Page 19 of Client Privilege

Alex

I STOOD frozen at the courthouse steps, my Salvation Army jacket suddenly too tight across my shoulders. People streamed past us—lawyers with briefcases, court reporters, families clutching each other’s hands. Just another Tuesday for them. The day my life would be dissected in public for mine.

“Alex.” Sandra’s voice pulled me back. She stood beside me, her usual efficiency softened by genuine concern. “We should head inside. Damian and Mitchell are waiting at security.”

I nodded but couldn’t make my feet move. Three weeks of preparation, and now that the moment had arrived, terror gripped me like a physical force.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered.

Sandra didn’t dismiss my fear or offer empty reassurances. Instead, she placed herself directly in my line of sight, blocking the intimidating courthouse facade.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly. “I’ve worked with Damian Richards for fifteen years. I’ve seen him destroy corporations, dismantle fraudulent schemes, and reduce hostile witnesses to confessions on the stand. But I’ve never—never—seen him prepare for a case the way he’s prepared for yours.”

She straightened my already straight tie. “That man hasn’t slept more than four hours a night since you walked into his office. He believes in you. So do Mitchell and I. But most importantly, you need to believe in yourself.”

I took a shaky breath. “What if Marcus—”

“Marcus Delaney is just a man,” she interrupted. “A wealthy, entitled man who’s never faced consequences. Today, that changes.”

The certainty in her voice steadied me. I managed a nod and followed her up the steps, through security, and into the marble-floored lobby where Damian and Mitchell waited.

Damian’s eyes found mine immediately. “There you are. Ready?”

Before I could answer, movement across the lobby caught my attention. Marcus and Edward Blackwood emerged from an elevator, deep in conversation. Marcus looked impeccable as always—charcoal suit perfectly tailored to his tall frame, silver hair styled just so, gold cuff-links catching the light.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My vision tunnelled, the courthouse sounds fading beneath the roar of blood in my ears. Three years of conditioning made my body want to shrink, to apologize, to return to his side where punishment would be less severe than defiance.

“Alex.” Damian’s voice cut through the panic. He’d positioned himself between me and Marcus, blocking my view. “Look at me.”

I forced my eyes to focus on him.

“He has no power here,” Damian said, his voice low and firm. “This is our territory now. The law doesn’t care about his money or his connections. It cares about evidence, and we have that in abundance.”

Mitchell appeared at my other side, a human shield. “Courtroom 303 is ready for us. We should head up.”

I nodded, grateful for their protective formation as we moved toward the elevators. As the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of Marcus watching me, his expression unreadable from a distance.

“He looks smaller than I expected,” Mitchell said cheerfully.

A surprised laugh escaped me, easing some of the tightness in my chest. “He’s six-foot-three.”

“Still,” Mitchell shrugged. “Not that impressive.”

Sandra rolled her eyes, but I caught her slight smile.

The courtroom was already half-full when we entered. Our table was set up with neat stacks of documents, laptops, and notepads. I sat where Damian indicated, trying not to look at the door as we waited for Marcus and his attorney to enter.

“Remember,” Damian said quietly, “you’re not alone up there. If you need a moment, ask for it. The judge will grant reasonable requests.”

I nodded, unable to form words as the bailiff called the court to order. Judge Patterson entered, his stern face revealing nothing as he took his seat and surveyed the courtroom.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Robert Patterson, presiding.”

I stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of Marcus and Blackwood entering and taking their places at the opposite table. I kept my eyes fixed on the judge, refusing to acknowledge Marcus’s presence.

After the formalities, Judge Patterson looked between the two tables. “We’re here for case number 2025-CV-4875, Lajeunesse versus Delaney. Are both parties ready to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” Damian and Blackwood answered in unison.

“Very well. Opening statements. Mr. Richards, you may begin.”

Damian rose, buttoning his suit jacket with a single fluid motion. He moved to stand before the judge, his posture relaxed but commanding.

“Your Honour, this case is about power and its abuse.” His voice filled the courtroom without seeming to rise.

“It’s about how Marcus Delaney, a wealthy, respected member of our community, used his position and influence to methodically isolate, control, and ultimately assault a young artist who had the misfortune of catching his attention. ”

Damian turned slightly, including the entire courtroom in his address.

