Page 24 of Client Privilege

Alex

I WOKE before dawn in my motel room, my mind already racing with dread.

Today Marcus would present his version of reality—the carefully constructed fiction he’d been perfecting for years.

I’d spent the night tossing on the lumpy mattress, haunted by memories of Marcus’s ability to charm anyone into believing whatever he wanted them to believe.

When I arrived at the courthouse, I found Damian waiting in a small conference room, suit jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed documents.

“There’s coffee,” he said without looking up. “Sandra brought pastries too.”

I poured myself a cup, noticing the dark circles under Damian’s eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Enough.” He finally glanced up, his expression softening slightly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better.” I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. “What should I expect today?”

Damian sighed, pushing aside his papers. “Character witnesses, mostly. Blackwood will parade people who’ll testify to Marcus’s sterling reputation and philanthropic work.”

“And they’ll make me sound unstable,” I added quietly.

“Probably.” Damian didn’t sugarcoat it. “But remember, their opinions aren’t evidence. The medical records, the photographs—those are facts.”

I nodded, though we both knew facts didn’t always matter as much as they should.

The courtroom felt colder today. I sat beside Damian, watching the door as Marcus entered with Blackwood. Unlike yesterday when he’d maintained a concerned expression, today Marcus allowed himself a small, confident smile as he nodded to several people in the gallery.

Judge Patterson called the court to order, his gaze sweeping over us with the same thinly veiled disdain I’d noticed yesterday.

“Defence, call your first witness,” he instructed.

Blackwood stood. “The defence calls Dr. William Harrington.”

A distinguished man in his sixties approached the stand. After being sworn in, he settled into the chair with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to authority.

“Dr. Harrington, could you please state your occupation for the record?”

“I’m the Chief of Surgery at Toronto General Hospital and chair of the hospital’s board of directors.”

“And how do you know Marcus Delaney?”

Dr. Harrington smiled warmly. “Marcus has been a board member for eight years and one of our most generous benefactors. His foundation funded our new pediatric wing.”

“In your interactions with Mr. Delaney, how would you describe his character?”

“Exemplary. Marcus is thoughtful, generous, and deeply committed to public service. He doesn’t just write checks—he invests time and personal attention to causes he believes in. ”

I dug my fingernails into my palms. Of course Marcus was charming to people like Harrington—powerful men whose approval he craved, whose social circles he needed to access.

“Did you ever meet Alex Lajeunesse during your association with Mr. Delaney?”

“Yes, at several hospital fundraisers. Marcus often spoke proudly of Alex’s artistic talent.”

“What was your impression of Mr. Lajeunesse?”

“He seemed… uncomfortable in social settings. Withdrawn. Marcus was always very attentive to him, making sure he was included, but Alex appeared resistant to those efforts.”

My stomach clenched. Of course I’d been uncomfortable—Marcus controlled every aspect of those appearances, from what I wore to whom I could speak with. His “attentiveness” was surveillance, not care.

“Did you ever observe any interaction between them that concerned you?”

“Not at all. Quite the opposite. I was impressed by Marcus’s patience. Alex could be quite rude at times—leaving abruptly, refusing to engage with guests. Marcus always smoothed things over graciously.”

I felt sick. The narrative was so twisted, yet contained just enough truth to sound plausible. Yes, I’d left events abruptly—usually when Marcus had whispered threats in my ear about “consequences” for speaking too freely to certain people.

“Dr. Harrington, were you working at the hospital the night Alex Lajeunesse was admitted on September 17th?”

“I wasn’t on duty, but Marcus called me directly, frantic with worry. He said Alex had been missing for hours and he’d just learned he’d been taken to the emergency room.”

“What happened when Mr. Delaney arrived at the hospital?”

“He was desperate to see Alex, to make sure he was alright. But hospital staff wouldn’t let him in, which I found unusual given their relationship.”

“What was Mr. Delaney’s emotional state?”

“Genuinely distraught. He was practically in tears, begging for information about Alex’s condition.”

I felt Damian tense beside me. This was the performance Marcus had given while I lay broken in a hospital bed—the concerned lover, frantic with worry about the partner he’d just beaten unconscious.

“Did Mr. Delaney give any indication of how Mr. Lajeunesse might have been injured?”

“He said Alex had been behaving erratically for weeks—staying out late, being secretive. Marcus feared he might be involved with drugs or perhaps suffering a mental health crisis. He was terrified Alex had harmed himself.”

