Page 35 of Dissection of a Murder
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The public gallery is packed. Journalists fill the jury box, a common sight for short hearings where there’s significant public interest and a jury isn’t yet required. The air is thick with tension.
Two loud knocks echo through the courtroom, indicating the judge is about to appear. My heart starts galloping. I hear the blood in my body pumping in waves. His Honor Judge Byson appears on the bench to a cry of “All rise!” and that’s it. We’re off.
A jangle of keys is heard coming from the back of the court and the door from the cells to the dock opens. Everyone turns to look.
Jack walks through the door, momentarily shocked by the eyes fixated on him. He freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. Giving him the subtlest of smiles, I attempt to get him to focus on me. He catches my eye and doesn’t let go until he sits down behind the monolithic bulletproof panes of glass in the dock. The usual housekeeping matters are addressed before the formal indictment is read by the clerk. Asking Jack to stand, he holds up a piece of paper and reads the charge aloud.
“Jack Millman, you are charged with murder, pursuant to common law. The particulars of the offense are that on Friday, September 6, 2024, you murdered Anton Smythe. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
I turn around to look at him, as does everyone else in the courtroom. The silence chokes us all as we wait for his answer.
“Not guilty.”
“Please sit down,” the clerk instructs. Whispers echo around the courtroom.
My husband jumps to his feet to address the judge. His mission for a conviction begins now.
“Your Honor, the Crown has not had sight of a defense statement,” he remarks in his court voice. It’s slightly different from the one he uses at home: more clipped, posher. Louder. It’s also laced with annoyance. “Despite repeated attempts to contact Miss Reynolds about this over the past week, no document has been forthcoming.”
Oh. I see. Like that, is it? Right.
Julian knew I wouldn’t be serving a defense statement because I told him, so why is he trying to make me look incompetent in front of the judge?
“Miss Reynolds, why on earth has a defense statement not been served? Are you aware this is a murder trial?” Judge Byson asks, waiting for answers I don’t have.
I rise to address the court, irritated by both my husband’s unnecessarily aggressive stance and the patronizing tone of the judge, who speaks to me now as if I’m a teenage girl.
“As matters currently stand, Your Honor, I am not in a position to properly draft one. I have made my learned friend aware of this.”
That is barrister code for: my client refuses to tell me what happened, aka “I’m stuffed.”
“I see,” the judge responds, turning his gaze toward Jack in the dock. “Is your client aware that failing to serve a document setting out what defense he proposes to rely upon will prompt an adverse inference direction to a jury in the event of a trial?”
“I have made him aware of this, Your Honor. Of course.”
“Well, let me remind him,” HHJ Byson booms, staring at Jack. “Mr. Millman, if you do not speak to your barrister and tell her what your defense is, she is unable to put that in a document called a defense statement. This document is very important, as it is given to the prosecution, so they are aware of what you’re going to say in the event of a trial. If they know what your defense is going to be, they have a duty to look through the evidence and disclose anything that may assist your case. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he says, clearly and politely.
“It is also important to make you aware that failing to provide a defense case statement can trigger the jury to draw an ‘adverse inference’ in your case. That means that, if you suddenly put forward a defense at trial without giving notice of it in this document, the judge will direct the jury to take that as an indication of your guilt.”
“I’m aware of this,” Jack replies confidently. I continue facing forward, but the disdain and contempt felt for Jack by everyone in this room is too powerful to ignore. They all knew Anton as one of their own. Now, this young, cocky man accused of killing him refuses to say anything about it.
“We’ve identified a mutually convenient date for trial, Your Honor,” Julian helpfully advises the court. “Monday, January 13.”
“Very well. It will require a High Court judge owing to its sensitive nature. Miss Reynolds, I’m aware this is a frightfully challenging case, but please endeavor to have more open communication via the proper channels with prosecuting counsel in future so that court time is not wasted, and everybody is on the same page.”
I want to answer back and tell him Julian knew I wouldn’t be serving a defense statement but, of course, I don’t. Instead, I bow politely and vow to have it out with him when the time is right. I’m not making a show of myself in front of everyone.
Afterward, I go down to see Jack in the cells with Davina beforethey take him back to prison. His foot taps uncontrollably on the floor and his hands repeatedly rub over his chin. I guess things just got very real.
“So, we’re having a trial, then,” I declare.
“Well, I’m not guilty of murder, so…yes, we are.”
“Look, Jack, I’m going to give it to you straight: we have a well-respected, upper-class judge who’s dead, and a doorman with a criminal past charged with his murder.”
