Page 20 of Dissection of a Murder
One of my colleagues tried a dangerous case a couple of years back and became the target of a terrifying intimidation campaign courtesy of the wider gang network. It began with him being followed home from court, then progressed to threatening mail sent to chambers. It wasn’t until a petrol bomb was posted through the letterbox of his family home that he finally took it seriously.
This profession comes with risk, one we take on when we step through the door of a criminal court. You are prosecuting and defending dangerous people. For my colleague, the petrol bomb meant police presence outside his house, enhanced connection to 999, a visit from the Ministry of Defense to make his house more secure—which included CCTV in every room—and police escorts for him and his wife everywhere they went.
I don’t want any of that. The last thing I need is people whispering about how I’m some terrified, incompetent girl, and that this case is too big for me.
I don’t have time to dwell on it the next day, as I’m in court until mid-afternoon. Finishing earlier than expected, I head back over to chambers. I really need to do some Millman case prep before evidence from the prosecution is served. As I reach the old stone steps of our building, I see Chester coming out.
“Miss Reynolds.” He smiles, tipping his head ever so slightly in a bid to appear gentlemanly. Chester Vernon is one of those older men who’s big on chivalry and manners. I’ve seen him make a dash from one end of the robing room to the other just to hold a door open for a woman struggling under the weight of all the books she was carrying.
“Fancy a quick one?” he asks in a tone that would get him immediately disbarred by the Bar Standards Board. “I was just about to head home, but I’m much more interested in hearing all about this case you’re doing with your frightful husband.”
He’s acting more animated than usual, and his eyes have a glaze about them. I catch the distinct smell of booze when he speaks, so I gather he’s been for a long, liquid lunch, which used to be very common at the Bar “back in the day before things went woke.” What’s likely happened is everyone else has gone home and he’s looking for an excuse to stay out.
The more inquisitive part of me wonders why. With a wife like Demi—half his age, looking like a model—shouldn’t he be running home?
I’d usually say no to a drink when I’ve got a huge case, but there’s something I wouldn’t mind talking to him about if the topic arises,so I decide to go. “Just one. I mean it, Chester. One, then I’m going home.”
After I’ve dumped all my gear in chambers, we head to a nearby bar. It’s just after 3 p.m., so there’s barely anyone here. Chester orders a large glass of red wine, and I ask for a small white, which he predictably promotes to a large to match his.
We choose a sofa in the corner, but not so close to the window where we could be seen. We have nothing to hide, but the Bar is a vicious place for gossip, and people can get the wrong idea. I ensure there’s a decent amount of space between us so there’s no ambiguity.
He places himself comfortably in the corner of the sofa, swinging one arm along the back of it. His immaculately tailored black suit—no waistcoat, which immediately marks him out as being a KC in the robing room—makes him look stylish and distinguished, even at his age. His dark gray hair is slicked back, culminating in small curls at the nape of his neck. White streaks at either side of his head give him the appearance of a Harry Potter villain. Slicked-back hair is a must for King’s Counsel; it adds to the mystique.
“So, Leila,” he bellows, “I hear you made an impression at some school last night? Demi saw it on the Instagram.”
“The” Instagram.
“Yes, it was a talk I did off the back of the blog I do.”
“Is this the ‘no flirting allowed’ blog?”
I give him a playful stare, letting him know his outdated views are inappropriate. “Chester, times have moved on.”
“Doesn’t sound any fun to me,” he puffs, rolling his eyes and reaching for his wine.
He’s a bit of a relic, but Chester was my biggest champion when I applied to chambers. He was on my seven-panel interview for pupillage and asked questions that gave me an opportunity to shine. I think he liked my spirit and confidence and was probably vocal inconvincing the others to give me a shot. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.
“How are you feeling about the Millman case?”
“Ready for the challenge but also terrified,” I confess.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I really want to use this opportunity to show people I’m up to it, but it feels like I’m doomed either way. If I lose, I’ll look incompetent. If I win, I’m worried what might happen to my marriage. I’m not sure Julian could handle it if I won. Imagine the hit his ego would take. A woman. A non-KC. Hiswife.”
Chester is probably the only person I can admit this to.
“You’re up against it. Really up against it, here. Not only with the case, but with him. He’s a dirty player.”
Chester and Julian can’t stand each other. Never have. It’s a tangible dislike whenever they’re in the same room. Chester would love to kick Julian out of chambers, but his professional fees are huge and because we all pay a percentage of them into chambers, he brings a lot of money in. “Incompatible personalities” isn’t a good enough reason to send him packing.
“Oh, come on, he’s notthatbad,” I protest, even though we both know heis—that’s why he’s so good at what he does. “He was my pupilmaster, remember? I know all of his tricks. Seriously, though, do you have to wind him up at every opportunity?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says innocently, taking a sip of his drink with the slightest hint of a smirk on his face.
“I saw you at the memorial. Sienna.”
He delivers a questionable side-eye my way, like a toddler being told off for stealing a biscuit.
