made my learned friend aware of this.”
That is barrister code for: my client refuses to tell me what happened, aka “I’m stuffed.”
“I see,” the judge responds, turning his gaze toward Jack in the dock. “Is your client aware that failing to serve a document setting out what defense he proposes to rely upon will prompt an adverse inference direction to a jury in the event of a trial?”
“I have made him aware of this, Your Honor. Of course.”
“Well, let me remind him,” HHJ Byson booms, staring at Jack.
“Mr. Millman, if you do not speak to your barrister and tell her what your defense is, she is unable to put that in a document called a defense statement. This document is very important, as it is given to the prosecution, so they are aware of what you’re going to say in the event of a trial.
If they know what your defense is going to be, they have a duty to look through the evidence and disclose anything that may assist your case. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he says, clearly and politely.
“It is also important to make you aware that failing to provide a defense case statement can trigger the jury to draw an ‘adverse inference’ in your case. That means that, if you suddenly put forward a defense at trial without giving notice of it in this document, the judge will direct the jury to take that as an indication of your guilt.”
“I’m aware of this,” Jack replies confidently. I continue facing forward, but the disdain and contempt felt for Jack by everyone in this room is too powerful to ignore. They all knew Anton as one of their own. Now, this young, cocky man accused of killing him refuses to say anything about it.
“We’ve identified a mutually convenient date for trial, Your Honor,” Julian helpfully advises the court. “Monday, January 13.”
“Very well. It will require a High Court judge owing to its sensitive nature. Miss Reynolds, I’m aware this is a frightfully challenging case, but please endeavor to have more open communication via the proper channels with prosecuting counsel in future so that court time is not wasted, and everybody is on the same page. ”
I want to answer back and tell him Julian knew I wouldn’t be serving a defense statement but, of course, I don’t. Instead, I bow politely and vow to have it out with him when the time is right. I’m not making a show of myself in front of everyone.
Afterward, I go down to see Jack in the cells with Davina before they take him back to prison. His foot taps uncontrollably on the floor and his hands repeatedly rub over his chin. I guess things just got very real.
“So, we’re having a trial, then,” I declare.
“Well, I’m not guilty of murder, so…yes, we are.”
“Look, Jack, I’m going to give it to you straight: we have a well-respected, upper-class judge who’s dead, and a doorman with a criminal past charged with his murder.”
“But it wasn’t…” he starts saying, before cutting himself off. I watch as he begins to inhale more quickly, then hyperventilate. “This has gone too far. Murder. I’m charged with murder!”
The reality of the situation has set in, and it’s hard to watch.
I’ve seen it happen before; charges like “murder” are simply words until you appear in court and your liberty is suddenly in the hands of someone else.
He bangs his fists on the table; the handcuffs clank against the surface.
Security peers through the glass window into the conference room, ready to dive in.
I raise my hand, letting him know I have everything under control.
“Hey, Jack. Look at me,” I say calmly. His head remains lowered, covered by his hands. “It’s going to be OK. You’re not guilty.”
I quickly look at Davina, who is taking in the whole scene. She’s already unhappy with Jack’s decision to stay quiet until trial, and this won’t inspire confidence. Her worst nightmare is a client who crumbles at the first sign of stress.
“Nobody is going to believe me. You heard the judge. Who’s going to believe me over what they think Anton was like?”
“It’ll be difficult,” I say, placing my hand out in front of him on the table to calm him down.
“He wasn’t as squeaky clean as they all think he was, you know.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask quietly, my eyes quickly flicking to Davina, who is perched on the edge of her seat.
“Everyone’s making such a big deal of my phone going missing. What about his phone? Have you searched through that? Because that’s where you’ll find your answers to this.”
“Unfortunately, Jack, we won’t get access to that because we haven’t prepared a defense statement setting out what your defense is. If we do that, the prosecution is compelled to give us any evidence that may assist our defense. If we don’t, we get nothing.”
He leans back in the chair.
“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head.
“Why? Why can’t you do that?”
“I’m not a grass.”
“Jack, this is your life. Your liberty is at stake. You need to think of yourself.”
He shakes his head again.
“So, what’s the plan? Prison for the rest of your life? Doesn’t sound like a great alternative,” I point out, exasperated.
“Look, if you want to put a defense together,” he says, “you’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
“Elaborate, please,” Davina demands. She doesn’t attempt to hide the impatience in her voice.
He shifts toward her. “I’m not going to tell you what happened that night. I can’t. But the answers you need are right in front of you. Where was I the day of the murder? Look at what was happening elsewhere.”
The security guard knocks on the door, signaling they need to take Jack back to the van. As he pushes his chair back, it drags along the floor, sending an ear-shattering noise through the room. Before he reaches the door, he turns to look at me.
“One last thing, Miss Reynolds,” he says. “Don’t trust anyone. That’s what you told me last time, remember?”