Page 23 of Client Privilege

“In fact, over the three years of your relationship, you didn’t have to work at all, did you? You were free to pursue your art without financial concerns?”

“It wasn’t freedom,” I said, feeling my control slipping. “It was another form of control.”

“Interesting perspective.” Blackwood’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Lajeunesse, before meeting Marcus Delaney, what was your financial situation?”

“I was supporting myself. Working at the gallery, selling some pieces—”

“Were you not behind on your rent? Struggling to pay student loans? Living in a basement apartment with three roommates?”

I flushed. “Yes, but many artists—”

“Just answer the questions, please.” Blackwood consulted his notes theatrically. “Now, you claim Mr. Delaney isolated you from friends and colleagues. Yet you testified that you voluntarily resigned from the gallery to focus on your art. Isn’t that correct?”

“He pressured me to quit, I was coerced.”

“Did he threaten you? Force you to sign a resignation letter?”

“Not physically, no, but—”

“Yes or no, please.”

“No,” I admitted, frustration building.

“And these rules you mentioned—the clothing, the social restrictions—isn’t it possible these were simply suggestions that you’re now re-framing as demands?”

“No, they were—”

“Objection!” Damian stood. “Counsel is badgering the witness and not allowing him to complete his answers.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” Judge Patterson said mildly, “please allow the witness to respond fully.”

“Of course, Your Honour.” Blackwood’s smile tightened. “Please continue, Mr. Lajeunesse.”

“They weren’t suggestions,” I said, my voice stronger. “If I didn’t comply, there were consequences.”

“Ah yes, these alleged consequences.” Blackwood paced before me. “Yet you stayed for three years. If conditions were so unbearable, why not leave sooner?”

The question hit like a physical blow. How many times had I asked myself the same thing?

“It wasn’t that simple,” I said quietly. “He convinced me I had nowhere to go, no one who cared. That I was lucky he put up with me.”

“Moving to the night of September 17th,” Blackwood continued, ignoring my answer. “You claim Mr. Delaney assaulted you because you went to a park without permission. That seems rather extreme, doesn’t it?”

“Marcus’s violence had been escalating for months.”

“Or perhaps there was another reason for his alleged anger?” Blackwood raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t Mr. Delaney concerned about your recent behaviour—unexplained absences, secretive phone calls, withdrawals of cash?”

“No, that’s not—”

“In fact, hadn’t he discovered evidence that you were meeting someone else? Another man?”

“No!” I gripped the railing. “That’s a lie.”

“Objection!” Damian was on his feet. “Counsel is testifying and making accusations without foundation.”

“Sustained,” Judge Patterson ruled. “Mr. Blackwood, stick to questions based on evidence.”

Blackwood nodded, unperturbed. “Mr. Lajeunesse, you’ve described severe injuries from this alleged assault. Yet you left the hospital before a complete examination could document them. Why?”

“I told you—I was afraid Marcus would convince me to return.”

“Or perhaps you didn’t want medical professionals to thoroughly examine injuries that had another cause entirely?” His voice hardened. “Isn’t it true that you have a history of self-harm?”

My breath caught. “What? No, I—”

“Objection!” Damian shouted. “This is outrageous, Your Honour. There is no evidence of any such history.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” Judge Patterson warned, “foundation for this line of questioning?”

“Your Honour, we have records indicating Mr. Lajeunesse sought treatment for self-inflicted injuries during his first year of art school.”

Ice spread through my veins. I stared at Blackwood in shock. How had they found out about that single incident—a moment of desperation after my mother died, years before I’d met Marcus?

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Patterson ruled. “The witness will answer.”

“There was one incident,” I said, my voice shaking. “After my mother died. I was nineteen. It has nothing to do with what Marcus did to me.”

“One documented incident,” Blackwood corrected. “Isn’t it possible that under the stress of a relationship you personally felt was controlling, you returned to this coping mechanism?”

“No. I didn’t do this to myself.”

“Yet the pattern of injuries Nurse Torres described—cuts in places difficult to reach oneself, bruising that appears to be from an assault—couldn’t these be self-inflicted by someone determined to frame another person?”

“Objection!” Damian was livid. “This is unconscionable, Your Honour.”

“Withdrawn,” Blackwood said smoothly. “Mr. Lajeunesse, since leaving Mr. Delaney’s home, you’ve been essentially homeless, correct? Living in your car, staying in motels when you can afford them?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re seeking a substantial financial settlement from Mr. Delaney—a wealthy man who supported you for three years?”

“I just want my cat back and to be left alone so I can restart my life and move on from all of this.”

“And yet your lawsuit requests $2.4 million in damages, interesting” Blackwood’s implication hung in the air. “No further questions, Your Honour.”

I sat trembling as Blackwood returned to his seat. Marcus leaned over to whisper something to him, his expression concerned, as if I were the one who had just told vicious lies.

“Redirect, Mr. Richards?” Judge Patterson asked.

