Chapter 22 Leila
Leila
Julian continues to build the Crown’s case against Jack, serving evidence upon which he proposes to rely to secure a conviction.
The trial isn’t until mid-January, but criminal trials are meticulous beasts with timelines and deadlines to be adhered to.
Among all of this, I have to continue conducting other trials and cases knowing there’s someone out there taunting me, playing with me.
They know something I don’t.
It feels odd to address my husband in emails so formally, but this is how it must be done.
I emailed him from the kitchen the other day, despite the fact that he was sitting in the next room.
As November passes by and we sprint toward the final month of the year, freezing-cold temperatures set in around the house in more ways than one.
I’ve never been a fan of big, old houses—I find them overpowering.
Too many cracks and drafts. I feel that I can’t breathe sometimes. That sounds ungrateful, doesn’t it?
Next week Julian and I are conducting a site visit to the location where the murder was allegedly committed. But I can’t stop thinking about what Jack said about Anton’s phone and how that’s where the answers are. Julian will have forensics on that by now and I wonder what he’s found.
I’ve noticed we both get a bit spiky when new evidence lands; it’s as if we’re guarding our thoughts so the other can’t read them. We go into separate rooms to review it, fearing the other will read our body language if we remain where we are.
We still eat dinner together, when we can. But it’s becoming less frequent, a sign that this trial is pulling us apart, since our conversations inevitably—problematically—drift to issues surrounding the case.
“I assume you’ve seen the newspaper article? The one that painted me out to be some kind of novice lawyer?” I ask, as he’s about to stuff some chorizo and roast pepper pasta into his mouth.
“I’ve seen it, yes.” He nods. “There were some copies lying around the robing room.”
“So, everyone’s read it, then.”
“This is just part and parcel of being in this kind of trial. People love theatrics. They’re going with the David and Goliath angle to sell papers. Don’t read anything into it.”
“Are you relying on the contents of Anton’s phone to prove the Crown’s case?” I ask, before I have time to think about the words leaving my mouth.
He looks up at me, studying my face for a few seconds. The same way he does to criminals he’s cross-examining in the witness box.
“Nothing on there of interest,” he replies, continuing to eat his dinner.
“Can we see it, then?”
“Nice try,” he says, smiling.
“If it’s unused material, just hand it over.”
“You haven’t served a defense statement. Come on, Leila. You know the rules. This isn’t a fishing expedition. What’s wrong with you?”
Oh, now we’re following the rules.
I need that phone.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says brightly, “I’ll do you a swap. I’ll give you Anton’s phone if you give me Jack’s.”
I smile at him sarcastically.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the cell site analysis and know where it was traced. Outside Anton’s house,” I point out, monitoring his face for the tiniest shade of a reaction. He doesn’t give anything away.
“Of course I have,” he replies, refusing to look at me and continuing to eat. “It could be explained by various scenarios.”
He’s hiding something.
“Obviously, you don’t want that admitted as evidence,” I go on, undeterred.
“It complicates your case, doesn’t it? Why would the defendant’s phone end up outside the victim’s house, twelve miles away, when Jack was already in police custody?
How did it get there? Jack couldn’t have been in two places at once. Who took it?”
I’m pushing it, I know. But I can tell this worries him by the way he slowly inhales and lifts his eyebrows. It’s something I’ve seen him do in court, countless times, usually when an opponent presents him with a submission he doesn’t like.
One that means he can no longer win.
“Look, Leila,” he says sternly. He adopts this voice sometimes, like a father about to scold a child.
He places his cutlery down onto his plate.
“I know you’ve been shafted with this one.
But don’t get carried away and let it ruin your credibility.
Everyone is watching to see how this plays out.
Stick to what’s in front of you. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. ”
“Julian, I have a duty to my client to explore all avenues. Don’t you think it’s odd his phone was switched on less than an hour after he allegedly killed someone in a different location, at a time when he was detained by the police?
And that location happened to be the deceased’s home?
There’s a missing link here. As far as we know, before that night they weren’t personally known to each other.
There’s no way this is a coincidence. Are you that desperate for a conviction you can’t even consider that someone took it and—”
“Wait,” he interrupts urgently. “Are you insinuating he wasn’t alone when he committed the murder?”
“Alleged murder.”
He rolls his eyes at me in a dramatic manner.
“Yes, yes, alleged. Is that the angle you’ll be coming from? I mean, are those the instructions from your client? Has he specifically said that?”
“Well, no.”
“Because, as I understand it, he hasn’t given you any clear instructions regarding his defense, which is why you haven’t served a defense statement.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you know to coach him or lead him in any way would be completely unethical,” he preaches. This is rich, coming from him.
“Really?” I snap. “I must have missed that part after I skipped the entirety of law school. Don’t patronize me, Julian. I was merely pointing out how odd it is that Jack’s phone was found near Anton’s house on the night he was killed.”
The room goes silent as he starts to eat again. I just want to have a professional conversation about this.
“It would make a lot of sense, though. If that were the case,” I offer.
“No, we’d have something else to hang it on and, at the moment, we have nothing.
There are no forensics connecting any other person to Anton.
Millman’s DNA was all over him. There were limited fibers from unknown sources, but that’s because Millman’s flat was covered in multiple extracts that were unidentifiable.
Christ knows how many people were in there or what goes on in that bloody club.
The entire place is dripping in depravity.
In any event, Millman told the police his phone was stolen hours before he was arrested.
It’s entirely possible that whoever took it either lived in the village or passed through it. It’s not that remote.”
