Chapter 52 Leila
Leila
R v Jack Millman
A collective gasp echoes throughout the courtroom when he says it, the kind of courtroom scene from an ITV drama I watch and say is unrealistic. And yet, here we are.
“Quiet, please!” the judge says.
“Mr. Millman, for the court record, can you repeat what you said so there’s no ambiguity and we are all absolutely clear?” I struggle to keep my voice steady. A veneer of sweat begins to collect on my chest.
“I didn’t kill Anton Smythe. Someone else did. I told you, I’m not guilty.”
“Your Ladyship, I wonder if I might have a moment with my client?”
“I don’t need a moment,” he interrupts. “I’m not going to tell you anything different from what I’m saying here. I want people—the jury—to know the truth about what happened. So, I’m telling you. All of you. Now.”
Everyone looks at me because it’s my job to steer this ship.
“Mr. Millman, do you know who killed Mr. Smythe?” I ask slowly.
“I do, yes.”
I’ve never known a court be so quiet. It’s as though everyone has stopped breathing.
“Can you please tell this court who it was?”
“I’m not prepared to do that.”
My heart races. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. Whispers sprint around the courtroom. I see Julian in my peripheral vision frantically writing notes, preparing his cross-examination.
“Mr. Millman, you’re charged with murder—an offense that carries life imprisonment, if convicted,” I inform him. “Are you prepared to risk that for someone else?”
“Yes,” he confirms. No hesitation. It sounds far-fetched and unbelievable.
“Is there any information you’re willing to share with us about the night of September 6?”
He takes a deep breath before turning toward the jury.
“For seven months before this incident I’d been having an affair with a married woman. I know how that makes me sound, but she was trapped in an abusive marriage and was very unhappy. We got together and would meet regularly at my apartment. She was there on the evening of September 6.”
“What was the exact nature of your relationship with her?”
“I loved her. I still love her.”
Jack continues to gaze at the jury, but you can see the pain in his face. He looks awkward as he says it, having to reveal his most intimate feelings to an entire courtroom.
“What happened that night?” I ask him, pulling him back.
“She came around just after 9 p.m. We were…being intimate with each other when there was a knock at the door at about 10:30 p.m. I didn’t answer it at first—I thought it was something to do with work and hoped they’d leave.
Then there was more banging, and a voice shouted, ‘It’s Anton Smythe, let me in. ’ ”
“What did you do?”
“I panicked. I didn’t want him in my flat. But he shouted, ‘If you don’t open this door, I’ll break it down,’ or something like that.”
“Mr. Millman, why was Mr. Smythe coming to your flat in the first place?”
“It was regarding his son, Quinn.”
“What about him?”
Jack takes a moment. He peers down at his shoes for a second before facing me again.
“I told him to deal with it. I never wanted it to go on this long.”
“Deal with what?”
“I never wanted it to come out like this.”
“What to come out like this?” I ask urgently.
Jack pauses for a brief moment and swallows hard, before turning to look at the public gallery. After a few seconds, his breathing becomes heavy, and he rubs his forehead; he looks like he’s going to cry.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I never wanted you to find out this way.”
Everyone in the courtroom is confused and looks between Jack and Eddie to see what he’s going to say next.
“Mr. Millman,” I say firmly. “What didn’t you want Eddie to find out about like this?”
Turning to face me again, Jack takes a deep breath before settling his eyes on mine. “Quinn is responsible for the death of Eddie Sorrington’s son. I saw it happen.”
The court explodes into absolute uproar.
Gasps race around the room, crashing against horrified cries coming from the public gallery.
A glance at the jury reveals they don’t know what to do with this news; each of their heads darts around the courtroom, not knowing where to look.
Their mouths drop open; one juror at the front cranes her neck to look at Quinn, who is now sitting in the public gallery following his evidence yesterday.
Jack and I stare at each other among the chaos. I feel someone—presumably Davina—tugging on the back of my robes, trying to get my attention.
Quinn is now center stage. Everyone’s eyes are on him.
He sits in the second row of the public gallery, next to his mother.
His face is white; he looks about to faint.
Eddie Sorrington charges from the back of the public gallery down to the front in an attempt to reach Quinn.
Daniella screams at him to stop. Security guards rush over and drag Eddie away as he shouts, “Fucking murderer!,” which echoes throughout the courtroom.
That’s the video Jack told Quinn he had. Jack was forcing Quinn to confess about Eddie’s son.
“Quiet, now!” booms the judge. “I appreciate this is sensitive, but unless anyone wants to spend the night in the cells for contempt, we will allow the defendant to continue with his evidence. I will not tolerate outbursts of this nature in my court. This is a murder trial.”
Jack looks utterly broken in the witness box. He leans forward, head in his hands.
“My Lady.” Julian’s voice belts through the courtroom as he stands to address the judge. I watch as his jaw flickers from the side. He is furious. “I wonder if I might—”
“Mr. Kesler, I think we need to hear what this witness has to say. You’ll have your opportunity to cross-examine him in due course. Let’s get on with it, Miss Reynolds.”