Damian approached, his controlled fury visible only in the tightness around his eyes.

“Alex, did you inflict the injuries documented in your medical records on yourself?”

“No. Marcus did.”

“Did you fabricate this abuse claim to extort money from Marcus Delaney?”

“No. I just want to be free of him.”

Damian turned to Judge Patterson. “Your Honour, I’d like to introduce photographic evidence of Mr. Lajeunesse’s injuries, taken at Toronto General Hospital on the night of September 17th.”

“Proceed.”

Damian handed a folder to the bailiff, who distributed copies to the judge and jurors. I looked away, unable to bear seeing those images again.

The courtroom fell silent as they examined the photographs. One juror gasped audibly. Another looked up at Marcus with undisguised disgust .

“Alex,” Damian said quietly, “the medical records indicate multiple fractures to your ribs, internal bleeding requiring emergency intervention, and injuries consistent with sexual assault. Could you have inflicted these injuries on yourself?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t know that would be physically possible.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Judge Patterson examined the clock. “We’ll conclude today’s proceedings here. Court will resume tomorrow at 9 AM for the defence’s case.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

I remained seated as the courtroom began to empty, exhaustion washing over me. Damian squeezed my shoulder.

“You did well,” he said quietly. “Those photographs were powerful. The jury saw the truth.”

I nodded numbly, unable to process anything beyond the fact that my testimony was finally over. As we gathered our materials, Marcus and Blackwood stood to leave.

Marcus paused as he walked past our table. He didn’t look at Damian or Mitchell, only at me. His lips curved in a smile only I could see.

“See you soon, puppy,” he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

My blood turned to ice. Puppy—his private name for me, used only when we were alone. A reminder that he still saw me as his possession.

“He just threatened me,” I said, grabbing Damian’s arm. “Did you hear that?”

Damian whirled toward Marcus’s retreating back. “Your Honour!” he called sharply. “Mr. Delaney just violated the no-contact order by speaking directly to my client.”

Judge Patterson, halfway to his chambers, turned with obvious annoyance. “What exactly did you hear, Mr. Richards?”

“He threatened my client, saying ‘see you soon, puppy’—a pet name used during their relationship. It was clearly meant to intimidate. ”

Judge Patterson looked at Marcus, who had adopted an expression of wounded innocence.

“I said nothing of the sort, Your Honour,” Marcus replied smoothly. “I was simply telling my attorney we should soon prepare for tomorrow.”

“Your Honour,” Damian pressed, “my client clearly heard—”

“Unless you have witnesses to corroborate this alleged statement, Mr. Richards, I can’t take action based on your client’s claim.” Patterson’s tone was dismissive. “This court deals in evidence, not hearsay.”

“With respect, Your Honour, there’s a pattern of intimidation here that—”

“Enough.” Patterson’s expression hardened. “I’ve made my ruling. If you have concerns about the no-contact order, file the appropriate motions. I’m not going to micromanage what happens in passing in my courtroom.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “And Mr. Richards, I’ll remind you that domestic disagreements in same-sex relationships are not my particular concern. The law requires me to hear this case, not to adjudicate personal conflicts between consenting adults.”

The judge’s mask of impartiality slipped, revealing the prejudice beneath. He disappeared into his chambers without another word.

Damian stood rigid with fury, his knuckles white around his briefcase handle.

“Did he just—” Mitchell began, shocked.

“Yes, he did,” Damian cut him off. “And it’s going on the record for our appeal, if it comes to that.”

Marcus and Blackwood were already gone, the courtroom nearly empty now. I remained frozen in my chair, Marcus’s words echoing in my head. See you soon, puppy. Not a threat—a promise.

“We need to go,” Damian said finally, his voice tight with controlled rage. “Mitchell, bring the car around. We’re not using the main exit. ”

As we gathered our things, I felt hollowed out, exhausted beyond words. Despite the photographs, despite my testimony, despite the nurse’s professional assessment—nothing had changed. Marcus still had power. The judge still saw me as the problem.

“He’s going to find me,” I whispered as Damian guided me toward a service elevator. “He always does.”

Damian’s hand on my shoulder tightened. “Not this time,” he said, but for the first time since I’d met him, uncertainty shadowed his voice.

We stepped into the elevator, the doors closing on the empty courtroom behind us.

I leaned against the wall, suddenly struggling to breathe.

Everything I’d endured today—exposing my most private pain, enduring Blackwood’s vicious implications, seeing those photographs—and for what?

For a judge who didn’t care, who saw my abuse as a “domestic disagreement”?

As the elevator descended, Damian’s fury was palpable in the confined space. But beneath his anger, I sensed something else—the first flicker of doubt about whether the system he’d dedicated his life to would actually deliver justice.

The elevator reached the basement level with a soft chime. As the doors opened to a dimly lit service corridor, I realized we were both lost—me in my fear, Damian in his shaken faith—with no clear path forward.