Page 101 of Dissection of a Murder
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.
50
Leila
R v Jack Millman
Day 2
10:34 a.m.
“Your Ladyship, thedefense calls Jack Millman to give evidence.”
There’s a slight quiver in my voice as I make this grand declaration; it’s probably only detectable to Julian. And I hate that he will have noticed it. He understands the gravity of this moment. When you’re a defense barrister, the second your client steps into the witness box is always tense. What will they do? Will they go completely rogue? Will they undo all your hard work and dig themselves into a hole?
Jack Millman has always wanted his day in court, and in about thirty seconds, he’s going to get it.
Everything has led to this.
The security guard takes Jack from the dock at the back of the court and leads him to the witness box. Like a dangerous animal being released from his cage. The jury stare at him as if he could pounce at any moment. Except Jack doesn’t look like a criminal or a killer. He looks presentable in the same suit he wore yesterday. A little more creased than it was then, but still, a million times betterthan what most defendants turn up in. His hair is pushed back from his face, which has a day’s worth of stubble on it.
As he steps into the witness box, he nods at the judge, who does not reciprocate the gesture.
He takes the oath and speaks clearly into the microphone. He swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Facing me, with his hands placed confidently together in front of him, he takes a deep breath. The silence is deafening.
“Could you give your full name to the court, please?”
“Jack Millman. No middle name.”
“How old are you?”
