Chapter 43 Leila
Leila
R v Jack Millman
I’ve watched Julian give countless opening speeches over the years. Each one of them well-crafted and carefully curated. Hours of hard work go into preparing such things, and this one has the entire legal faculty watching.
He loves it, the drama and attention. As advocates of the court, we are expected to maintain exceptionally high standards throughout our professional life—never being swayed by outside influences, or allowing praise to affect our judgment.
Some adhere to this advice more than others.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case concerns the brutal murder of a well-respected Crown Court judge. His name was Anton Smythe and he was a much-admired member of the judiciary before, we say, the defendant—Jack Millman—killed him in cold blood, one hot night in September last year.”
The prosecution is supposed to present the facts to a jury in an impartial manner, and this opening is anything but.
I resist all temptation to roll my eyes, since the jury would see, and I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.
At this stage of any trial, if you’re defending, you’re losing.
Despite the prosecution’s requirement to discharge the burden of proof, as in any criminal case, the reality is that defendants are usually guilty until proven innocent in the beginning, and it’s for me to swing that around over the course of the trial.
I don’t want to get their backs up now by pulling faces.
I also don’t want to object, although I would be technically permitted to do so. However, it is highly frowned upon to interrupt a KC in the middle of a speech and, no, the same courtesy would not be extended to me.
Criminal trials are like a game of chess, and he wants me to react. He wants—needs—the jury to see me as the bullish, hysterical, inexperienced female lawyer against the backdrop of his cool, suave, confident demeanor.
Chester was right: evidence doesn’t win trials. Lawyers do. It’s about likability.
He stands to my right, speaking to the jury as I sit between them.
I look straight ahead, displaying no emotion on my face.
As a barrister should. One of the many things my pupilmaster taught me.
One of the many things he taught me. Once my biggest supporter, my mentor, my ally…
my loyal husband. Now we stand against each other.
“In order to find the defendant guilty, the prosecution does not need to prove that the defendant had any kind of grievance with the victim. We need not prove that the two were involved in any kind of dispute. We need not reveal a motive—we may never know what that was. All the Crown must prove throughout the course of this trial is that it was the defendant—and no one else—who killed Anton Smythe, and that when he did so, he intended to kill him or cause him serious harm. That is enough.”
He’s going for high drama, just as I knew he would. I need to watch my temper.
The problem for him is that I know him well.
Too well.
I know all his dirty tactics, backdoor behaviors, his professional Achilles’ heels.
And his private ones.
If he thinks this trial is purely about securing a professional win, he’s wrong.