Page 131 of Dissection of a Murder
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Leila
Friday, September 6, 2024
10:41 p.m.
The stillness. That’sthe most chilling thing about it.
It sounds ridiculous, but after being hit so hard with something so heavy, I expected him to be in a different state, gushing blood, gurgling and writhing around on the floor or something, begging for help.
His skin has turned white. He looks dead.
“Fuck, Leila! What have you done?”
Jack’s voice is overcome with panic and fear. We both stare at Anton, lying on the floor. I watch as a thick trickle of dark blood starts to run out of his right nostril while the sound of loud house music vibrates through the floor.
“I…I just panicked.”
Jack leans over him to see if he’s breathing. I remain standing, not daring to move. My lawyer instinct is already screaming,Don’t get closer than you need to. I gently place the kettlebell down on the floor. As I do, I catch myself being filmed by Jack’s phone, which is leaning up against the TV.
“It’s still recording,” I whisper, running over and pressing the red button to stop it.
“He’s barely breathing. We need to call an ambulance!” Jack says urgently.
I don’t move. I stare at Anton, lying motionless on the floor. He’s going to die.
“Leila!”
My breathing is fast and shallow. In a split second, my life has changed. All of our lives have changed.
“I’ll be prosecuted for murder,” I say calmly. “I’ll get life imprisonment. I won’t get out.”
“You won’t, you won’t…you were defending me. Shit!” Jack cries. “He might not die. It’ll be OK. We just need to keep him alive. Call an ambulance!”
He doesn’t understand. Why would he? All I can think about is my past, who I really am. There’s no way it would stay out of court. Even if the childhood abuse was used to try to justify my actions, my career, my life as I know it, would be over. Having my past raked over like that, even with the best intention from a defense barrister, is a risky move. Something I’ll fight tooth and nail to stop from happening.
Jack looks at me like a scared little boy. I’m the responsible one, the lawyer, the one with the answers. And yet, I have nothing. His head keeps turning toward Anton, who is edging closer to death by the second.
“What are we going to do? We can’t just do nothing!”
“Let me think,” I tell him calmly.
Patience.
My mind moves at speed. What’s the best way out of this? How does this look to the police? How would it look to a jury?
How can we play this?
After a few minutes it becomes brutally clear.
“He can’t leave this room alive,” I say bluntly.
“What?” Jack looks at me, incredulous.
“If he leaves this room alive, my life is over.”
The color drains from Jack’s face. I need to be the authority here or he will crumble.