My hands shook with rage. The audacity of his lies made me want to scream.

“No further questions, Your Honour.”

Damian stood, buttoning his jacket. “Dr. Harrington, you’ve testified about Marcus Delaney’s character based on his public behaviour and philanthropic work. Would you agree that many people present different faces in public versus private?”

“Well, certainly, but—”

“And you’ve never observed Mr. Delaney and Mr. Lajeunesse in their home environment, correct?”

“No, but—”

“So your assessment of their relationship is based entirely on brief interactions at public events where both were on display?”

“I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”

“Please answer yes or no, Doctor. Your observations were limited to public settings, correct?”

“Yes,” Harrington admitted reluctantly .

“You mentioned Mr. Delaney called you directly when Mr. Lajeunesse was hospitalized. Isn’t it unusual for a board member to have the Chief of Surgery’s personal number?”

“Not in our case. Marcus and I have become friends over the years.”

“I see. And did you use your position to grant Mr. Delaney access to Mr. Lajeunesse against standard protocol?”

Harrington shifted uncomfortably. “I made inquiries about his condition as a courtesy.”

“Did you authorize staff to allow Mr. Delaney into Mr. Lajeunesse’s room despite the attending physician’s concerns?”

“I… suggested they reconsider, given the nature of their relationship.”

“Even though hospital policy for suspected domestic violence cases specifically prohibits such access?”

“Objection!” Blackwood stood. “Counsel is badgering the witness and assuming facts not in evidence.”

“Sustained,” Judge Patterson ruled. “Move on, Mr. Richards.”

Damian nodded. “No further questions, Your Honour.”

As Harrington stepped down, I could see his discomfort. Damian had managed to expose his bias without directly attacking his credibility.

Blackwood called his next witness. “The defence calls Sophia Kendrick.”

A stylishly dressed woman in her fifties took the stand. After being sworn in, she smiled warmly at Marcus.

“Mrs. Kendrick, how do you know Marcus Delaney?”

“Marcus and I have served together on the Arts Council board for nearly a decade. He’s been an invaluable advocate for emerging artists in our community.”

“And did you meet Alex Lajeunesse through Mr. Delaney?”

“Yes, at numerous gallery openings and fundraisers. Marcus was always trying to introduce Alex to influential people in the art world. ”

“What was your impression of their relationship?”

Sophia’s expression turned sympathetic. “Marcus was incredibly supportive of Alex’s work—always promoting him, arranging introductions, securing exhibition opportunities. But Alex seemed… ungrateful, frankly. Often sullen or withdrawn at events where Marcus had worked hard to include him.”

I stared at my hands, rage building inside me. They were rewriting history, painting Marcus as my champion rather than my jailer.

“Did you ever observe any behaviour from Mr. Delaney that concerned you?”

“Never. He was unfailingly patient and kind, even when Alex was difficult.”

“And how would you describe Alex’s defence?”

“Erratic. Sometimes charming and engaged, other times completely withdrawn. At our last fundraiser in April, he disappeared halfway through the evening without a word to anyone. Marcus was embarrassed but covered for him beautifully.”

I remembered that night with crystal clarity.

Marcus had seen me speaking too animatedly with a visiting curator from New York.

He’d cornered me near the restrooms, gripping my arm hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, and hissed that if I didn’t “control myself,” there would be “serious consequences” at home.

I’d fled to hide in the parking garage until the panic attack subsided.

“Did Marcus ever discuss his concerns about Alex with you?”

“Yes, privately. He was worried about Alex’s mental health. He confided that Alex had a history of… emotional instability and self-harm. Marcus was trying to get him proper treatment, but Alex was resistant.”

My breath caught. Marcus had been laying groundwork for his defence long before I left—spreading lies about my mental health to explain away any injuries people might notice .

“No further questions.”

Damian approached, his expression neutral. “Mrs. Kendrick, you’ve mentioned Alex’s ‘difficult’ defence at events. Did it ever occur to you that his withdrawal might indicate distress rather than rudeness?”

“I suppose that’s possible, but—”

“In your role on the Arts Council, you’ve worked with many artists over the years. Would you say creative personalities sometimes struggle in formal social settings?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You testified that Marcus told you Alex had a history of ‘emotional instability.’ Did you ever verify this information independently?”