Page 27 of Client Privilege

I nodded numbly, following them out of the courtroom. As we passed Marcus’s table, I kept my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. Still, I could feel his gaze tracking me, a familiar sensation that raised goosebumps on my arms.

The conference room was small but private, with windows overlooking the city. Sandra arrived with coffee and sandwiches that no one touched. The waiting felt interminable, each minute stretching into what felt like hours.

“Your closing was powerful,” I told Damian, breaking the heavy silence.

He looked up from his phone, his expression softening slightly. “The evidence was powerful. I just presented it clearly.”

“Do you think they believed me?” The question that had haunted me since I first walked into his office.

Damian considered this seriously. “Some definitely did. I could see it in their faces during your testimony, especially when the medical photographs were presented.”

“But not all of them.”

“Jury dynamics are complex,” he admitted. “Sometimes one or two strong personalities can sway the undecided. That’s why we need a unanimous verdict.”

I nodded, turning to stare out the window. Toronto sprawled below, people going about their normal lives while mine hung in the balance.

An hour passed. Then two. Mitchell paced the length of the room, occasionally checking his phone. Sandra organized and reorganized files that didn’t need organizing. Damian sat perfectly still, only his eyes moving as he watched the clock.

Three hours. My anxiety built with each passing minute. What were they discussing for so long? Had Blackwood’s closing swayed them? Were they divided, arguing over my credibility?

“This is actually a good sign,” Mitchell offered, noticing my increasing agitation. “Quick verdicts usually favour defendants. The longer they deliberate, the more likely they’re taking the evidence seriously.”

I wasn’t reassured. The waiting was its own form of torture, reminiscent of sitting in Marcus’s apartment, watching the clock, knowing his mood would depend on factors beyond my control.

Nearly four hours after they’d left, Sandra’s phone buzzed. She answered, listened briefly, then looked up. “They’re back.”

My heart lurched painfully in my chest. This was it—the moment that would determine whether the past weeks of exposure and vulnerability had been worth it.

“Whatever happens,” Damian said quietly as we gathered our things, “remember that you’ve already won by speaking your truth. Marcus can’t silence you anymore.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. We filed back into the courtroom, which filled quickly as word spread that the jury had reached a decision. Marcus and Blackwood entered, Marcus’s expression serene with confidence.

Judge Patterson returned to the bench, his face revealing nothing. “I understand the jury has reached a verdict?”

“We have not, Your Honour,” the forewoman replied, her voice tight with tension.

My breath caught. Not reached a verdict? What did that mean?

“Please explain,” Patterson instructed, frowning slightly.

“Despite extensive deliberation, we find ourselves deadlocked. We’ve taken multiple votes and cannot reach the required unanimous decision.”

Judge Patterson’s frown deepened. “How divided is the jury at this time?”

“We are split ten to two, Your Honour, and further deliberation will not change this outcome. Two jurors have stated they will not alter their position under any circumstances.”

A murmur ran through the courtroom. Damian’s hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white.

Judge Patterson sighed heavily. “In light of this information, and after such extensive deliberation, I must declare a mistrial due to a hung jury.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. A mistrial. Neither vindication nor defeat—just… nothing. After everything I’d endured, after exposing my most private pain to public scrutiny, there would be no resolution, no closure, no victory.

“The court thanks the jurors for their service,” Patterson continued. “You are dismissed. This matter may be scheduled for retrial at a later date, should the plaintiff choose to pursue it.”

He shuffled his papers, then looked up with a decisive expression.

“Furthermore, given the inconclusive nature of these proceedings and the burden on both parties, I am vacating the temporary protective order effective immediately. Without a clear finding of fact, such restrictions cannot be indefinitely maintained.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. The protective order—my only legal shield against Marcus—gone with a few casual words.

Damian was instantly on his feet. “Your Honour, with all due respect, the protective order was issued based on substantive evidence that remains valid regardless of the jury’s deliberation. My client’s safety—”

“My ruling stands, Mr. Richards,” Patterson cut him off coldly. “The order was temporary pending the outcome of this trial. As we have no outcome, the default position of this court is termination of temporary measures.”

He banged his gavel with finality. “Court is adjourned.”

The courtroom erupted in murmurs and movement. I sat frozen, unable to process what had just happened. Ten jurors had believed me. Two hadn’t. Not enough for justice. And now, not even enough for basic protection .

