Page 3 of Dissection of a Murder
Jim knows how excited I am to hear this. It’s been so difficult to carve out a name for myself.
“And…” he says, pausing for dramatic effect, leaning against the oak bookshelves that spread across the wall, “you’ve received a quote in the Legal 500.”
“Oh my god. Are you joking?” I squeal, before immediately clawing it back and composing myself.
Jim loves it when one of his barristers makes it into the Legal 500. It’s a professional guide for clients that ranks sets of chambers. If you impress the right people, they single you out with a glitzy quote that can do wonders for your career. At thirty-six years old, this is a long time coming, given I’ve been a criminal barrister for thirteen years.
“What does it say?” I ask urgently.
Peeling a neon pink sticker from the brief in his hand, he peers through the glasses perched on the end of his nose. His short, silver-white hair sticks up at peculiar angles.
Leila Reynolds executes intuitive style and is an exceptional jury advocate. She approaches cases with a forensic eye and has a very clever way of interpreting evidence. Future bright star and KC in the making.
It feels surreal, hearing those words describe me. Being professionally recognized is so important and this is the highest form of it.
“Who nominated me?”
He knows why I’m asking.
“I don’t know,” he replies, fiddling with an elastic band from his trouser pocket.
“Can you find out?”
“I can try, but it’s not always possible,” he says sternly, letting me know he will not be taking my request any further. “This is fantastic news, Leila. Take it for what it is. The opportunities it’ll send your way. You’re an exceptional advocate—I’m hearing great things. Someone has obviously recognized that.”
He normally calls me Miss Reynolds, only ever calls me Leila when he’s gone into “dad mode,” which I never really mind. Despite the fact that Jim is a clerk, I have more in common with him than the other barristers. We both come from working-class backgrounds around Newcastle. He has a thick Geordie accent, similar to mine. I’ve been advised to “water it down” over the years, but I refuse to get rid of it. I’m fiercely proud of my roots and have always found clients and jurors relate to me more than my privileged colleagues because of it.
“You’re right.” I smile at him. “I’m grateful.”
“Anyway, I’ve got a new brief for you. Came in an hour ago. Client was very specific that he wanted you and nobody else.”
He holds the brief out toward me, and I take it.
IN THE CROWN COURT AT NEWCASTLE
R v Jack Millman
That’s all it says on the front. When you’ve represented as many people as I have, most of the names blend together. Some spark recognition, but you can’t connect them to a face. Others, you don’t forget.
Like this one.
“Are you going to bloody look at it, or what?” Jim asks. I pop the bow on the ribbon and open the brief. A chill radiates through my body when I see the full name.
Both of them. On thesameindictment.
I read the instructions from the solicitor:
PARTICULARS OF OFFENSE
On Friday, September 6, 2024, JACK MILLMAN allegedly murdered ANTON SMYTHE. He gave a NO-COMMENT interview and appeared at Durham Magistrates’ Court on Monday, September 9, for a first hearing. Proceedings will be transferred to Newcastle Crown Court and counsel is instructed to defend hereafter.
There’s hardly anything to the brief, but there wouldn’t be at this stage. It’s flimsy, fewer than ten pages.
The murder of His Honor Judge Smythe on Friday night sent shock waves through the legal community. News spread on Saturday afternoon after his wife told close friends, and information like that doesn’t remain secret for long.
At first, people speculated it must have been a tragic “wrong place, wrong time” type of incident, but as more details have emerged, that has seemed increasingly unlikely.
“Leila?”
