Page 12 of Client Privilege

“I think that would be best,” Blackwood interjected smoothly. “We want to ensure full compliance, of course.”

I knew what they were doing. Dragging this out, forcing more meetings, more chances for Marcus to get to me.

“In the meantime,” Marcus continued, “I’m more than happy to provide financial support while Alex gets back on his feet. I understand he’s been… struggling.” His eyes flicked over my worn clothing, lingering on the frayed cuffs of my jacket.

“My client has no interest in your financial assistance,” Damian said firmly. “And I remind you again to address me, not Mr. Lajeunesse directly.”

Marcus smiled that cold smile again. “Of course. Old habits.”

I felt my chest tightening, the familiar sensation of panic closing in. Marcus was doing what he always did—appearing reasonable, concerned, while thoroughly stripping away everything that mattered to me. And he was enjoying it.

“I need some air,” I managed to say, standing abruptly.

Damian nodded. “We’ll take a brief recess. Mr. Delaney, Mr. Blackwood, please remain here.”

He followed me out into the hallway, closing the door behind us. Once we were alone, I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe.

“He’s lying about Buster,” I said when I could speak. “He’s using him as bait.”

“I know,” Damian said quietly. “We’ll file a motion for specific compliance regarding the cat. If he’s found in contempt—”

“That won’t help Buster,” I interrupted. “Marcus will hurt him if he thinks he’s losing control. You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

Damian’s expression darkened. “Actually, I think I’m beginning to.”

Damian

I STRAIGHTENED my tie as I approached Courtroom 302, where Judge Patterson awaited.

The preliminary hearing had been scheduled with remarkable speed—Marcus Delaney’s influence at work, no doubt.

I’d spent the night preparing, fuelled by equal parts coffee and indignation after witnessing Marcus’s performance in my office.

Sandra met me at the courthouse entrance, handing me an updated brief.

“Managing partner called twice this morning,” she said quietly. “Wanted to know if you’d reconsidered your position on the Delaney matter.”

“Did he now?” I kept my voice neutral despite the fury building inside me. “And what did you tell him?”

“That you were unavailable due to court preparations.” She gave me a small smile. “I may have mentioned you were in the washroom with stomach issues.”

I almost laughed. “Resourceful as always, Sandra.”

Inside the courtroom, Edward Blackwood was already seated at the defence table, immaculate in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. He nodded cordially as I entered, as if we were about to discuss stock options over brandy rather than his client’s abusive behaviour.

Marcus sat beside him, the picture of dignified concern. He’d mastered that expression, I realized—the furrowed brow, the slight downturn of his mouth. To anyone who didn’t know better, he looked like a man wrongfully accused, bearing his burden with grace.

I took my seat at the plaintiff’s table, arranging my files with deliberate precision. The courtroom was nearly empty—I’d requested privacy given the nature of the case, though I suspected Judge Patterson had granted it more out of deference to Marcus’s reputation than concern for Alex.

The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Patterson entered. He was exactly as I’d expected—mid-sixties, with the pompous bearing of a man who believed his judicial appointment confirmed his intellectual superiority rather than his political connections.

“We’re here regarding Lajeunesse v. Delaney,” he began, peering over his reading glasses. “A matter of disputed property, I understand?”

“Your Honour,” I stood, “this is a matter of non-compliance with a court order. Mr. Delaney was instructed to return all personal property belonging to my client, including artwork, sketchbooks, and a pet cat. He has failed to do so.”

Patterson’s gaze shifted to Blackwood. “Counsellor?”

“Your Honour,” Blackwood rose smoothly, “my client has made every effort to comply with the court’s order. He returned all items in his possession. As for the cat, regrettably, the animal escaped shortly before the handover date. Mr. Delaney has been searching diligently.”

“That’s patently false,” I interjected. “Mr. Delaney sent text messages to my client just yesterday, including a photograph of the cat in question, clearly still in his possession.”

I approached the bench, offering printouts of the texts Alex had forwarded to me. “These messages not only prove Mr. Delaney still has the cat, but also constitute a violation of the temporary restraining order.”

Patterson frowned at the papers, then at me. “These could be from anyone, Mr. Richards. There’s no clear identification of the sender.”

“The unknown number appeared immediately after the court ordered the return of the cat,” I argued. “And the photograph shows the animal in Mr. Delaney’s bedroom—a fact my client can verify.”

“Objection,” Blackwood was on his feet. “These messages could have been sent at any time. There’s no date stamp visible in these printouts. And the suggestion that my well respected client would violate a court order is frankly offensive.”

“Your Honour,” I pressed, “we can subpoena the phone records to verify—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Patterson cut me off. “Mr. Richards, do you have any evidence beyond these ambiguous text messages that Mr. Delaney is wilfully withholding property?”

