Page 32 of Dissection of a Murder
“OK,” he whispers. “I’ll call by in the morning after my round of golf.”
I remember the first time I watched Julian properly perform in court. On week two of my pupillage, Julian prosecuted a rape case. The trial was fascinating. I had, of course, completed many mini-pupillages—when you spend a week with a criminal barrister, usually observing a trial—but this was different. I wasinsideit this time. Immersed.
I looked on in awe as he delivered his closing speech to the jury. There is something hypnotic about witnessing high-quality advocacyin a courtroom. Anyone who says delivering a closing speech is a skill is wrong; it’s an art. It’s been said barristers are actors without Equity cards, and that’s true.
The courtroom is your stage, your robes are your costume, and the jury is your audience. How successful you are isn’t necessarily based on what evidence is presented—it’s all about your performance.
I cringe thinking back to the innocent baby barrister I was when I joined chambers; the “law school way” I’d prepare sentences or skeleton arguments. Julian would make me stand in his office, with ten minutes’ preparation time to simulate real life, and prepare a plea in mitigation for a case he’d be doing for real later that morning. He’d sit behind his desk, lean back in his chair, head cocked to the side with his arms folded, and I’d panic, wondering if what was coming out of my mouth made any sense. His eyes locked onto me and didn’t move; he wanted to see if I could handle the pressure of a courtroom. Would I stand up to intimidation? I was convinced he could see my heart pounding in my chest. He’d then rip my submission apart. He was utterly brutal. I hated him for it.
But I loved it, too. It made me a better advocate.
My whole professional life, I’ve wanted to be as good as him.
But I’m not stupid. There’s no doubt whatsoever that he sees me as an easy victory in this case.
“Darling,” he says, stroking my leg, “just a little thing about the plea hearing next week. I’m assuming since I haven’t received anything from the defense it’s going to be a guilty plea to murder?”
I remember what Julian told me on our weekend away, that this is how big trials are run. It’s not as if we’re discussing intimate details of the case. I’m not breaching client confidentiality; I’m just giving him a heads-up.
“No,” I tell him assertively. “I expect a not-guilty plea.”
“Oh! Right. OK.” He muses for a few moments. “Has he actually said that? Are those your instructions?”
“He isn’t saying anything at all.”
“I see. So, you won’t be serving a defense statement, then?”
The defense statement is the most important document in any criminal defense. It sets out exactly what defense you’ll be relying on at trial. Perhaps most importantly, it triggers disclosure from the prosecution; if they have any evidence to support your defense, they have to give it to you.
“I don’t see how I can in the circumstances.”
“No, of course. Yes. Obviously.”
I watch as he drums his fingers on the sofa in a rhythmic way. It’s subtle, but it’s something he does when he’s anxious. I first noticed it when I was his pupil; he did it when jurors entered court to deliver a verdict, and a pattern emerged. People talk with their actions.
Julian despises “defense ambushes” in trials. He likes to be prepared and know what defendants are going to say before he starts cross-examining them. Without a defense statement, he can’t do that.
“I’ll keep you updated,” I tell him formally. Julian taught me murder is the same as any other trial, the only difference being that someone has died, so the stakes are higher. But essentially, the process is the same. I need to have faith in my own ability.
“Certainly. Just planning ahead. Thanks for letting me know. I really thought this was going to be a straightforward guilty plea to murder, but it sounds like we’ll be having a trial?”
“Probably. It makes no sense, though. There’s no motive.”
“I’ll find one,” he says, tapping me on the leg and signaling he wants to get up.
I have no doubt he will.
—
Later in bed, Julian faces the opposite way to me, no attempt to connect. I remain awake for a while, overthinking everything.
Just as I’m dozing off, I see a light shining into the bedroom that appears to be coming from the back garden. It takes me a few seconds to work out it’s the security light. Not unusual—next door’s cat usually sets it off.
A few minutes go by, and the light is still on.
Julian is fast asleep, so I can’t ask him to go, and I’m far too cozy in bed to check for myself, so I pick up my phone and tap the security app to look at the CCTV we have covering the back garden to confirm there’s nobody there.
But someoneisthere.
