Page 47 of Dissection of a Murder
I know it’s a threat from the preview. I sit down, promising myself I won’t panic, that they’re just words and that nothing bad has happened since the last one. They’re empty threats, that’s all. Designed to scare me.
But it’s more chilling than I imagined. It isn’t just about me. It’s about the trial.
Feeling the pressure yet? You are, aren’t you? Is he really ready to face questions about why a judge went to visit a criminal at 10:30 p.m. on a Friday night? I hope you’re as good as your client hopes you are, for both your sakes.
Nothing about this case has been reported in the press, yet this person knows what time Anton arrived at Jack’s flat.
How is that possible? Who the hell is sending these? Are they connected to the case? They can’t be. How much do they know?
If there’s someone out there who knows anything about what really happened the night Anton was killed, I need to be aware of them before this trial begins.
22
Leila
46 days before trial
Julian continues tobuild the Crown’s case against Jack, serving evidence upon which he proposes to rely to secure a conviction. The trial isn’t until mid-January, but criminal trials are meticulous beasts with timelines and deadlines to be adhered to. Among all of this, I have to continue conducting other trials and cases knowing there’s someone out there taunting me, playing with me.
They know something I don’t.
It feels odd to address my husband in emails so formally, but this is how it must be done. I emailed him from the kitchen the other day, despite the fact that he was sitting in the next room. As November passes by and we sprint toward the final month of the year, freezing-cold temperatures set in around the house in more ways than one. I’ve never been a fan of big, old houses—I find them overpowering. Too many cracks and drafts. I feel that I can’t breathe sometimes. That sounds ungrateful, doesn’t it?
Next week Julian and I are conducting a site visit to the location where the murder was allegedly committed. But I can’t stop thinking about what Jack said about Anton’s phone and how that’s where the answers are. Julian will have forensics on that by now and I wonder what he’s found.
I’ve noticed we both get a bit spiky when new evidence lands; it’s as if we’re guarding our thoughts so the other can’t read them. We go into separate rooms to review it, fearing the other will read our body language if we remain where we are.
We still eat dinner together, when we can. But it’s becoming less frequent, a sign that this trial is pulling us apart, since our conversations inevitably—problematically—drift to issues surrounding the case.
“I assume you’ve seen the newspaper article? The one that painted me out to be some kind of novice lawyer?” I ask, as he’s about to stuff some chorizo and roast pepper pasta into his mouth.
“I’ve seen it, yes.” He nods. “There were some copies lying around the robing room.”
“So, everyone’s read it, then.”
“This is just part and parcel of being in this kind of trial. People love theatrics. They’re going with the David and Goliath angle to sell papers. Don’t read anything into it.”
“Are you relying on the contents of Anton’s phone to prove the Crown’s case?” I ask, before I have time to think about the words leaving my mouth.
He looks up at me, studying my face for a few seconds. The same way he does to criminals he’s cross-examining in the witness box.
“Nothing on there of interest,” he replies, continuing to eat his dinner.
“Can we see it, then?”
“Nice try,” he says, smiling.
“If it’s unused material, just hand it over.”
“You haven’t served a defense statement. Come on, Leila. You know the rules. This isn’t a fishing expedition. What’s wrong with you?”
Oh,nowwe’re following the rules.
I need that phone.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says brightly, “I’ll do you a swap. I’ll give you Anton’s phone if you give me Jack’s.”
I smile at him sarcastically.
