Page 36 of Client Privilege
Alex
I SAT in the witness box, my hands folded tightly in my lap to hide their trembling.
The courtroom seemed larger today, more imposing than during the civil trial.
Maybe it was the higher ceiling or the formal bench where Judge Collins presided, his silver hair and stern expression making him look like he belonged on currency.
Or maybe it was because today wasn’t about money or protective orders. Today was about whether Marcus would go to prison.
Crown Prosecutor Victoria Chang stood at her table, reviewing notes with practiced calm. She’d spent hours preparing me for this moment, explaining how criminal trials differed from civil ones, coaching me on how to answer questions clearly without volunteering information.
“Remember,” she’d said, “just tell the truth. Your truth is powerful enough.”
Across the aisle, Marcus sat beside his lawyer, immaculate in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. His expression was placid, almost bored, as if this were a minor inconvenience rather than a trial that could send him away for years.
He caught me looking and smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. I dropped my gaze immediately, heart hammering against my ribs.
“The Crown calls Alex Lajeunesse to the stand,” Victoria announced.
Though I was already seated, the bailiff approached. “Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I said, my voice stronger than I expected.
Victoria approached, her burgundy blazer and confident stride giving her a commanding presence despite her small stature.
“Mr. Lajeunesse, can you tell the court about your relationship with the defendant, Marcus Delaney?”
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the courtroom’s attention. In the gallery, I spotted Damian, his face a mask of professional calm, but his eyes never leaving mine. Helena Mathers sat beside him, her notebook open.
“We met three years ago at an art gallery where I worked,” I began, my voice growing steadier as I continued. “He seemed charming at first. Interested in my artwork. He invited me to dinner, then more dinners. He offered to help with my career.”
“And how did the relationship progress?”
I described the gradual shift—how Marcus’s “suggestions” about my clothes became demands, how his “concerns” about my friends turned into isolation, how his “financial assistance” became complete control of my money.
“He’d check my phone constantly. If I received texts from friends, he’d respond pretending to be me, declining invitations. Eventually, people stopped reaching out and I had no one but him to rely on.”
Victoria nodded. “And the physical abuse? When did that begin?”
“About six months in. Small things at first—grabbing my arm too hard, pushing me against a wall during arguments. He always apologized after, said it wouldn’t happen again.” I paused, remembering. “But it always did. And it got worse. ”
“Can you describe the events of September 17th of this year?”
The courtroom seemed to still. Even the usual shuffling of papers ceased.
“Marcus found my sketchbook. I’d gone to a park without telling him, drawn some cityscapes.
He was furious that I’d left the apartment without permission.
” The words tasted bitter. “He beat me badly that night. Pinned me to the floor and raped me. I had broken ribs, internal bleeding. I ended up in the hospital.”
“And after the hospital?”
“I ran. Lived in my car, then cheap motels, changing locations frequently. But he kept finding me.”
Victoria moved to her table, picking up a plastic evidence bag. “I’d like to enter this into evidence as Exhibit 14. Can you identify this item?”
She handed it to me—a cat collar with a small bell, the tag reading “Buster.”
My throat tightened. “It’s my cat’s collar. Marcus left it on my car windshield with a note saying if I wanted to see Buster alive, I needed to come home.”
“And did you return to Mr. Delaney’s residence?”
“No. I filed for the protective order instead.” I took a deep breath. “That’s when I met my attorney, Damian Richards.”
Victoria guided me through the civil trial, the mistrial, and finally to the night at the Parkview Motel. My voice wavered as I described waking to Marcus pounding on my door, his drunken rage when he broke in.
“He grabbed me by the throat,” I said, my hand unconsciously rising to where the bruises had faded to yellowish smudges. “He told me I was coming home with him, that I belonged to him.”
“During this assault, did the defendant say anything about the civil trial? ”
“Yes. He bragged about paying two jurors fifty thousand dollars each to deadlock the trial no matter what evidence they saw.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Judge Collins tapped his gavel once, silencing it.
“Your Honour, the Crown would like to play State’s Exhibit 15, the audio recording from the night in question.”
The judge nodded, and a court technician pressed a button.