Across the aisle, Marcus rose smoothly, buttoning his jacket. As he passed our table, he paused, looking down at me with the faintest smile—not the concerned expression he’d maintained for the jury, but the one I knew from private moments. The one that said he’d won.

“Better luck next time,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

Something snapped inside me. All the careful composure I’d maintained throughout the trial shattered. I surged to my feet, knocking my chair backward.

“You did this!” My voice rose, drawing all eyes in the courtroom. “You got to them somehow. You always do this!”

Marcus stepped back, instantly adopting an expression of concern mixed with fear. “Your Honour,” he called to Patterson, who had paused at the commotion. “I’m concerned for Mr. Lajeunesse’s stability.”

“You’re concerned?” I was shouting now, beyond caring about appearances. “You broke my ribs! You kept me prisoner for three years! And you’re still keeping my cat hostage!”

Damian grabbed my arm. “Alex, stop. This isn’t helping.”

But I couldn’t stop. The injustice was too overwhelming. “He’s going to keep doing this! He’s going to keep hurting people, and nobody will stop him because he has money and connections!”

“Bailiff,” Judge Patterson called, his expression thunderous. “Restore order.”

The bailiff moved toward me, but Damian stepped between us. “I’ve got him, Your Honour. No need for intervention.”

He turned to me, his voice low and urgent. “Alex, you need to calm down. We’re not done fighting, but this outburst will only hurt our case.”

I was trembling violently, tears streaming down my face. “He’s going to win. He always wins. ”

“Not this time,” Damian said firmly, guiding me away from the table. “This is a setback, not a defeat.”

Marcus and Blackwood were already leaving, Marcus casting one last satisfied glance over his shoulder. The sight of his confidence, his certainty that he remained untouchable, made me want to scream.

“This is bullshit!” I pulled away from Damian, my voice cracking. “Ten people believed me. Ten! And it still wasn’t enough!”

“Mr. Richards,” Judge Patterson warned, “control your client or I’ll hold him in contempt.”

Damian nodded respectfully to the judge while steering me firmly toward the exit. “We’re leaving now, Your Honour. My apologies to the court.”

In the hallway, away from Patterson’s glare, Damian’s professional demeanour gave way to barely contained fury. “That manipulative bastard,” he muttered, punching the elevator button with unnecessary force. “We had him. We had the evidence. I want to know which jurors held out and why.”

“Can we do that?” Mitchell asked, hurrying to keep up with Damian’s stride.

“No, but I’m going to file for a new trial immediately.” Damian’s voice was hard with determination. “And this time, we’re going to request a different judge. They can’t refuse it after the mistrial. Patterson’s bias was obvious throughout, and now it’s on the record.”

Sandra was already on her phone. “I’ll start the paperwork as soon as we’re back at the office.”

I stood numbly beside them, the adrenaline of my outburst fading into hollow despair. “What’s the point? He’ll just find a way to interfere again.”

Damian turned to me, his eyes blazing with an intensity I’d never seen before.

“Listen to me, Alex. This is exactly what he wants—for you to give up, to believe he’s invincible.

But he’s not. Ten jurors saw through his facade.

Ten people believed you despite everything his expensive lawyer threw at them. ”

“But it wasn’t enough,” I whispered.

“It’s enough to keep fighting,” Damian insisted.

“A mistrial isn’t a loss—it’s a delay. And while we prepare for the next round, we’ll gather more evidence.

We’ll depose those other gallery owners who refused to testify this time.

We’ll subpoena his financial records to show the pattern of control. ”

The elevator arrived, mercifully empty. As the doors closed, shutting us away from curious eyes, I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted beyond words.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” I admitted. “The testimony, the cross-examination, having my life picked apart in public…”

“You can,” Sandra said with unexpected gentleness. “Because you’re stronger than he thinks you are. Stronger than you think you are.”

Mitchell nodded. “And you won’t be doing it alone. We’re all in this together now.”

The elevator reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, Damian placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me.

“One step at a time,” he said quietly. “Right now, we get you somewhere safe. Tomorrow, we start planning our next move.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. Ten people had believed me. Ten strangers had heard my story and recognized the truth. Maybe that wasn’t legally sufficient, but it was something to hold onto—a confirmation that I wasn’t crazy, that what happened to me was real and wrong.

Marcus hadn’t won yet.