Page 117 of Dissection of a Murder
He doesn’t even realize he’s about to completely drop himself in it.
This is one of the reasons I became a barrister. The feeling I have now. Just before I land my biggest blow to this case, I wait, in silence, goading him into delivering the information himself. It has more impact with a jury than if I say it.
“Are you suggesting I stole it?”
And there it is. A quick glance at the jury tells me their suspicion is growing. Brows start to rise.
“What?” I ask him, surprised. “Stole a phone, which happened to have a video incriminating you in a serious crime that, if seen by police, would send you to prison?”
Like most witnesses, he sees too late the path I’ve taken him down. Chester was right—I’m good at what I do. The color drains from Quinn’s face, and the jury see it, too. I turn to look at them, just to make the point.Are you seeing this? Hearing these lies?
“I didn’t take it. I swear, I honestly didn’t,” he says, flustered. His eyes jump between me and the jury, begging us to believe him. We don’t.
“Just one final point, Quinn, then I’ll let you go. Can you tell the jury which village you live in? Please don’t give out the actual address.”
He doesn’t want to say it. He knows where I’ve taken him now, and he’s got no way out.
“Pickford,” he says quietly, staring at me, unable to hide his contempt.
“Could you speak up for the jury, please?”
“Pickford,” he repeats, louder.
“It’s right to say, isn’t it, that Pickford is a very small village, twelve miles north of Durham?”
“Yes,” he says in a tiny voice.
“Mr. Millman’s phone sent out a signal at 11:27 p.m. on the night your father died, from Pickford before either being switched off or the battery died. In fact, the signal came a few meters away from your house. Are you sure you didn’t take it? Is that a complete coincidence?”
His eyes dart between me and the jury. They plead with every juror to be on his side.
“It’s a coincidence.”
I deliver a broad smile to him because I want him to know he’s lost. I don’t believe him and I’m certain the jury won’t either.
“No further questions, My Lady.”
Quinn remains in the witness box for a few seconds, as if he wants to redo his evidence, but it’s too late. The usher walks over and gently places her arm on Quinn’s, indicating he needs to leave. Julian looks enraged.
“My Lady,” I say loudly. “That closes the defense case.”
“Very well,” she agrees. “I am conscious both advocates have speeches to write, so I will adjourn for today. Be back at 10:30 in the morning.”
As soon as she leaves the bench, I almost collapse from the adrenaline. I’m beyond grateful for a slightly early finish. Cases have been won on closing speeches alone, so it’s vital this one is exceptional. I need to start writing.
—
Walking out of the lift onto the ground floor of Crown Court, I pass the reception desk and hear someone call my name.
“This was left for you, Miss Reynolds,” the lady says, handing mea white envelope with my name and chambers written on the front in black ink.
Forcing my finger under the flap, I rip it open and pull out a card. It’s an illustration of two cartoony matchsticks holding hands with cute faces and fire for hair. Above them it says: “Twin Flames Forever!” I think I might throw up.
My hands shake as I open it.
Saw this and thought of you. I bet I’m the only person who can say that. Pretty sure none of your lawyer chums know about your pyro skills. Really hope your husband doesn’t find out. Sexy, isn’t he? Ironic you’re defending murderers these days when you are one yourself. I wonder what Jack would think of that.
Fuck.
