Chapter 49 Leila
Leila
R v Jack Millman
Quinn Smythe stands in the witness box, every inch the dutiful son. Well-fitted suit, shiny shoes, perfectly groomed hair. But he looks nervous; fidgeting with the buttons on his suit, subtly biting his bottom lip.
I cannot shake what I heard on the secret camera from Temptation.
“Mr. Smythe, I understand this is tremendously difficult for you, but could you please tell the jury when you last saw your father?” Julian asks, going straight for the emotional drama.
Clearing his throat, he faces the twelve people who will decide if Jack killed his dad.
“He came to see me at work, the day he was killed, at about 6 p.m.”
“Where did you work?”
“Diamond Lounge, in Durham city center.”
“He sent you a text message saying, ‘No, not there. Diamond Lounge 6 p.m. Don’t panic. Nobody knows.’ Can you tell the jury what he wanted to speak to you about?”
“Jack Millman had been bothering me for a few weeks.”
He looks straight at Julian when he says it, almost fearful that if he makes eye contact with anyone else, they’ll see through his lies. Every member of the jury turns to look at Jack, to see his reaction. As he’s sitting behind me, I’m unable to watch, which is probably just as well.
“Bothering?”
“Yes.” He nods. “He hates kids from private schools. He thinks we’re all stuck up but hates me the most because my dad sent him to prison. We used to go to Innocence on a Friday night, but he’d always cause trouble for me.”
“How so?”
“Trying to get me kicked out of the bar, following me around, staring at me in a very intimidating manner. Everyone could see he had it in for me.”
Oh, this is new. And, cleverly, it’s indisputable, because there aren’t any CCTV cameras in Innocence or Temptation.
Well, apart from the one that captured Quinn being involved in something dodgy as hell.
But, unhelpfully, this is of course on a recording I can’t use.
If only the quality was better. If only Jack had led him a little farther into the room so we could see his face.
If only the audio was clearer. I know it’s him, but a judge would never allow it into evidence.
I sit, listening to Quinn, as the injustice of it all races through my body.
“Did the defendant ever say anything specific that would imply it was a personal vendetta during this time?”
“No. It was mainly just his demeanor. He’s obviously intimidating. Look at him.”
There’s an urgency in his evidence. It’s rehearsed, unnatural.
He’s practiced this. You can tell he’s been told what to say.
What eighteen-year-old uses words and phrases like “demeanor” and “intimidating manner”?
He’s been coached by Julian. I’m surprised he didn’t describe Jack as a “Caucasian male.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“Yes, I eventually told my father about it.”
“And what did he do?”
“He said he would deal with it. That’s why he went to Jack’s flat that night. To tell him to stop.”
“What’s the meaning of the ‘nobody knows’ part of that text?”
Quinn’s eyes dart quickly over to Jack, sitting in the dock at the back of the courtroom.
“I was worried that if Jack found out I’d told anyone about it, he’d hurt me. Dad knew I was terrified of him.”
“Whose idea was it for your father to go to see Jack?”
“It was his idea. I tried to stop him.”
“What was the purpose of the visit?”
“He was going to tell him to stop intimidating me.”
“Can you tell us anything else about that last meeting with your father?”
“No, just that I wish he hadn’t gone,” he says, lowering his head.
Julian—King of the Well-Executed Pause—breaks for a few seconds, allowing the moment to ferment in the jurors’ brains.
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe. My learned friend will have some questions for you.”
Julian sits down as I rise.
People always ask me, “How can you defend people you know to be guilty?” It’s not my job to judge them—that belongs to the jury.
It’s my job to study the evidence and the facts, then advise accordingly.
What I do find difficult, however, is dealing with the rest of them.
The liars in the witness box. It’s these people—not the defendants—who ought to be judged by society.
I pause for a moment before starting, just to unsettle him. He’ll be expecting me to be hostile. I deliver a warm smile, catching him off guard.
“You’re currently at Cambridge University, aren’t you, Mr. Smythe?”
“I am, yes.”
“What are you studying?”
“Law.”
Oh, the irony.
“Law?” I repeat. “I’m sure your father would be very proud.”
“I hope he would.”
“You must have grown up in a household that promotes the importance of criminals answering for their offenses.”
“Absolutely,” he confirms, leaning forward in the witness box to further his point.
“With a father as a criminal judge, this must have been instilled in you more so than others?”
