Page 49 of Dissection of a Murder
“What about us?” He frowns, reaching for his glass of wine.
“I don’t like this atmosphere. You’re barely at home, and when you are, sometimes it’s like we’re strangers. It doesn’t help when you pull stunts like at the plea hearing, either.”
“What did I do?” he asks, bewildered by the accusation.
“You made out I didn’t know what I was doing after we’d had a discussion about the defense statement. YouknewI wasn’t serving one, but you acted as if you didn’t know in front of the judge. Why did you have to make it seem that I didn’t know my job?”
“God, Leila,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s all for show! I have a duty to the CPS to kick up a fuss if a defense statement hasn’t been served. You wouldn’t want people to think I was going soft on you for being my wife, would you?”
“I have more to lose than you. People’s opinions matter to me.”
“Lei, we’re both preparing a murder trial,” he tells me, as if I didn’t know. “Thesamemurder trial. I know you haven’t done one before, but this is how it is. You simply don’t have time to be getting hung up about things like this.”
We finish the meal in silence.
After dinner, Julian goes to the study to work while I catch up on emails. I also post on my Instagram page forChats at the Bar. Even just half an hour away from this case is a relief.
I try to get an early night, so head up to bed around 9:30 p.m., but it never works like that, does it? I lie awake for hours, staring at the crack of light shining through the curtains from the streetlamp outside.
At 11:45 p.m., I realize I haven’t connected my laptop to the charger, and I’ll need it for work tomorrow, so I creep down the stairs to plug it in. Julian is on the phone in the kitchen, the door shut. It’s late for a phone call, but that’s the thing about our job—“working hours” don’t really apply. Shivering in the cold hallway in my thin pajamas, I quickly make my way to the study.
And then I hear him say something that stops me in my tracks.
“I know it was you who sent the wine on my birthday. What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice is raised. He must think I’m asleep. I dare not move, mid-stride. Who is he talking to?
“You need to get over this and move on with your life. Why is it taking you so long to get this? Are you stupid?”
I stand, frozen to the spot, like an awkwardly positioned statue. All the air is trapped in my lungs. I’m certain he’ll hear if I exhale.
“If anyone finds out, we’re both finished. Do you understand?”
A chill reverberates through my body.
Without any warning, the kitchen door flies open, and Julian is standing in front of me. I don’t know who looks more startled, me or him. His phone, the one he’s just been yelling into, now sits quietly in his right hand. He discreetly attempts to slide it into his pocket.
“I, erm, just came downstairs to plug my laptop in,” I mumble, trying to look like I haven’t been eavesdropping. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, yes.” He nods, trying to read me to see how much I know, how much I heard. “Just dealing with the usual bloody incompetent solicitors. You know what they’re like.”
“This late at night?”
“For the case tomorrow morning.”
Liar.
“You got it sorted?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he says, kissing my forehead and heading upstairs. “I’ll see you up there.”
Big, red alarm bells are going off in my head. I should have probed more, but I know Julian well; he’s too clever for a head-on confrontation.
I’ll have to watch every move he makes.
Grabbing my laptop from the sofa, I can’t find the charger anywhere, so I look in Julian’s wheely suitcase, as he always keeps one in there. Glancing through it, I notice a bundle of papers, the top of which says, “Anton Smythe mobile telephone records 01/01/24–09/06/24” and underneath, lots of numbers and text messages highlighted in yellow.
All the information I need is right here in front of me, yet I’m not allowed to look. But then I remember the last time I represented Jack, how I played everything by the book and how it landed him a stint in prison.
