Page 26 of Client Privilege

I SAT BESIDE Damian in the courtroom, my hands trembling slightly as the final day of trial began. After yesterday’s testimony—laying myself bare before strangers, enduring Blackwood’s insinuations—today would determine everything. Closing arguments, then the jury’s decision.

The courtroom filled quickly. I noticed several journalists in the back row, their presence suggesting the case had attracted more attention than I’d realized. The thought made my stomach clench. If Marcus won, my humiliation would be public.

“Remember to breathe,” Sandra whispered, sliding a glass of water toward me.

The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Patterson entered with his customary stern expression. After the formalities, he turned to the attorneys.

“We’ll proceed with closing arguments. Mr. Richards?”

Damian rose, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced ease. He approached the jury box, his presence commanding without being intimidating.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “over the past days, you’ve heard testimony from multiple witnesses who painted a clear picture of what happened between Alex Lajeunesse and Marcus Delaney.”

He paced slowly before them, making eye contact with each juror.

“You heard Professor Mercier describe how a promising young artist suddenly vanished from his program, only to be met with legal threats when he tried to check on his student’s welfare.”

Damian stopped, letting that sink in.

“You heard Elizabeth Tremblay explain how Marcus Delaney personally delivered Alex’s resignation letter, then used financial leverage to ensure no one from the gallery contacted Alex directly.”

He gestured toward me without looking back.

“You heard Nurse Torres describe injuries so severe they required emergency medical intervention—injuries that were, in her professional opinion, consistent with repetitive abuse, not a fall or self-harm.”

Damian’s voice hardened slightly.

“Most importantly, you heard from Alex himself. You saw the medical photographs documenting his broken ribs, his internal bleeding, the distinctive marks from a belt buckle across his back.”

Several jurors shifted uncomfortably, remembering those images.

“The defence wants you to believe that Alex fabricated these injuries to extract money from a generous benefactor. Think about that proposition. Think about what it would require—not just physically inflicting devastating injuries on oneself, but somehow creating patterns consistent with assault by another person.”

He shook his head, the absurdity clear.

“Or perhaps they want you to believe these injuries came from someone else, though they’ve presented no evidence of any other person in Alex’s life capable of such violence.”

Damian moved closer to the jury box, his voice quieter now, forcing them to lean in.

“What we have shown, beyond reasonable doubt, is a pattern of control, isolation, and escalating violence. We’ve shown how Marcus Delaney used his wealth and influence to cut Alex off from friends, colleagues, and professional opportunities.

We’ve shown how he created financial dependency, then leveraged that dependency to control every aspect of Alex’s life. ”

He paused, letting the weight of evidence settle.

“And when Alex finally found the courage to leave after a brutal assault, Marcus Delaney continued his campaign of control—withholding Alex’s cat as leverage, leaving threatening messages, appearing at his temporary accommodations.”

Damian straightened, his expression solemn.

“This case isn’t just about one night of violence, though that would be reason enough for your judgment. It’s about three years of rampant abuse by a man who believed his wealth and status placed him above consequences.”

He turned slightly, including the entire courtroom in his final statement.

“Today, you have the opportunity to show that no one—regardless of their financial resources or social position—is entitled to treat another human being as property. No one has the right to isolate, control, and harm someone under the guise of love or patronage.”

Damian looked directly at me for the first time during his closing.

“Alex Lajeunesse has shown remarkable courage in bringing this case forward, knowing the scrutiny and skepticism he would face. He asks only for what the law entitles him to—compensation for his injuries, return of his property, and protection from further harassment.”

He turned back to the jury.

“You have the power to grant him that justice. Thank you.”

Damian returned to our table, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as he sat. The courtroom remained silent for a moment, his words hanging in the air.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Judge Patterson prompted.

Edward Blackwood rose, adjusting his expensive tie. Where Damian had been direct and passionate, Blackwood adopted a tone of reasonable skepticism.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “this is undoubtedly a troubling case. No one wishes to dismiss genuine suffering. The question before you, however, is not whether Mr. Lajeunesse was injured—clearly, he was. The question is whether my client, Marcus Delaney, was responsible for those injuries.”

