Chapter 32 Leila
Leila
“It obviously won’t be admissible in court because we can’t prove it’s Quinn.
The prosecution would never allow it as evidence, and I’m not sure a judge would, either,” Davina says the second we get back into the car after leaving Temptation.
“Besides, what would our argument be? That Quinn murdered his own dad?”
We almost had something. I cannot believe Quinn isn’t identifiable in the video.
A judge would have to be satisfied that an expert could positively identify him from it, and I’ve done enough of these cases to know that isn’t going to happen.
As Davina points out, what would we even be saying?
That Quinn killed his father? Without further evidence to support this, it could make our case even worse.
We’d look desperate and unsympathetic in front of a jury.
If you’re going to make a claim like that, you need to have solid, indisputable evidence.
We need to tread lightly with this. “The timeline adds up,” I say, rather unhelpfully.
“Why was Jack saying, ‘You’ll do it by the end of today’? Surely, it’s too much of a coincidence that Quinn’s dad was killed hours later. Why won’t Jack just tell us what happened? If Quinn is involved somehow, why not just say?” Davina fires these questions at me, and I barely have time to think.
“Because he fears he wouldn’t get a fair trial.
People would be paid off, and others would be protected.
Look at Quinn—privately educated, perfect student, studying at Cambridge.
Of course Jack isn’t going to offer that information up before the trial.
He’s learned the hard way that all it would do is give people time to hide what they’ve done. ”
I continue to drive, thinking of a way through this. I need to allow the jury to see that Quinn is hiding something without revealing what I’ve just seen. Reaching over to my phone, which is connected to the Bluetooth system, I call Julian. After a few rings, he picks up.
“Yes?” he says, in a clipped tone.
“What do you intend to do with Quinn Smythe?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I can almost hear him thinking.
“Anton’s son? What do you mean?”
“We have reason to believe he was one of the last people to have contact with Anton before he died. Do you have a statement from him? Because we would like to see it, if so.”
He pauses for an unnecessary amount of time. I know what he’s doing: he’s wondering what information I have about Quinn and whether Jack has said anything.
“I’ll get it over to you,” he says, hanging up abruptly.
Davina executes a dramatic, audible sigh.
“Well, you’ve gone and dropped a bomb on this case now. I hope you’re ready for the explosion when it comes.”
—
When I arrive back at chambers, I remember I agreed to do an interview piece with Serene Kirkbride, an influencer who showcases women in business.
She has a huge following on Instagram and has asked to meet for a drink to discuss my journey to the Bar.
I could really do without it, but she talked me into it by saying I would be the “prime Christmas guest.” It was a coveted spot with her, so I couldn’t say no.
I meet her at the Pacific Hotel bar in the city center.
She’s drinking a glass of prosecco when I arrive, wearing a tasteful Christmas sweater that makes her look Scandinavian, but I’m sure she’s from Wallasey or somewhere like that.
Serene greets me with a double air-kiss and enormous smile.
Some people don’t look the same as their social media persona, but she does.
Exquisite silver hair swishes around her perfectly made-up face, giving her the appearance of a mythical fairy.
After I decline a glass of “fizz” on the basis I have work to do after, we settle down to chat.
“I’ve been so excited to meet you, Leila! I’ve followed your blog for some time. You’re an intriguing character!”
“Am I?” I ask, puzzled.
“Yes! Beautiful, smart, sexy career…”
“I wouldn’t call it sexy. I practically live in a seventeenth-century wig and robes.”
“It’s glamorous, though. Surrounded by drama.”
And blood. And violence. And death.
“Yes, well, it’s very hard work.”
“Oh, of course!” she says. “Tell me, Leila, why do you think you have such a high success rate? You’re in the Legal 500 as someone who ‘Executes intuitive style and is an exceptional jury advocate. Approaches cases with a forensic eye and has a very clever way of interpreting evidence. Future bright star and KC in the making.’ What’s your secret? ”
Just hearing that quote again makes my skin prickle. I should be beaming with pride, but knowing it was gained through a back door makes it feel meaningless. Even my own husband doesn’t believe in me.
