Chapter 30 Leila
Leila
The irony wasn’t lost on either of us: if the assault Jack was accused of had taken place in a different room, he would have been acquitted because he would have been able to prove he was defending another person. The camera would have captured it.
That footage could change the direction of the case. One thing I know about a jury is that they love evidence that’s tangible. Something they can see or hear.
I haven’t received any reference to the footage from the prosecution, which makes me believe they aren’t aware of this camera. The fewer people who know about it the better.
We visit Temptation on the final working week in December. Davina and I face no resistance from the staff on our way up to the office. Saying we’re Jack’s legal team is enough. The door is open, the white sterile room a sharp contrast to the dark landing just outside.
The guy I saw last time is sitting at the desk.
“Afternoon,” I say. He doesn’t look up. “We need to talk to you about a delicate matter. It’s about Jack Millman’s criminal case. Can we come in?”
He turns to face us.
“Are you on your own or with your friends today?”
He presumably means the prosecution team we came with to the site visit.
“We’re on our own.”
He nods his head ever so slightly, indicating we can enter.
“Close the door,” he says. It’s a demand, not a request.
We stand beside him at the desk and he swings around on his chair to face us.
“I know there’s a secret camera in Temptation,” I tell him.
He pauses. “There are no cameras here.”
“I know there’s a camera in here somewhere,” I interrupt. “In one room, nowhere else. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. And I need to view the footage. For Jack.”
He resists for a moment, not knowing whether to concede or keep up the act.
“When from?” he says eventually.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know.”
He looks at me as if I’m stupid.
“OK, let’s start with Friday, September 6, the day of the alleged murder. Can you get that for me?”
“Right now?”
“Yes, now. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to run a criminal defense, and we don’t have much time.”
“Give me five minutes,” he says, fiddling about on a computer in the corner while we stand looking around the office.
“What room does this camera cover? Temptation has no CCTV inside or outside. You pride yourself on the fact.”
“This is the only camera,” he says. “And it covers Boudoir 3.”
“What happens in Boudoir 3?” Davina asks.
“The usual stuff. Eddie set it up,” he confirms. “He likes to watch.”
“Watch what?” I ask, unsure whether I want to know.
“What goes on in there.”
“What does go on in there?” Davina inquires. She’s unable to hide the sound of disapproval in her question.
“Look, I just deal with security,” he shoots back at us, sounding really pissed off. “Don’t ask me what thrill he gets from watching fellas get sucked off by girls barely old enough to drink.”
“Always knew he was a weird one,” Davina whispers into my ear, which I choose to ignore. Now is not the time.
He taps away on a laptop for a few minutes as we wait patiently. There’s an overpowering stench of salt and vinegar crisps in here. I begin to wonder if this man ever leaves the room.
“It’s ready,” he says, passing us two sets of headphones before moving out of the chair. “Use that to forward through or go back a day.”
We sit down and play the video.
The camera is positioned on the wall, higher than eye height but not on the ceiling.
The “boudoir” looks as awful as it sounds, with leather-looking sofas positioned around the room.
There’s a time and date stamp in the corner of the black-and-white image.
The quality is poor, not helped by the dim lighting.
I begin at midnight on the day of the alleged murder, and it starts to dawn on me that this could take a long time to go through. Time I simply don’t have.
It’s occupied by punters, seedy and sordid.
Young girls walk in, leading the way. Glass of champagne in one hand, the hand of a man in the other.
Even with the bad quality of the video you can see that their bodies are barely covered; long limbs stand out against the grainy darkness of the room.
Within minutes, they’re engaging in sexual acts.
I fast-forward without looking at Davina.
We don’t need to see this. It goes on until 4 a.m. It’s empty as the time stamp races through the morning: 10 a.m., 11 a.m.
At 11:24 a.m. the door opens, and a man walks in. The camera is positioned in such a way that you can’t see who’s entering; you can only see who is in the middle of the room.
“This is the one place in the building we won’t be heard by anyone,” the man says. “Trust me, we’re safe.”
The sound is slightly muffled, but I know his voice. As the man moves to the center of the room, I recognize his dark hair and sleeve tattoos that I can just about make out against the white sleeveless top he’s wearing.
It’s Jack.
Behind him is a man who isn’t in shot. All I can see are his legs; he’s wearing black trousers and shoes. But I know one thing: Jack has led him here because he knows there’s a camera in the room.
“Listen,” the other voice says. “I can’t stay long—I start work at 12. But I can’t do it. I’ve thought about it—I really have—but I just can’t.”
“You have to,” Jack interrupts.
“Come on, man! Do you understand what you’re asking?” the other voice says. Even with the inadequate sound quality, I can tell it’s laced with panic. “My life will be over!”
“That’s not my problem,” Jack says. “It has to be today. I’ve given you enough time, longer than others would.”
“Please.”
“No. No excuses. It’s going to get so much worse if you don’t do it. Trust me.”
“You know, you’re messing with the wrong person here. Do you even know what you’re getting into with this? Who I am? Once this gets out—”
“Do you realize who you’re messing with here? Because I don’t think you do. I gave you until noon today. You’ve had a week and you know what will happen if you don’t.”
“We’re talking about killing someone!” the other man says. Davina’s hand lands briefly on my arm. My eyes don’t leave the screen. “I’ll go to prison for the rest of my life. I’m going to university tomorrow! Please…please!”
“You’ll do it today.”
There’s silence for a few moments.
“No,” he replies. “I won’t. I’m not messing my life up because of a stupid mistake. This will go away. I’ll make sure it goes away.”
“There’s a video,” Jack says calmly.
The other man doesn’t reply for a few moments.
“What?”
“I have a video,” Jack says. “I filmed it.”
The room goes quiet.
“I don’t believe you…”
“Yes, you do.”
“What kind of sick person are you?”
“Not so cocky now, are you?” Jack asks, making no attempt to hide the satisfaction in his voice.
“You filmed it? What’s wrong with you?”
“You’ll do it by the end of today, or I’ll make sure everyone sees it.”
“Does blackmailing me make you feel powerful? Some kind of twisted revenge, hitting back at the system?”
“Do it, now. Today.”
“Screw you, Jack. And this video you claim to have, because I don’t believe you.”
At that, he storms out of the room, closely followed by Jack.
The other guy remained out of view the entire time. I only heard his voice. It was one of those plummy posh-boy accents, from someone raised in a middle-upper-class environment. They have an annoying inflection at the end of sentences that drips with privilege.
But I’ve heard this particular voice before. I recognize its pitch and timbre, the rise and fall of his words. His speech, tinged with the same urgency it had over the phone.
The young man in the video is Quinn Smythe.