Page 6 of Dissection of a Murder
I’ve always been surprised by the brutality of Bar humor. Barristers don’t hold back. You need a thick skin and absolutely cannot complain, otherwise you’ll be seen as weak and told to lighten up.
I consider butting in and saying, “I was asked forspecifically,” but I don’t. It wouldn’t make a difference. They don’t want the truth; they want gossip and drama. They thrive on it.
You need to know how to play the game.
I landed the case they all want. The murder of a judge is career-defining. They don’t think I deserve it. So, the only way to win the game now is to prove them wrong.
Somehow.
“Apparently, he was killed at the defendant’s flat, which isabovethe club…”
“Who’s the accused, anyway?”
“A doorman at Temptation. It happened late Friday night, it seems.”
“What the hell was Anton doingthere?”
Julian and I glance at each other from opposite sides of the room as the gossip swells. He rolls his eyes and distracts himself by chatting with a group of colleagues. Neither of us should be hearing this.
But I’m not surprised they’re asking questions. The place where he was killed—sorry,allegedly killed—is a place you wouldn’t expect someone like Anton Smythe to be, yet it’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect him to be.
Temptation is an elite men’s club in the center of Durham. Members only, and there’s a rigorous vetting process to become one. Veryfew people are allowed access to the venue, so it’s shrouded in mystery. Owned by millionaire Edward Sorrington, it may profess to be a decadent, luxurious venue, but the reality is it’s dripping in illegal activity. A haven for dirty deals, high-class prostitutes, drugs, and money-laundering, it almost always involves the most respected people in our community, ones with teams of expensive lawyers making sure the news never gets published.
The only reason I know so much about Temptation is because of the case I did years ago when I defended—guess who?
Jack Millman.
“It’ll be something to do with a pretty young girl, I’m sure…” Phoebe (“Shieldsy,” because the men say she reminds them of Brooke Shields) says, much to the dismay of everyone listening. “Oh, come on! We all know he had a wandering eye.”
No one responds. Instead, they gaze down at the floor, refusing to engage. But we are all thinking it.
His Honor Judge Anton Smythe must have been in his late fifties. But he was attractive, as far as older men go. He had a confident, charismatic air about him, as most male members of the judiciary do. The years had been kind to him, and he retained his good looks; intense dark eyes and a full head of silver hair. Very old-school, dapper.
It became a running joke that young female pupils could get away with anything when they were in HHJ Smythe’s court, while their male counterparts would be pulled up for making the same mistake. There have been all kinds of rumors about him over the years—taking young female members of the Bar out to lunch, sitting on sofas in intimate pubs with young women.
I remind myself I shouldn’t be listening to speculation, so I make my way over to the drinks table to get a glass of Coke. I don’t want to be drunk tonight.
Standing beside the table, looking very out of place, is Demi, Chester’s wife. There’s a significant age gap between them; at thirty, Demi looks young enough to be his daughter.
“Hi, Demi, how have you been? It’s been a while!”
“Leila!” she exclaims, looking like I’ve scared her half to death. She raises a hand to her chest in an animated way, communicating that I appeared out of nowhere. “Congratulations! I hear you’re defending the case everyone’s talking about.”
Her beautifully highlighted, swishy hair hangs delicately down her back, stopping inches above her minuscule waist. As always, she’s immaculately dressed. In her chic not-casual-but-not-too-dressed-up ensemble—camel wide-leg trousers and cream silk shirt—she could have stepped straight out ofVogue.
“I’m not sure it’s a congratulatory matter, but thank you.” I attempt a half-arsed smile. “Did you know him? Anton? I’m aware he was friends with Chester.”
“No, I didn’t,” she says, shaking her head and attempting to walk away.
“Didn’t you holiday with them a few years ago in France?”
“Oh, that,” she says, nodding, before taking a sip of wine. “Yes. I didn’t spend much time with him, though. How awful for his family. Will the defendant be pleading guilty? Not guilty? Might the trial ‘crack’? Sorry, I don’t know all this legal jargon!”
She frowns and narrows her eyes when she says all this, as if she doesn’t understand, but it feels insincere. Like she’s trying too hard to come across as dumb. Her voice is singsong in that way posh debutantes are. I don’t think she’s ever had a job in her life.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.” I smile at her.
“Oh, of course!” she gushes, nodding quickly and flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Absolutely. Well, good luck! It’s hard enoughbeing a ‘trial widow’ at the best of times, let alone when you’re doing one with your own husband. When Chester is doing a murder trial, I barely see him, and he’s so grouchy…”