I felt my jaw tighten. “My client provided a detailed inventory of his artwork—over thirty pieces, including several that were exhibited at the Gardiner Gallery last year. Mr. Delaney returned none of these items.”

“Perhaps because they were gifts,” Blackwood suggested smoothly. “Or perhaps because they’re still at the gallery, as my client suggested during the handover meeting.”

“The gallery terminated my client’s exhibition after Mr. Delaney made a call to the owner,” I countered. “A fact we can also prove through testimony.”

Patterson waved his hand dismissively. “Hearsay. Do you have documentation from the gallery confirming they don’t have the artwork?”

“Not at this time, Your Honour, but—”

“Then I suggest you obtain it before making accusations.” Patterson’ s tone was final. “As for the cat, unless you can provide conclusive evidence that Mr. Delaney is currently in possession of the animal and deliberately withholding it, I’m inclined to accept his explanation.”

I felt a surge of anger. “Your Honour, with respect, my client has reason to believe Mr. Delaney is using the cat as leverage to force contact. The text messages clearly show—”

“The text messages show nothing conclusive,” Patterson interrupted. “Mr. Richards, I understand you’re zealously representing your client, but this court requires facts, not speculation.”

Blackwood seized the opening. “Your Honour, if I may, my client has gone to considerable lengths to accommodate Mr. Lajeunesse’s requests, despite the distress these accusations have caused him.

Mr. Delaney has been a pillar of the community for decades, a generous philanthropist, and has no history of the behaviour Mr. Lajeunesse alleges. ”

“Because he pays to keep it quiet,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.

Patterson’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Richards, that’s enough. I won’t have unsubstantiated accusations in my courtroom.”

I took a breath, regaining my composure. “Your Honour, I apologize. But I would ask the court to consider why a man of Mr. Delaney’s resources hasn’t produced a single piece of my client’s artwork, which represents years of professional work.”

“Perhaps because your client abandoned his property when he left Mr. Delaney’s home without notice,” Blackwood suggested.

“My client has been more than generous in returning personal effects. If specific items are missing, Mr. Lajeunesse should provide a detailed inventory, and my client will make every effort to locate them.”

It was a delaying tactic, and we all knew it. More meetings. More opportunities for Marcus to intimidate Alex.

“Your Honour,” I tried once more, “we’re asking for enforcement of the existing order. All property means all property, not just what Mr. Delaney deems appropriate to return.”

Patterson shuffled his papers. “Gentlemen I find no evidence of wilful non-compliance at this time. Mr. Delaney will continue his search for the missing cat and any artwork that may be in his possession. Mr. Richards, have your client provide a detailed inventory of any missing items. We’ll reconvene in two weeks to assess progress. ”

He banged his gavel, effectively ending the discussion.

“Two weeks, Your Honour?” I protested. “My client is currently homeless, with limited resources. His artwork represents his livelihood.”

“Which he knowingly chose to leave behind in Mr. Delaney’s residence,” Patterson replied coldly. “Two weeks, Mr. Richards. Court adjourned.”

I stood rigid as Patterson left the bench, my knuckles white around the edge of the table. Across the aisle, Blackwood was already gathering his papers, looking supremely satisfied.

Marcus caught my eye as he stood to leave, his expression one of polite concern—the same look he’d given Alex when asking if he was “eating properly.” But beneath it, I saw something else: triumph.

“Better luck next time, Mr. Richards,” Blackwood murmured as they passed my table. “Perhaps you should focus on the Halston acquisition. I hear it’s quite lucrative for your firm.”

The implied threat wasn’t subtle. Take the hint, drop Alex’s case, return to the profitable corporate work that kept Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery thriving.

I waited until they left before gathering my own materials. Sandra approached cautiously.

“That didn’t go well,” she observed.

“That,” I replied, shoving papers into my briefcase with more force than necessary, “was a travesty. Patterson didn’t even pretend to be impartial.”

“What now?”

I paused, considering. The firm would expect me to back down after this setback. Marcus would expect it too. They all thought they knew me—the Ice Man, the pragmatist, the corporate lawyer who followed the path of least resistance to the greatest profit.

They were wrong.

“Now,” I said, snapping my briefcase shut, “we change the game. Call Judge Sommers directly. Tell her I need fifteen minutes of her time regarding a domestic abuse case that’s being deliberately mishandled.

Then contact every gallery in Toronto that’s exhibited Alex’s work.

I want documentation of every piece, every showing, every review. ”

Sandra raised an eyebrow. “And the managing partner?”

“Tell him I’m still indisposed.” I headed for the door, a new determination settling over me. “Apparently, I have a stomach for this fight after all.”