“Nonsense, Julian,” I scoff. “It’s unlike you to accept such a weak explanation. The only reason you are is because it works for you, and you don’t want the inconvenience of considering the alternative. You want a nice, tidy conviction.”
Julian doesn’t “do” getting annoyed, or rather, he doesn’t wear it on his face when he is. He stares at me now, processing what I’ve said. He won’t argue with me—I know him too well. But he knows I’m right, and he’ll hate that. His eyes don’t leave mine. It’s his way of reminding me he knows best.
That I’m not as good as him.
“The Crown will not be relying on Millman’s phone as evidence against him, so if you want to tell the jury about it, you’ll have to do it yourself.
I’d highly recommend you have a credible, solid reason for doing so, though—otherwise it’ll seem that your defense is all over the place.
That’s solid advice from your pupilmaster. Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
He flashes me a quick smile, letting me know it’s OK between us, that there’s no need for things to get nasty. I rest my knife and fork on the plate and slump back into my chair.
“I’m sorry. The stress of this is getting to me.”
“It’s fine,” he says, “I get it. But some cases are unwinnable, Lei. There’s simply no solid evidence of anyone else being there.
Suspicion is not enough. And besides, I’m sure Millman would be the first person to throw someone else under the bus if he could.
You’ve been given the short straw here, but you can still come out of it with dignity.
Just run through the motions and do the best you can with a shit brief. ”
Never in my legal career have words tasted so sour. I have not been trained to run through the motions. Being a barrister means fighting fearlessly, going the extra mile, doing the best you can. The responsibility of defending a man accused of murder should always weigh heavily on your shoulders.
I think about how different things would have been for Jack if I had trusted my gut last time instead of trusting what Julian taught me. He is not always right.
“And what about us?”
“What about us?” He frowns, reaching for his glass of wine.
“I don’t like this atmosphere. You’re barely at home, and when you are, sometimes it’s like we’re strangers. It doesn’t help when you pull stunts like at the plea hearing, either.”
“What did I do?” he asks, bewildered by the accusation.
“You made out I didn’t know what I was doing after we’d had a discussion about the defense statement. You knew I wasn’t serving one, but you acted as if you didn’t know in front of the judge. Why did you have to make it seem that I didn’t know my job?”
“God, Leila,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s all for show! I have a duty to the CPS to kick up a fuss if a defense statement hasn’t been served. You wouldn’t want people to think I was going soft on you for being my wife, would you?”
“I have more to lose than you. People’s opinions matter to me.”
“Lei, we’re both preparing a murder trial,” he tells me, as if I didn’t know. “The same murder trial. I know you haven’t done one before, but this is how it is. You simply don’t have time to be getting hung up about things like this.”
We finish the meal in silence.
After dinner, Julian goes to the study to work while I catch up on emails. I also post on my Instagram page for Chats at the Bar. Even just half an hour away from this case is a relief.
I try to get an early night, so head up to bed around 9:30 p.m., but it never works like that, does it? I lie awake for hours, staring at the crack of light shining through the curtains from the streetlamp outside.
At 11:45 p.m., I realize I haven’t connected my laptop to the charger, and I’ll need it for work tomorrow, so I creep down the stairs to plug it in.
Julian is on the phone in the kitchen, the door shut.
It’s late for a phone call, but that’s the thing about our job—“working hours” don’t really apply.
Shivering in the cold hallway in my thin pajamas, I quickly make my way to the study.
And then I hear him say something that stops me in my tracks.
“I know it was you who sent the wine on my birthday. What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice is raised. He must think I’m asleep. I dare not move, mid-stride. Who is he talking to?
“You need to get over this and move on with your life. Why is it taking you so long to get this? Are you stupid?”
I stand, frozen to the spot, like an awkwardly positioned statue. All the air is trapped in my lungs. I’m certain he’ll hear if I exhale.
“If anyone finds out, we’re both finished. Do you understand?”
A chill reverberates through my body.
Without any warning, the kitchen door flies open, and Julian is standing in front of me. I don’t know who looks more startled, me or him. His phone, the one he’s just been yelling into, now sits quietly in his right hand. He discreetly attempts to slide it into his pocket.
“I, erm, just came downstairs to plug my laptop in,” I mumble, trying to look like I haven’t been eavesdropping. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, yes.” He nods, trying to read me to see how much I know, how much I heard. “Just dealing with the usual bloody incompetent solicitors. You know what they’re like.”
“This late at night?”
“For the case tomorrow morning.”
Liar.
“You got it sorted?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he says, kissing my forehead and heading upstairs. “I’ll see you up there.”
Big, red alarm bells are going off in my head. I should have probed more, but I know Julian well; he’s too clever for a head-on confrontation.
I’ll have to watch every move he makes.
Grabbing my laptop from the sofa, I can’t find the charger anywhere, so I look in Julian’s wheely suitcase, as he always keeps one in there.
Glancing through it, I notice a bundle of papers, the top of which says, “Anton Smythe mobile telephone records 01/01/24–09/06/24” and underneath, lots of numbers and text messages highlighted in yellow.
All the information I need is right here in front of me, yet I’m not allowed to look. But then I remember the last time I represented Jack, how I played everything by the book and how it landed him a stint in prison.
I’m not making that mistake again. He deserves more, and so do I.
“Lei? Could you bring me up a glass of water while you’re down there?”
Julian’s voice slices through my indecision like a sharp knife.
“Yes, just plugging my laptop in.”
I grab the charger and close the suitcase. Walking out of the room, I switch off the light and close the door.
Your pupilmaster should be your biggest champion, your professional guardian—the one person who always has your back, no matter what. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that I can no longer trust Julian as my teacher.
Or my husband.