Julian sits down slowly. I fear what’s to come. I really hope Jack is prepared.
“Can you explain, Mr. Millman?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“I never, ever wanted it to come out like this,” Jack says. The emotion in his eyes is clear to everyone in the room. “His parents should never have found out here.”
He breaks off, unable to continue.
“Take your time, Mr. Millman.” I think we all need a minute to recalibrate. Jack takes a few deep breaths. The jury are bewitched. Their gazes are all focused on Jack right now. You could hear a pin drop in this courtroom.
Davina pokes my arm. I turn quickly to see what she wants, and she hands me a piece of paper with scribbled writing on it, none of which is legible. I acknowledge it but don’t have time to read it.
Jack composes himself and stands upright. He’s started this and has every intention of finishing it.
“About a month before the night Mr. Smythe died, Quinn was in Innocence with his friends. They were full of private-school cockiness. Lewis Sorrington was in, and the two of them clashed over some girl they were both trying to crack on with. Lewis wasn’t a bad lad.
I’ve known him for years, but he wasn’t one to mess with, either.
He would defend himself if he needed to.
Around 3 a.m., I was opening my bedroom windows—it gets hot in there, as it’s an attic room—and I saw Lewis on his own round the back of the club.
He’d parked his car down the alley. Quinn’s boys jumped him and held him while Quinn punched him in the face.
Thing is, I thought Lewis was going to absolutely smack the shit out of them all, so I got my phone out and started filming.
Quinn was known for being cocky, and I was going to send the video to Eddie afterward saying, ‘Look at your lad, sorting this posh boy out.’ Lewis went down and didn’t get back up, then Quinn and his mates ran off. ”
Everyone in court is stunned.
“What happened after that?”
“I think Lewis must have been giving some friends a ride home because all of a sudden some girls were screaming and one of them was on the phone, I think she was calling an ambulance because it was there within minutes. I found out the next day that Lewis was dead. I met Quinn three weeks later and said if he didn’t hand himself in to the police, I’d tell Eddie what he’d done, which would certainly be worse than anything the law could throw at him. It was for his own good.”
“Why didn’t you just go to the police yourself?”
“I wanted to give him the chance to do it himself. I expected a man—a judge’s son—to be morally responsible like that.”
Julian would have buried this if Jack had disclosed it earlier, and Quinn’s family would have covered it up. Well played.
“What happened when Mr. Smythe came to see you? Was that the first time you’d met him?”
“Yes, it was. Quinn must have told him where I lived. It was well-known that my apartment was above the club. I opened the door, and he barged straight in, pushing past me.”
“Where was your female friend at this point?”
“She’d gone into the bedroom with all her clothes. There was no trace of her. He launched straight into a panicked rant about how his son can’t go to prison because he has his whole life ahead of him, and how dare I blackmail him.”
“How did he appear, physically?”
“I could smell whiskey on his breath. He kept saying his son was about to go to Cambridge to do law, and he wouldn’t have me messing that up for him because of a mistake. That’s what he called Lewis’s murder—a mistake.”
I hear sighs and tuts from around the courtroom as the evidence is given. Jesus, this is risky. He’s completely blackening Anton’s character here.
“How did you respond?”
“I said it was hypocritical of him to come round here saying that, given he was a judge. I was disgusted, to be honest.”
“What happened next?”
“He kept saying, ‘How much do you want for the video?’ He was offering me stupid amounts of money for it.”
“How much?”
“First, he said five thousand, but the offer kept going up each time I said no. Eight thousand. Ten thousand. Crazy amounts. His last offer was thirty thousand pounds. When I said no to that, he realized I wasn’t playing. That’s when he became really angry.”
“What made you think he was angry?”
“He started raising his voice and pacing around the kitchen. He just kept saying, ‘I can’t have a criminal son. He can’t go to prison.’ Then it escalated to the point where I got scared.”
“Can you describe exactly what you mean by escalated?”
“He picked up a kitchen knife, which was in one of those wooden knife blocks, you know, for really sharp knives, and pointed it at me. I was standing about four feet away at this point and he was, like, wild, in his eyes. It was as if he had just completely lost control. He said, ‘Do you know what this will do to his mother?’ ”
“How did you respond?”
“I held my hands up and said, ‘Look, I know you’re upset, but he needs to do the right thing and go to the police. This isn’t my fault. Put the knife down.’ ”
“And did he?”
“Well, he didn’t really get the chance.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s when she got involved.”
“Who?”
“I won’t say her name. Let’s call her, I don’t know, let’s call her…X.”
Taking my advice from all those years ago and saying nothing until trial is the smartest thing Jack has ever done. Everyone’s attention is now diverted to Witness X. Let’s hope she sounds credible to this jury, or Jack is going to prison for the rest of his life.