Page 33 of Client Privilege

After we hung up, I stared at the blank page in my sketchbook. Then, slowly, I picked up my pencil and began to draw. Not Marcus. Not the motel room. But the Toronto skyline as seen from Damian’s garden—solid, enduring, with light breaking through storm clouds.

Damian

I’D FILED dozens of motions in my career, but none had ever felt this personal. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I reviewed the language one final time before sending it to Sandra for formatting.

“Motion to vacate mistrial and grant new trial on grounds of jury tampering and newly discovered evidence.”

Simple. Direct. The foundation for dismantling Marcus Delaney’s carefully constructed facade.

My office door opened and Sandra entered with a stack of documents.

“The detective called. Marcus is in custody, no bail as expected. It sounds like he’s not going to try and get a plea deal either, he’s insisting he’s innocent.”

I nodded, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. “Good. That gives us room to manoeuvre. How’s the motion looking?”

“Finished formatting. I’ve included the recording transcript, medical documentation from Alex’s new injuries, and Detective Mathers’ preliminary report.

” She placed the documents on my desk. “I also pulled precedent cases where mistrials were vacated due to jury tampering. That wasn’t easy, there aren’t many cases of jury tampering within Canadian case law. ”

“Perfect. I want this filed within the hour.”

Sandra hesitated. “There’s something else. Mitchell did some digging into the two holdout jurors. One of them bought a new car three days ago. Cash purchase.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’ll make a nice addition to our motion.”

“And…” Sandra lowered her voice, “I heard from Judith in court administration. They’re assigning judges for new trials this afternoon.”

I understood her meaning immediately. Judge assignments weren’t supposed to be influenced, but information often flowed through unofficial channels.

“Any word on who might be handling our case?”

Sandra’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Nothing definite. But Judith mentioned Justice Sommers has been taking on cases involving vulnerable witnesses and has a specific interest in our case.”

I tried not to smile. Justice Sommers would be fair—which was all we needed against someone like Marcus.

“Let’s not count on anything until it’s official,” I cautioned, though hope flickered inside me.

After Sandra left, I phoned Alex. He answered immediately.

“They’ve arrested him,” he said before I could speak. “Detective Mathers called.”

“I heard. He won’t be making bail this time.”

“I still can’t believe it.” Alex’s voice was quiet, tentative, as if speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile new reality.

“Believe it. I’m filing for a new civil trial today based on the jury tampering. With the criminal charges pending, we’re in a much stronger position.”

“What about the judge? Will we get Patterson again?”

I considered how to answer without making promises. “The case will be reassigned. There’s a strong chance we might get Justice Sommers.”

“The one who helped us with the protection order before?”

“Yes. But regardless of who’s assigned, the evidence of tampering changes everything. No judge can ignore that.”

“Damian?” His voice shifted, grew serious through the phone line. “What happens when this is all over? With the case, I mean.”

The question caught me off guard. I’d been so focused on the immediate legal battles that I hadn’t allowed myself to think beyond them.

“You’ll be free to rebuild your life however you choose. Your artwork, your career—everything Marcus took from you. It can all be yours again. ”

A pause stretched between us, filled only by the soft sound of his breathing.

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice quieted, almost hesitant. “I meant… with us. After I’m not your client anymore. Will you still want to be in my life?”

I leaned back in my chair, uncertain of his meaning. Was he worried about losing legal protection? Concerned about our friendship? Or was there something more beneath his question—something that echoed my own carefully suppressed thoughts?

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” I said carefully. “One step at a time. Let’s win this case first.”

The silence that followed felt weighted with unspoken words. Whatever he’d been asking, whatever answer he’d hoped for, remained suspended in the space between our phones—another uncertainty in a situation already filled with them.

“Right,” he finally said. “Of course.”

By late afternoon, our motion was filed and the waiting began. I buried myself in preparation, building our case stronger than before. At 4:47 PM, Sandra knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

“It’s official,” she announced, her usual composure slipping to reveal a rare smile. “Justice Sommers has been assigned to our case.”

I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. “When’s the hearing?”

“Monday at 9 AM. Blackwood’s office already called to strongly complain about the assignment.”

I could imagine Edward Blackwood’s frustration. Justice Sommers was known for her impartiality and attention to evidence—exactly what Marcus didn’t want.

“Let them complain. It won’t change anything.”

After Sandra left, I stood at my window overlooking the city.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Toronto’s skyline, turning glass towers into columns of fire.

Somewhere in that urban sprawl, Marcus Delaney sat in a holding cell, his power temporarily contained.

The thought should have felt like victory, but instead, I found myself thinking of Alex waiting in my home.

I pictured him there—perhaps sketching in that focused way he had, lower lip caught between his teeth, his fingers smudged with charcoal.

Or maybe curled on the sofa with a book, his guard finally lowering enough to find moments of peace.

The image stirred something in me I’d kept carefully locked away throughout my career.

For years, I’d convinced myself that professional success was enough, that emotional entanglements were unnecessary complications.

Yet now, I found myself rushing home rather than lingering at the office.

What unsettled me most wasn’t the attraction—I’d felt attraction before, though never as strongly as I did towards Alex—but the way it tangled with an unfamiliar tenderness.

I wanted to protect Alex, yes, but increasingly I wanted more: to see him smile without fear shadowing his eyes, to watch his confidence return, to be the person he turned to not out of necessity but choice.

I straightened my tie, a reflexive gesture of control when my thoughts wandered into dangerous territory.

The case wasn’t over. Professional boundaries existed for a reason.

But as I gathered my briefcase to head home, I couldn’t deny that something fundamental had shifted.

For the first time in my carefully ordered life, winning a case felt like only the beginning of something, not the end.