Marcus’s voice filled the courtroom, slurred but unmistakable: “You know what today cost me? My reputation. My standing. Do you have any idea how much it cost me to buy those two jurors? Fifty thousand dollars each to make sure they’d never vote your way, no matter what evidence they saw.”
I stared at my hands as the recording continued, reliving every terrifying moment. When it finished, the silence in the courtroom was absolute.
Victoria let it linger before asking, “Is that an accurate recording of what occurred that night?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions, Your Honour.”
Marcus’s lawyer, Edward Blackwood, approached with practiced confidence. “Mr. Lajeunesse, you testified that my client controlled your finances completely. Yet you were able to flee and survive on your own after leaving the hospital, correct?”
“I called my former professor for help. He loaned me money and helped me buy a car registered in his name.”
“So you had outside resources available to you all along?”
“A single person I could trust, yes. Someone Marcus had already tried to intimidate years earlier.”
“So you had the means to leave at any time, did you not?”
I felt a flare of anger. “It wasn’t about money. It was about fear.”
“Fear,” he repeated skeptically. “Yet you had no problem seeking out a high-profile attorney to sue my client for millions of dollars.”
“Objection!” Victoria called. “Argumentative.”
“Sustained,” Judge Collins said.
Blackwood adjusted his approach. “Mr. Lajeunesse, isn’t it true that you and Mr. Delaney had an argument on September 17th because he discovered you’d been meeting someone else?”
“No. That’s not true.”
“You expect this court to believe that my client, a respected businessman and philanthropist, violently assaulted you because you went to a park?”
I met his gaze steadily. “Control isn’t rational. Marcus didn’t need logical reasons to hurt me. He did it because he could.”
Blackwood’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Moving to the night at the motel. You claim Mr. Delaney confessed to jury tampering. Yet isn’t it convenient that you happened to be on the phone with your attorney when this supposed confession occurred?”
“I called Damian when Marcus started breaking down my door. He told me to call immediately if Marcus ever contacted me.”
“And the recording? Did you tell Mr. Delaney you were recording him?”
“No. I was hiding a phone while being assaulted.”
“So you deliberately recorded him without consent.”
Victoria stood. “Objection, Your Honour. One-party consent is legal in Ontario, and Mr. Lajeunesse was the victim of a home invasion.”
“Sustained,” Judge Collins said. “Move on from this line of questioning, Mr. Blackwood.”
For nearly an hour, Blackwood tried to twist my words, suggesting I was opportunistic, unstable, seeking financial gain. Each question designed to paint Marcus as the victim of my manipulation.
“No further questions,” he finally said, returning to his seat.
Judge Collins called a recess, and I nearly collapsed as I left the witness box. Outside in the hallway, Helena approached me with a paper cup of water.
“You did well in there,” she said, her eyes kind but professional.
I took the water with shaking hands. “He made me sound so calculated.”
“That’s his job. But the jury heard the recording. They saw your medical records. The police reports of the night at the motel. They know.”
Damian joined us, standing close enough that I could feel his warmth but not touching me. We’d been careful about that since I’d moved into his guest room—maintaining appropriate boundaries while the case proceeded.
“Chang is calling me next to authenticate the recording,” he said. “Then Detective Mathers. We’re building an airtight case here, Alex.”
I nodded, trying to believe him. But across the hall, I caught sight of Marcus conferring with his lawyer, his expression untroubled. How could he look so confident with that recording played in open court?
“He has something planned,” I whispered. “I know that look.”
Helena followed my gaze. “Let him try. We have facts, evidence, and truth. He has money and lies.”
“Sometimes that’s enough,” I said.
“Not this time,” Damian replied, his voice hard with certainty. “Not with me.”
The bailiff called us back in, and I returned to my seat behind Victoria. As Damian took the stand, I watched Marcus lean back in his chair, a small smile playing at his lips.
That smile terrified me more than his rage ever had.
DAMIAN’S TESTIMONY WAS precise and damning. He explained how he’d recorded the call while simultaneously contacting emergency services, described finding me being assaulted when he arrived at the motel, and confirmed the recording’s authenticity.
Helena followed, detailing the police response and subsequent investigation. She described my injuries with clinical detachment that somehow made them sound even more horrific.