Epilogue Delilah
Epilogue
Delilah
R v Delilah Reynolds
Always Have a Backup Plan
“If this trial has taught you anything, ladies and gentlemen, it’s that not everything is as it seems. One thing you can be sure of, however, is that this defendant is not trustworthy.
The Crown rejects the preposterous tale offered by the defendant.
It is one of a fantasist. One of a liar.
One of a killer. And in due course, I will invite you to return a verdict of guilty in this case. ”
John Henley-Bow KC prosecutes my murder trial.
He is quite the savage beast. Aggressive—he reminds me of Julian.
I’d never heard of him before—he was instructed from London (very fancy), given the high-profile nature of the case.
He kept me in the witness box for a whole day.
It was a relentless attack, in which he called me a liar, a manipulator, and a delusional woman who lived by a set of “harmful rules” that made me “a danger to everyone I came into contact with.”
A bit overdramatic, if you ask me.
He forced Jack to give evidence against me, of course, which he did, reluctantly, as per my instructions. I watched and listened as the details of our affair were laid bare in court for the world to hear. Printed in newspapers for people to ridicule.
My downfall was the phone.
Fury surges through my body, even now, when I think about it.
A monumental mistake. I should have known better.
Watching the video play out in court was the lowest moment of my life.
A final fuck-you from Elise beyond the grave, whose body remains missing.
I thankfully haven’t been charged with her murder.
Yet. She’d sent the video to her mother, Lynette, the day we met on the bridge, with instructions to send it to the police if she suddenly went missing. I never stood a chance.
Life’s not fair.
Quite.
There it was, for all to see—a murder filmed on camera. The question was, was I acting in defense of another? If the jury decided that I was, then I’m not guilty and free to go. If they think I wasn’t, I face life imprisonment.
And everything came out in this trial.
Everything.
The press has had a field day with it. They’ve heard it all. Well, they think they have. No one suspects the house fire was me. They still refer to it in court as an “accident.” At least I still have that. My revenge against Dad is mine to keep.
Maxine Connor KC defends me. I wanted a woman to do it.
She’s very good. Her closing speech is persuasive.
Not quite how I’d have executed it, but probably the best anyone else could do.
Obviously, I thought of representing myself, but you must consider how everything looks to a jury.
There’s an arrogance to doing that, and the last thing I want them to think is that I’m some kind of narcissist.
They’ve been considering their verdict now for two and a half days and were given a majority direction this morning, as they weren’t able to reach a unanimous decision. I’ve rattled them.
But now they have reached a verdict, so here we are.
I stand, ready to face my fate. I know the drill.
Sticking with tradition, I wore the slick trouser suit I always wear for important trials.
My hair, now fully blonde again, is tied back into a sleek ponytail.
And, of course, I wouldn’t go near a courtroom without my red lipstick.
If I’m going down, I’m going down in style. The jury foreman stands up.
“Have you reached a verdict upon which at least ten are all agreed?”
“Yes.”
“On count one, a charge of murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
It’s true what they say about time slowing down in these moments.
Just like it did on that night.
I’ve spent the last six months going over and over it. If only I hadn’t let him film us. If only I hadn’t picked up that kettlebell.
I’d love to say it was an accident, but it wasn’t.
In that split second, I meant Anton Smythe real harm.
I wanted him to die, because fuck him. I hope, in those final moments, he really suffered.
I hope the pain was unimaginable. That in the half hour before the ambulance arrived, he knew we were plotting to get away with it.
“Let’s FaceTime your husband, shall we? See if he knows you’re here,” he’d said. “Not that he’ll care. Rumor has it he’s been knocking off your head of chambers’ wife anyway. Younger, prettier, and better tits by the looks of things.”
Why must men be like this?
The only good to come from it is that he told me about Demi, and I found a way finally to get Julian out of my life.
Seeing the panic wash over his face when I had that wine sent to our cabin was priceless.
Or catching him in his late-night phone call with Demi and watching him try to lie his way out of it. I thank Anton for that.
But how dare he threaten everything else, everything I’d worked so hard for?
All my life, I’ve been tested by toxic men who have underestimated me and tried to drag me down—my dad, Julian, and now Anton. A triad of males who controlled, abused, and threatened to derail me and my achievements. I couldn’t let it happen again.
I didn’t tell the jury that, though, of course. They wouldn’t understand. They needed a version that made me more tolerable, less murderous, more…relatable.
Likable.
The tragic childhood. The abuse. Dad’s obsession with power that he transferred to me.
The rules, scrutinized one by one. How I managed not only to survive, but to thrive, by becoming a barrister.
Ending up in an emotionally abusive marriage, only to be saved by a criminal who helped me find redemption.
Ironically, honesty might be the thing that saves me in the end.
A jury loves nothing better than an unbelievable story. And nobody has a more unbelievable story than I do. If I’ve learned anything from watching jurors for thirteen years it’s that they don’t want facts, they want to be entertained. They want a show. And I’m the best actress there is.
Rule #12: Always Have a Backup Plan.
So, I return to my original question. What is real justice?
Now you know my story and every nuanced crevice of this case. Am I the hero or the villain?
Nothing is ever black and white, especially when it comes to the law.
But it’s out of my hands now.
Guilty or not guilty?
You decide.