“Over the course of this trial, we will present evidence that Mr. Delaney engaged in a calculated pattern of abuse against my client, Alex Lajeunesse. This abuse began with psychological manipulation and escalated to physical violence that sent Mr. Lajeunesse to the emergency room with broken ribs, internal bleeding, and injuries consistent with sexual assault.”

I stared at my hands on the table, feeling the weight of eyes on me. Damian continued, his voice steady and measured.

“We will show how Mr. Delaney used his financial resources to control every aspect of Mr. Lajeunesse’s life—from where he lived to where he worked, from what he wore to whom he could speak with.

We will demonstrate how Mr. Delaney deliberately cut Mr. Lajeunesse off from friends, colleagues, and professional opportunities, creating a prison of dependency. ”

Damian paused, allowing his words to settle in the courtroom.

“Most disturbing of all, we will present evidence that even after Mr. Lajeunesse fled this abusive relationship, Mr. Delaney has continued to harass and threaten him—using my client’s beloved pet as leverage and his considerable influence to interfere with legal proceedings.”

He turned back to face the judge directly.

“Your Honour, domestic violence hides behind closed doors. It thrives in silence and shame. Today, we break that silence. Today, we ask this court to recognize that wealth and social standing do not place anyone above the law, and that every person deserves protection from abuse, regardless of gender or sexual orientation.”

Damian returned to our table, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as he sat.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Judge Patterson said, “your opening statement. ”

Edward Blackwood rose with practiced ease, his expensive suit and silver hair creating an elder statesman appearance. His voice, when he spoke, carried the polished cadence of someone accustomed to deference.

“Your Honour, this case is indeed about truth, but not the version Mr. Richards has presented.” He smiled benignly at the courtroom. “This is, regrettably, a case about opportunism and ingratitude.”

My stomach clenched as Blackwood gestured toward Marcus, who sat with an expression of pained concern.

“Marcus Delaney is a pillar of our community. His charitable foundation has funded hospitals, arts programs, and domestic violence shelters. He sits on the boards of five non-profit organizations. He has, by all accounts, lived an exemplary life dedicated to public service.”

Blackwood’s voice hardened slightly.

“Three years ago, Mr. Delaney met Alex Lajeunesse, a struggling young artist working at a gallery. Moved by Mr. Lajeunesse’s talent and difficult circumstances, Mr. Delaney offered mentorship, support, and eventually, his heart.”

I dug my fingernails into my palms, fighting the urge to shout denials.

“The evidence will show that far from being abused, Mr. Lajeunesse enjoyed substantial benefits from this relationship—living in Mr. Delaney’s home, receiving financial support, introductions to influential art world figures, and access to opportunities he could never have secured on his own.”

Blackwood shook his head with practiced regret.

“Unfortunately, when Mr. Delaney began to question certain behaviours—unexplained absences, concerning communications with unknown parties, suspicious spending patterns—the relationship deteriorated. Rather than addressing these legitimate concerns, Mr. Lajeunesse chose to flee and fabricate allegations of abuse. ”

He turned to look directly at me, his eyes cold despite his sympathetic expression.

“We do not dispute that Mr. Lajeunesse was injured and sought medical attention. However, we will present evidence suggesting these injuries occurred under circumstances very different from those he has described—circumstances that had nothing to do with Mr. Delaney.”

My vision blurred with tears of rage. The audacity of their lies made me want to scream.

“Your Honour, this court should recognize this case for what it is: an attempt to extract financial gain from a generous man whose only mistake was opening his home and heart to someone who ultimately betrayed his trust.”

Blackwood returned to his seat beside Marcus, who nodded solemnly as if pained by the proceedings.

“Mr. Richards, call your first witness,” Judge Patterson instructed.

Damian stood. “The plaintiff calls Professor Claude Mercier.”

My heart leapt at the name. I turned to watch Claude enter the courtroom, his familiar lanky figure and salt-and-pepper beard bringing a rush of memories from my first year at art school. He’d been the first professor to take my work seriously, to see potential beyond technical skill.

After being sworn in, Claude settled in the witness box, his eyes finding mine with a small, encouraging smile.

“Professor Mercier,” Damian began, “could you please state your occupation for the record?”

“I am a Professor of Fine Arts at the Academy Fine Arts de Montreal, where I’ve taught for twenty-three years.”