“Yes.”
“He knew, more than anyone, the procedures involved when dealing with criminals. He dealt with them every day, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Bizarre, then, that when his son was being criminally harassed, he chose to deal with it himself rather than go to the police.”
“Your Ladyship.” Julian rises to object, as I knew he would. “The witness is being asked to speculate upon the actions of his father.”
“My Lady, I am merely probing as to the discussions that were had that led to Anton Smythe visiting Jack Millman on the night he died. These are highly relevant.”
“I’ll allow it,” she says. “Be careful, Miss Reynolds.”
Julian sits down in a dramatic, slow manner, trying to let the jury know he still has authority. I know his games.
“He thought he could sort it out more quickly if he dealt with it,” Quinn says.
“ ‘Sort it out more quickly’?”
“He didn’t want to get anyone else involved.”
“Was he scared of confronting this man, who is—in your own words from a few moments ago—‘intimidating’?”
“No, he was just trying to protect me.” Quinn frowns. I’ve rattled his cage.
“What was his ‘demeanor’ like when you last saw him?”
“He wasn’t happy about what Jack had been doing.”
“Is it right to say he was agitated?”
“I suppose so…he just wanted it to stop.”
“Upset? I mean, he must have been, if a ‘thug’ had been harassing his son.”
“Yes.”
“Angry?”
“Yes…”
“Very angry?”
He realizes too late where I’ve taken him. I watch as his face changes. Confidence is replaced with panic.
“But my father wasn’t a violent man,” he attempts to backtrack.
“Wasn’t he?” I ask, without looking at him and turning to look at the jury.
“He’d never harm anyone or even attempt to harm anyone. If that’s what he’s saying, that’s not what happened at all.”
“Well, you weren’t there, Mr. Smythe, so you are unable to comment.
You’ve told this jury that your father was upset, angry, and agitated before going to confront a man who had been harassing you.
They can decide what state of mind your father was in.
This alleged intimidating behavior—did it only take place at the club? ”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Millman ever approach you outside the club?”
His eyes drift off to the side, into the distance. It is, of course, a tactic many witnesses use to appear to be thinking about something before they outright lie to the court.
“Erm…no.”
“To be clear, and remember you are under oath, you’re saying this harassment—this contact with Mr. Millman—only ever happened within Innocence?”
“Yes.”
Liar.
I force a silence upon the courtroom, longer than necessary—perhaps ten seconds or so. Just to make him feel uncomfortable. He squirms and doesn’t know where to look. His breath is uneven. I bet there’s a film of sweat on his neck. He knows I’m onto him.
“Did a grievance of any other kind exist between you and Mr. Millman?” I ask him, shattering the stillness.
He hesitates for a millisecond. His eyes flick toward Jack.
“No.”
Liar.
“Did you have conversations of any kind with, or did you know, Mr. Millman outside the club?”
I speak the words slowly, hoping the jury will suspect there’s something off here. I’m not doing anything wrong by asking the question, but my tone and delivery suggest otherwise.
He turns to the jury, confidently, before addressing them.
“Absolutely not.”
I want to tell this jury that he’s a liar.
I want to tell Quinn I know there’s something else going on.
I want to play the video of him talking to Jack in Temptation about murder.
I want them to hear his cockiness and privilege firsthand.
Not this “scared, vulnerable little boy” act he’s performing now.
But I can’t do any of this, because none of it is admissible in court.
I’m transported back to the last time I represented Jack, when the same thing happened. When the jury didn’t have access to all the evidence and made the wrong decision. It’s happening again. What kind of justice is this?
If he goes back to prison, I’ll never forgive myself.
“I don’t have any further questions for this witness, My Lady,” I spit out in sheer frustration.
Quinn is the last of the live prosecution witnesses. The rest of their case is undisputed evidence, agreed statements, exhibits, the police interview formally introduced into evidence, and a few other matters.
The judge closes court at 4:30 p.m. I watch the jurors leave the room and have no idea what they make of any of it. Usually, I can gauge what they’re thinking, but for the first time, I really can’t.
Tomorrow, at 10:30 a.m., Jack Millman will finally get his day in court. He will stand in the witness box and tell everyone what happened on the night he is accused of killing Anton Smythe. I don’t think any of us are ready for what he’s about to say.
What I do know is, so far, all we’ve been fed by the prosecution is lies.