Page 15 of Dissection of a Murder
Jack shifts toward Davina. “I know. I don’t like lawyers. Never have. Even though our last trial didn’t go the way we wanted it to, Miss Reynolds is the only person out of everyone who’s ever represented me who didn’t treat me like I’m stupid.” He angles his shoulders back toward me. “You know what happened last time. I need you to prevent me from falling into another trap.”
Davina’s eyes shift between us. Her job in client conferences is to note down what is said for future reference. I see that her pen was set down minutes ago. She’s not been recording this conversation. And that is also, I presume, why he asked for Davina.
“I won’t let that happen again, Jack,” I say. “You have my word. But this strategy will be difficult, procedurally, I mean. Please reconsider.”
“I can’t, Miss Reynolds,” he says sternly. “If I were to talk, then—”
He cuts himself off before looking away, shaking his head and taking a deep breath. I give him a second to recalibrate.
“This situation, this case. What…happened,” he tells us. Jesus, he can barely bring himself to say it. “It goes high up. Much higher up than me. I’d have to expose people, put myself at risk. People would get hurt. That’s all I’m prepared to say—for now.”
My head turns toward Davina to see what she makes of this. Herface gives nothing away, but it’s clear she’ll be concerned about Jack’s attitude going forward.
“Who are you protecting?” I ask him.
“No comment,” he says, shaking his head.
—
Jack stands up in court to confirm his name and date of birth, then sits back down, dwarfed by the huge sheets of glass that surround the dock in Court 1. You can feel movement in the air from shuffling journalists. I vaguely recognize Anton’s wife and his son in the public gallery. She still looks to be in shock—emotionless and distant, her thin frame hidden by a big, black coat with a fur collar. Her shoulder-length black and silver hair pulled back in a way that would look chic in different circumstances. Their eighteen-year-old son, Quinn, sits next to her, wearing a black suit and tie. He keeps his head down the whole time; the hearing is obviously too much for him.
My nerves ignite the second Julian glides through the doors of the court in the way KCs do. The professional gap between us flashes like a beacon. We may be sitting at opposite ends of the same long, wooden bench at the front of the court, but the differences in our professional dress mark us as unequal. As King’s Counsel, he has earned the right to wear a silk robe, not one made of wool, like mine. His is lighter and has a more free-flowing movement to it; the one draped around my shoulders is heavy and cumbersome.
Silks are elite advocates, appointed by the King. And they make sure everyone knows it.
The hearing lasts only seven minutes and is uneventful. The defendant will enter his formal plea to the charge in just under one month’s time. No application for bail.
I leave court with a sense of dread closing in on me, like fog on a cold winter morning. I feel I’m being tested and failing at the firsthurdle in this impossible race. What are you supposed to do when you can’t fight fearlessly because your client won’t talk? How can I put the best defense together with limited instructions? I feel that I’m going against everything I was taught as a barrister.
But, as Jack insinuated—cleverly, many times throughout his conference—I don’t really have a choice.
I owe him.
6
Leila
117 days before trial
Durham Crown Courtis over two hundred years old. It’s well-known that His Honor Judge Smythe had wanted to be the Recorder of Durham for many years before finally landing the job. It’s the most senior judicial position at that court center. I recall seeing him many times up on the bench where he would dispense justice to those who had shown little regard for it.
Court 1 is the venue for his professional memorial service. I debated whether to come, but it felt like the right thing to do. The room fills up shortly before 9:30 on Wednesday morning, in advance of the day’s hearings.
I’m not a fan of the old courtrooms; they’re cramped, and you never know where to sit. Lots of dark wood, drafts, and there’s rarely enough room to lay out all your papers. They’re also unpleasantly hot in summer. Walking into one of them, wearing the wig and robes, you feel you’re in a Dickensian novel, and someone’s about to be handed the death sentence for stealing a loaf of bread.
Barristers, solicitors, and court staff pile in. There’s barely any space, so people sit and stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The public gallery at the back of the courtroom is packed with people who need to be seen to be in attendance.
Julian and I manage to squeeze through as subtly as we can. Julian moves toward the front of the court, but I hang back, preferring to stand unobtrusively at the side.
Everyone from the legal community in Durham is here. Chester is down at the front, and I watch as a glamorous blonde woman in a black suit and pale-blue shirt taps him on the shoulder. He turns around, smiles, and kisses her on the cheek. It’s a bit too close to her mouth, for a few seconds too long. As he pulls away from her, his eyes flick toward Julian, who stands beside them. A smirk appears on Chester’s face.
He can’t help himself.
A loud knock echoes throughout the courtroom, indicating the judiciary are about to enter. The hum quietens and everybody stands, facing the bench that rises above us at the front. Entering from the right, several Crown Court judges, all dressed in their black and violet robes with red sashes called tippets, sit in red leather chairs in front of the ornate cream-paneled wall. Behind them hangs the Royal Coat of Arms present in every courtroom in England and Wales. On it the mottoDieu et mon droit, “God and my right.” It is this we bow to when entering or leaving a courtroom to show respect for the King’s justice.
Each of the judges speaks about Anton and his long legal career; twenty-eight years as a barrister, seven of those years as Queen’s Counsel before spending the last five years of his life as a Crown Court judge. He was “a juggernaut of legal intelligence” and always “three steps ahead of any counsel who appeared in front of him.” One goes on to say Anton was “a guiding light in our judicial circle, a searcher of truth,” that he had an “impeccable moral compass.”
It’s difficult to listen to. A swirl of nausea rises in my gut. I take a deep breath. Wrapping my robes around myself, I look down at the floor.
