Page 22 of Client Privilege

Alex

MITCHELL SAT across from me in the courthouse cafeteria, sliding a sandwich toward me with gentle insistence. “You need to eat something.”

I stared at the food without appetite. My stomach twisted with anxiety about testifying.

“Small bites,” Damian suggested, his own lunch untouched. “Even if you’re not hungry. You’ll need your strength.”

I forced myself to take a bite, the bread sticking in my throat. Mitchell and Damian maintained casual conversation about baseball statistics, creating a buffer of normalcy around me. I was grateful they didn’t press me to talk or ask how I was feeling.

The sandwich tasted like nothing. I managed three bites before pushing it away.

“That’s enough,” Damian said, checking his watch. “We should head back up. Ready?”

I wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. But I nodded anyway.

“Remember,” Mitchell said as we walked toward the elevators, “just answer exactly what’s asked. Don’t volunteer additional information to Blackwood. And if you need a moment— ”

“I can ask for it,” I finished. We’d been over this dozens of times.

The courtroom seemed smaller when we returned, more suffocating. I took my seat beside Damian, acutely aware of Marcus’s presence across the aisle. I kept my eyes fixed on the empty witness stand.

After the final witness finished testifying about the 911 call, Judge Patterson turned to Damian. “Call your next witness, Mr. Richards.”

Damian stood. “The plaintiff calls Alex Lajeunesse.”

My legs felt disconnected from my body as I walked to the witness stand. The bailiff approached with a Bible.

“Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

I sat, the wooden chair hard beneath me. The courtroom stretched before me—faces turned toward mine, expressions ranging from sympathy to skepticism. Marcus sat perfectly still, his eyes never leaving me.

Damian approached, his presence reassuring. “Alex, how did you first meet Marcus Delaney?”

I cleared my throat. “At a gallery opening. I was working as an assistant curator at the Gardiner Gallery. He attended our emerging artists exhibition which I had co-curated.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“He was… charming. Knowledgeable about art. He seemed genuinely interested in my perspective on the exhibition.”

“How did your relationship progress from that initial meeting?”

I traced the pattern in the wooden railing with my fingertip. “He started visiting the gallery regularly. Always when I was working. He’d bring coffee, ask about my art, my background. He seemed… safe. Interested in my career.”

“When did the relationship become romantic?”

“About three months after we met. He invited me to dinner at Canoe—this exclusive restaurant I could never have afforded. I was flattered by his attention.”

“How would you describe the early stages of your romantic relationship?”

“It was overwhelming, in a good way—at first. He was attentive, generous. He’d listen to me talk about art for hours. No one had ever taken me that seriously before.”

Damian nodded. “When did things begin to change?”

I swallowed hard. “It was gradual. Small things at first. He’d make suggestions about my clothes—that certain colours suited me better, that my style should reflect my artistic sensibility. He’d recommend I cancel plans with friends because I seemed tired and needed rest.”

“Did these suggestions ever become demands?”

“Yes. About six months in, after I’d moved into his apartment, the suggestions became… expectations. He’d lay out clothes for me in the morning. He’d answer my phone, screen my calls. He said he was protecting me from distractions.”

“What happened to your employment at the gallery?”

“Marcus convinced me to quit. Said I was wasting my talent working for someone else when I should be focusing on my art. He promised to support me financially, to introduce me to important collectors.”

“And did he?”

“At first. He arranged a small exhibition. But afterwards, he became the gatekeeper for all my professional contacts. Eventually, I wasn’t allowed to attend my own openings without him. He’d tell people I was fragile, prone to anxiety in crowds.”

“What about your financial independence?”

“It disappeared completely. He added me to his accounts but kept control of all the cards, all the passwords. He’d give me cash for specific purchases and check the receipts. Said it was to help me budget, since artists aren’t good with practical matters. ”

“Were there consequences if you disobeyed his rules?”

My heart raced. “Yes. At first, he’d just be disappointed—say how I’d let him down after all he’d done for me. Later, he’d withdraw completely—not speak to me for days, sleep in the guest room. I’d be desperate to make things right.”

“Did the consequences ever become physical?”

I nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“Please answer verbally for the record,” Judge Patterson instructed, his tone neutral.

“Yes,” I managed. “The first time was about a year in. I’d spoken to a former colleague at a gallery event without his permission. When we got home, he slapped me. Then immediately apologized, said he’d never do it again, that I’d just made him so crazy with jealousy.”

“But it wasn’t the last time, was it?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Blackwood called out, rising to his feet. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

Judge Patterson considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Overruled. The question establishes a timeline relevant to the plaintiff’s claims. The witness may answer.”

“No. It became more frequent. More severe. He was always careful though—nothing that would show when I was dressed. Nothing that would raise questions.”

“Until the night of September 17th this year.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Yes. Until then.”

“Can you tell the court what happened that night?”

I took a deep breath. “I’d gone to a park near our apartment while Marcus was in meetings. I just wanted to sketch outdoors for an hour. A friend of his saw me there and mentioned it to him. When Marcus came home, he had my sketchbook. He was furious that I’d left without permission.”

My voice faltered. Damian waited patiently .

“He started with the usual—telling me how ungrateful I was, how I’d embarrassed him. Then he hit me. I fell against the coffee table, cut my arm. He dragged me up by my hair and…” I trailed off, the memories flooding back with sickening clarity.

“Take your time,” Damian said gently.

“He beat me with his belt. Said I needed discipline. When I tried to get away, he caught me in the bathroom. That’s when it got worse. He…” I swallowed hard. “He raped me. Said I belonged to him, that no one else would ever want damaged goods like me.”

The courtroom was completely silent.

“What happened after that?”

“I must have passed out. When I woke up, he was gone. I managed to call 911. The ambulance took me to Toronto General.”

“Why did you leave the hospital before completing your examination?”

“A nurse told me Marcus was there, demanding to see me. I knew if I saw him, if he apologized like all the times before, I’d go back. I couldn’t do it again. So I left in borrowed scrubs, no shoes, nothing.”

“Where did you go?”

“I called my former art professor from Montreal—Claude Mercier,” I said, the memory still raw.

“He was the only person I could think of who Marcus might not immediately suspect. Marcus had sent him a cease and desist letter years ago when Claude tried to check on me after I dropped out of art school. He thought Claude would never risk his career by helping me.”

“And did he? Help you?”

I nodded. “He drove all the way from Montreal that night. Found me at a diner near the hospital. He gave me cash, helped me buy a cheap used car—the Honda I’m living in now, it’s actually registered in his name since I don’t have photo ID currently—and loaned me enough for temporary accommodation.

” I swallowed hard. “He wanted me to go back to Montreal with him, where he could properly help me, but I knew that wasn’t safe.

Marcus would look for me there eventually. ”

“Have you stayed in contact with Professor Mercier?”

“Minimal contact. I message him occasionally, just to let him know I’m alive. He’s been worried.”

“But Mr. Delaney did find you, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He left my cat’s collar on my windshield with a note saying if I wanted to see Buster alive, I should come home.”

“Objection!” Blackwood stood. “Hearsay. There’s no evidence connecting this alleged note to my client.”

“Your Honour,” Damian countered, “the plaintiff will testify that he recognized Mr. Delaney’s handwriting on the note.”

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Patterson ruled reluctantly. “Continue.”

“Has Marcus continued to contact you since you left?”

“Yes. Text messages from different numbers. He even found out where I was staying — at the shelter where my attorney had arranged a room — and somehow he got my new phone number too.”

“No further questions, Your Honour.” Damian returned to his seat.

Edward Blackwood approached, his expression one of practiced concern.

“Mr. Lajeunesse, you’ve painted quite a dramatic picture for us today.” His tone was conversational, almost sympathetic. “Let’s clarify a few points, shall we?”

I tensed, preparing for the attack beneath his friendly demeanour.

“You testified that Marcus Delaney was generous in the beginning of your relationship—providing financial support, professional opportunities, housing. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just yes or no, please.” Blackwood smiled thinly. “And these benefits continued throughout your relationship, did they not? You lived in a luxury apartment, had access to the finest restaurants, travelled internationally—all expenses paid by Mr. Delaney?”

“Yes.”