“Honestly, people are fascinated with human psychology, and how we make split-second choices during volatile moments,” I tell her.
She pauses in silence for a second, her pen frozen in anticipation above the pad she’s writing on.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I shrug. “When you defend a trial, you usually start off with twelve people against your client. Guilty until proven innocent. No smoke without fire. The minute they walk into the courtroom, the second they look at the defendant and hear the charge laid out against them, they’ve already decided if he or she is guilty.
So, you have to place doubt in their minds.
The way to do that is to dig into the kind of person the defendant is: how did they end up in the dock? You have to make them human.”
“It must be more complicated than that.”
“Of course. You need evidence to back it up. The two go hand in hand. I’ve seen so many advocates preach about the technicalities of how to address a jury.
They overcomplicate it,” I tell her, thinking of Julian and how I trusted his methods implicitly before what happened at Jack’s last trial.
Until I realized they didn’t always work.
“You connect with a jury by observing human behavior and presenting evidence in an easy, digestible way. A lot of it is instinctual.”
She hangs on my every word, as if I’m giving a TED talk.
“Incredible insight, Leila. And so humble. Our young legal followers, especially our women, will be thrilled.”
“Glad to be of some help.”
“Would it be OK if I asked some questions from our followers?”
“Please.” I smile, tapping my phone to see what time it is.
“Great. Kayla, a criminal pupil in London, has asked, ‘What’s your top tip for preparing a defense trial?’ ”
“I’m giving away all my secrets here!” I laugh. “The first thing I do is prepare as if I’m prosecuting. That way, I spot all the holes in the defense case I need to close. Simple but invaluable.”
“Clever!”
I shrug my shoulders and smile. “Hit me with another question.”
“OK, this one is from Liza: ‘Hi Leila. Do you think it’s important for barristers to have a close relationship with their head of chambers, and how important is professional integrity to you?’ ”
The smile I’ve adopted throughout the interview vanishes. This isn’t a question from a law student.
It’s from her. It must be.
“Great questions there. Can you explain exactly what a head of chambers is, Leila?”
“Of course,” I say, forcing the smile back onto my face. “Barristers work from a set of offices—or chambers. The head of chambers is our leader and makes all final decisions that affect us.”
“So, things like which students to take on for—what’s it called? Pupillage?”
“Yes. Sometimes the head of chambers is on the pupillage panel. But it’s difficult to get in—you have to impress them first with an outstanding CV, then spend a week with them. If they think you’re good enough, you get an interview.”
“Sounds intense!”
“It is. My head of chambers has been a tremendous supporter of mine since day one. It’s important to have that from senior members.
I applied to Innovation because of their reputation for upholding exceptionally high moral standards and integrity.
There is nothing more important to me than maintaining professional excellence. ”
I watch as Serene scribbles this down in her notepad; the diamonds from the rings on her fingers sparkle in the light.
“Sorry, who asked that question?” I ask her.
“A girl called Liza.”
“No, I mean what’s her username?”
“Give me a second.” She fiddles about on her phone for a minute or so, not that I need her to. I know exactly what name she’s going to give me.
“It was @JustAnotherDumbBlonde. She sounds switched on, doesn’t she?”
It is her. Of course. It’s been her all along.
It didn’t quite click before: the girl asking weird questions at the lecture, the figure hanging around my car, the person at the house.
The messages. Call it naivety or denial, but she’s been gone such a long time, it’s taken me a while to realize—or admit—she’s back.
This is about so much more than the case and my behavior as a lawyer—this is about us, our past.
Now she’s here, I know she won’t be satisfied until she’s destroyed me.
But why is she mentioning the trial? How is she connected to it? The thought sends me into a blind panic.
Calm down, Leila. She’s just scoured the papers and is trying to scare you.
If she thinks she’s going to reenter my life after all these years and sabotage the most important moment of my professional career, she’s wrong.