Page 84 of Dissection of a Murder
And maybe it would have ended that way, if not for that night.
The night everything went so horribly wrong.
Now here we are, a year later, Jack accused of murdering Anton Smythe.
What I do know is that this jury isn’t going to hear what really happened that night. They’ll get a different version, one they can tolerate, one that will make sense, one that will make Anton look better than he was. They will hear a version that is “just.”
Not necessarily the truth.
When Anton went to Jack’s apartment that night, the last person he expected to find was me. You see, I know his secret, the one that would have had him sacked as a judge if anyone found out. And that’s why Jack is protecting me.
Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and replay the entire thing in my head. I hear the thud of that kettlebell on his skull seconds before his body fell to the floor. I remember the desperation in his voice, the last words to leave his mouth. The ones he’d never want his family to know. His big secret. The one that had led him to Jack’s flat in the first place.
But they can never know the truth.
Nobody can.
Part Two
The Trial
Chicanery
Noun
1. Clever, dishonest talk or behavior that is used to deceive people
2. A slick performance by alawyer
42
Leila
R v Jack Millman
Day 1
10 a.m.
Flushing the vomitaway, I start brushing my teeth and make a mental note not to attempt breakfast tomorrow. I’ve been awake since 4:36 a.m., going through the case in my head. I feel wired, dizzy, sick. Adrenaline has entered the chat. I put on my best fitted trouser suit. A high, black, stiletto heel. Liquid eyeliner with a respectable wing. Red lipstick.
I hear Julian shuffling around in the spare room. We’re used to the practical choreography of it all now; he uses the bathroom while I’m in the kitchen, then we switch. We never pass on the stairs. The fact we even have a routine of this type demonstrates how far apart we’ve drifted. I leave the house at 7 a.m. just to get out of there.
After speeding away from Chester’s house on Friday, I went home and collected my laptop and case papers, then took them all to Audrey’s house and stayed the night. I locked all the doors to ensure there was no way ofhergetting back in. Protecting Audrey and her home is a priority. First thing on Saturday morning, I called a locksmith to come and make the house more secure, with a few addedmeasures to give me peace of mind. I need to be able to focus on the trial.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes residence in my stomach as I pull my suitcase out of the car and drag it into court. I catch a few members of chambers on their way in, and they wish me good luck, in the professional sense, of course. But they want me to lose. After all, I’m defending the man accused of killing their friend and colleague.
The atmosphere in Newcastle Crown Court robing room is somber. Weaving through the files and bags on the floor, I head toward the corner so I can robe away from everybody else. The volume drops once I enter. This is the only case people are talking about.
“Best of luck, Britney!” some of the men say, which sounds ludicrous in the context of this situation.
Putting my robes, collarette, and wig on today doesn’t feel like court dress; it feels like armor. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I take a quick breath and release it slowly. Here it is—the most important moment of my career.
Something to prove. Everything to lose.
Entering Court 1, I see Julian setting up the bench. As King’s Counsel, he is allowed to use a lectern in court, whereas I am not. So, straight off the bat, that’s the first thing that marks me out to the jury as inferior, in addition to the different robes. It immediately says, “He is more senior to her.”
Walking straight past him, I go over to Davina, who is setting up our benches next to the jury box. This is a privilege you have when defending, which I love. There is nothing better than speaking directly to a jury, up close and personal.
