Page 16 of Dissection of a Murder
I shouldn’t be here. It was a mistake to come, maybe even inappropriate in the circumstances, given my current role to defend his alleged killer.
I consider sneaking out, but the court is so full, I’d draw too much attention, and how would that look? The barrister defending the man accused of murdering Judge Smythe couldn’t even be bothered to stay for his whole memorial service.How disrespectful.
They go on to talk about the cases he did over the years, how he was a “formidable head of chambers” and “outstanding silk.”
“But above all,” HHJ Harvey says, “he was a family man. He lived for his loving wife, Sarah, and their son, Quinn. When he wasn’t on the bench or with his family, he loved being on the golf course. On a personal level, Anton was a colleague who always gave immaculate advice, even if it was seasoned with a rather blunt delivery.”
Muffled laughs bounce around the courtroom. Hewasknown for calling a spade a spade.
“But he was a wonderful judge. A wonderful friend. Justice will be served.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone bellows, and while that last line isn’t directly targeted at me, it might as well have been.
Thankfully, it’s a short service. People start leaving the room as soon as it’s finished, but not fast enough for my liking. I need some fresh air.
“If you were expecting people to be nice to you today, you were always going to be disappointed,” a male voice says in my ear.
I turn around to see Keiran Fox. He was Anton’s pupil years ago. I’ve always got on with him—he’s a decent guy, about ten years older than me. I used to do cases against him before he left the Bar a few years ago to teach student barristers full-time in Newcastle.
“Honestly, I didn’t know if I should come or not. I figured I’d be called insensitive either way.”
“Leila,” he says, shaking his head, “we all know how this works. It’s not as if you get a choice in who you represent. Don’t feel bad about it. That said, I hope you lose.”
I smile. Of course he does. I get it.
People outside this profession rarely understand the bond between pupil and pupilmaster. For the first six months of pupillage you can spend up to ten hours a day with them: watching them in court, traveling long distances with them by car, having lunch with them, researching for them, attending social functions with them. Nobody knows you better professionally than your pupilmaster. It’s why their validation is so priceless.
“We spoke only the day before,” Keiran says. “We went out for lunch. He was talking about his ambitions to become a High Court judge. He’d have been great at that—can you imagine? I mean, don’t get me wrong—he was one of the last old-school judges, had no time for people who weren’t dedicated. But he was a great man.”
Judges like Anton used to be the norm, but they’re a rare breed now. Judges who take the view that since their superiors made life hell for them when they were starting out, they should do the same for baby barristers. Most pupils hate it, but not me—that approach felt familiar. It made me a better lawyer.
Made everything feel earned.
“I’m so sorry. I really am,” I murmur. What else can you say when someone has lost a person close to them? “How’s the job in Newcastle going?”
“It’s very rewarding and, sorry to say this, has great working hours, salary, pension, paid annual leave, and job security. Don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner. Jealous?”
“No, because I still get the thrill of tax-bill anxiety every year. You’re missing out on that.”
He laughs. “I know people think I’ve sold out, but it works for me.Anton hated it—he was always trying to talk me into coming back to the Bar.”
“I’m sure he was happy for you,” I tell him, reaching out and placing my hand on his arm.
I know this isn’t true, but it’s what he needs to hear. The fact is, Anton was unsupportive of Keiran’s professional choice to leave the Bar, and he didn’t hide it, even going so far as to call his ex-pupil a “bloody waste of time.”
“I hope so. He was a great mentor, despite the rough edges.”
I smile at him.
“Leila…” A soft northern female accent interrupts us. “How are you?”
The blonde woman who was hugging Chester now stands beside us. She is Sienna Fox, married to Keiran Fox.
And Julian’s ex-wife.
She’s about ten years older than me, around the same age as Julian, but doesn’t look it. She obviously has either a personal trainer or a very hefty gym membership because she looks incredible. Even in her trouser suit, you can tell she’s toned and lifts weights in hideously expensive leggings. She’s also plainly mastered the Dyson hair wrap, going by the honey-colored locks that bounce around her shoulders. I feel decidedly unglamorous standing next to her in my wig and robes.
“I’m well, thank you, Sienna. You?”
