Page 98 of Dissection of a Murder
“Thank you.” I smile at him. “No further questions.”
49
Leila
R v Jack Millman
Day 1
3:01 p.m.
Quinn Smythe standsin the witness box, every inch the dutiful son. Well-fitted suit, shiny shoes, perfectly groomed hair. But he looks nervous; fidgeting with the buttons on his suit, subtly biting his bottom lip.
I cannot shake what I heard on the secret camera from Temptation.
“Mr. Smythe, I understand this is tremendously difficult for you, but could you please tell the jury when you last saw your father?” Julian asks, going straight for the emotional drama.
Clearing his throat, he faces the twelve people who will decide if Jack killed his dad.
“He came to see me at work, the day he was killed, at about 6 p.m.”
“Where did you work?”
“Diamond Lounge, in Durham city center.”
“He sent you a text message saying, ‘No, not there. Diamond Lounge 6 p.m. Don’t panic. Nobody knows.’ Can you tell the jury what he wanted to speak to you about?”
“Jack Millman had been bothering me for a few weeks.”
He looks straight at Julian when he says it, almost fearful that if he makes eye contact with anyone else, they’ll see through his lies. Every member of the jury turns to look at Jack, to see his reaction. As he’s sitting behind me, I’m unable to watch, which is probably just as well.
“Bothering?”
“Yes.” He nods. “He hates kids from private schools. He thinks we’re all stuck up but hates me the most because my dad sent him to prison. We used to go to Innocence on a Friday night, but he’d always cause trouble for me.”
“How so?”
“Trying to get me kicked out of the bar, following me around, staring at me in a very intimidating manner. Everyone could see he had it in for me.”
Oh, this is new. And, cleverly, it’s indisputable, because there aren’t any CCTV cameras in Innocence or Temptation. Well, apart from the one that captured Quinn being involved in something dodgy as hell. But, unhelpfully, this is of course on a recording I can’t use. If only the quality was better. If only Jack had led him a little farther into the room so we could see his face. If only the audio was clearer. I know it’s him, but a judge would never allow it into evidence. I sit, listening to Quinn, as the injustice of it all races through my body.
“Did the defendant ever say anything specific that would imply it was a personal vendetta during this time?”
“No. It was mainly just his demeanor. He’s obviously intimidating. Look at him.”
There’s an urgency in his evidence. It’s rehearsed, unnatural. He’s practiced this. You can tell he’s been told what to say. What eighteen-year-old uses words and phrases like “demeanor” and “intimidatingmanner”? He’s been coached by Julian. I’m surprised he didn’t describe Jack as a “Caucasian male.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“Yes, I eventually told my father about it.”
“And what did he do?”
“He said he would deal with it. That’s why he went to Jack’s flat that night. To tell him to stop.”
“What’s the meaning of the ‘nobody knows’ part of that text?”
Quinn’s eyes dart quickly over to Jack, sitting in the dock at the back of the courtroom.