Blackwood moved to stand beside Marcus, who sat with a perfectly composed expression of concern.

“Consider what you know about Marcus Delaney. A respected philanthropist who has contributed millions to charitable causes, including domestic violence shelters. A man with no prior history of violence or legal troubles of any kind. A man who opened his home and his resources to support a young artist’s career. ”

He gestured toward Marcus as if presenting evidence itself.

“Now consider what the plaintiff is asking you to believe—that this exemplary citizen suddenly became a monster behind closed doors. That a man who has built his life around public service engaged in mental, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse for three years without anyone noticing.”

Blackwood shook his head with practiced incredulity.

“Or is it more plausible that a young man with documented financial struggles and a history of emotional instability saw an opportunity in his wealthy partner? That when questioned about concerning behaviours—unexplained absences, suspicious communications—he chose to flee rather than address these legitimate concerns?”

My fingernails dug into my palms. The selective presentation of facts, the twisting of timeline—it was maddening to sit silently while he reimagined my nightmare as opportunism.

“The plaintiff has presented no witnesses who actually saw any abuse occur. No recordings, no text messages showing threats or control. Just a narrative constructed after the fact, when financial motives became clear.”

Blackwood’s voice softened to something almost paternal.

“We don’t dispute that Mr. Lajeunesse was injured. But the leap from ‘injured’ to ‘injured by Marcus Delaney’ requires evidence the plaintiff simply hasn’t provided. Instead, we’ve seen a pattern of selective storytelling that omits crucial context.”

He approached the jury box, his expression grave.

“The plaintiff’s own nurse testified that he left the hospital before a complete examination could document his injuries. Why would someone truly seeking justice flee before evidence could be properly collected?”

My throat tightened. He made my terror sound like calculation.

“The plaintiff has painted a picture of financial control, yet the evidence shows he enjoyed a standard of living far beyond what he could achieve independently. He’s portrayed artistic isolation, yet Mr. Delaney funded exhibitions of his work and introduced him to influential collectors.”

Blackwood’s voice hardened slightly.

“Most troublingly, the plaintiff has weaponized our cultural understanding of domestic violence—a serious issue deserving our attention—to extract financial gain from a generous patron whose only mistake was caring too much.”

He returned to stand beside Marcus, resting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you must base your verdict on evidence, not emotion. And the evidence simply doesn’t support the plaintiff’s dramatic allegations. It shows, instead, a relationship that ended poorly—as many do—and an opportunistic attempt to profit from that ending.”

Blackwood nodded solemnly.

“We ask that you return a verdict for the defendant, not just for Marcus Delaney’s sake, but for the integrity of our legal system, which must not be manipulated by unfounded accusations and financial motives. Thank you.”

As Blackwood returned to his seat, Marcus reached out to squeeze his arm in apparent gratitude. The performance made me sick.

Judge Patterson cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence and arguments in this case. Now it falls to you to determine the facts.”

He proceeded to instruct them on the legal standards, the burden of proof, the specific claims they needed to evaluate. His tone was technical, removing all humanity from what had happened to me.

“You will now retire to deliberate,” he concluded. “Take as much time as you need to reach a unanimous verdict. Court is in recess until the jury returns.”

The bailiff led the twelve jurors out through a side door. As they filed past, I tried to read their expressions, but they kept their eyes carefully averted—trained to reveal nothing of their thoughts.

The courtroom began to empty as Judge Patterson left for his chambers. Marcus and Blackwood huddled in conversation at their table, neither looking in our direction.

“What happens now?” I asked Damian, my voice barely audible.

“We wait,” he said simply. “They could be out for hours or days. There’s no way to know.”

Mitchell gathered our materials. “Let’s move to the conference room. It’ll be more comfortable, and we can get some lunch brought in.”