Page 38 of Client Privilege

Dr. Patel’s expression remained calm. “I can state with certainty that they were not self-inflicted and were caused by another person. The identity of that person is not within my purview to determine.”

“No further questions. ”

As Dr. Patel stepped down, I caught Marcus’s eye briefly. Something in his expression had changed—a tightness around his mouth, a calculation behind his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.

Chang called a parade of witnesses throughout the morning—including the bank teller who’d processed Marcus’s cash withdrawals, and a digital forensic expert who further verified the authenticity of the recording from the motel.

“The Crown calls Sergeant Daniel Burton to the stand,” Chang announced after lunch.

A uniformed police officer approached, his expression serious.

“Sergeant Burton, you executed a search warrant at Marcus Delaney’s residence yesterday. What did you find?”

“In a locked room in the apartment, we found numerous items belonging to Alex Lajeunesse—artwork, sketchbooks, personal documents. We also found a cat matching the description of the missing pet, Buster.”

My heart leapt. “Buster’s alive?” I whispered, not realizing I’d spoken aloud until several heads turned toward me.

“What was the condition of these items?” Chang asked.

“The artwork appeared to have been deliberately damaged—slashed with a knife or similar sharp implement. The cat was alive but severely malnourished.”

Tears filled my eyes. Marcus had been lying all along—keeping Buster, destroying my art, all while claiming in court that I was delusional.

“Did you find anything else of note during your search?”

“Yes. In Mr. Delaney’s home office, we discovered a notebook containing what appeared to be plans for locating and confronting Mr. Lajeunesse. It included addresses of several motels, including the Parkview where the assault occurred.”

Chang approached with an evidence bag. “Is this the notebook? ”

“Yes.”

“Your Honour, I’d like to enter this as Exhibit 27.”

As Chang walked the jury through the damning contents of the notebook—detailed surveillance notes about my movements, a list of potential hiding places, even the fake name I’d used at the Parkview—I watched Marcus’s composure deteriorate further.

His leg bounced nervously under the table, his jaw clenched tight.

After several more witnesses, Chang stood. “Your Honour, the Crown would like to play Exhibit 32, the enhanced audio from the motel recording.”

The judge nodded, and the technician pressed play.

Marcus’s voice filled the courtroom again, but clearer this time, every word distinct: “You know what today cost me? My reputation. My standing. Do you have any idea how much it cost me to buy those jurors? Fifty thousand dollars each to make sure they’d never vote your way, no matter what evidence they saw. ”

I watched the jury as they listened, their expressions hardening with each damning word. One woman glanced at Marcus with undisguised disgust.

“And it’s all your fault,” Marcus’s voice continued, the rage palpable even through the recording. “Ten jurors. Ten people who believed your lies. Too many.”

The recording continued, capturing every threat, every admission. When it finished, the courtroom was deathly silent.

Chang stood. “Your Honour, the Crown rests its case.”

Judge Collins turned to Marcus’s lawyer. “Mr. Blackwood, you may present your defence.”

Blackwood rose, looking decidedly less confident than he had at the beginning of the day. “Your Honour, in light of… recent developments, we request a brief recess to confer with our client.”

“Granted. Court will recess for thirty minutes. ”

As the jury filed out, I turned to Victoria. “What’s happening?”

“They’re considering a plea deal,” she said quietly. “Blackwood knows they’re sunk. That recording, combined with the physical evidence and the bribed jurors coming forward—it’s overwhelming.”

“Will you accept a plea?”

She considered. “Depends what they offer. But we have a strong case for attempted murder, sexual assault, jury tampering, obstruction of justice, and witness intimidation. He’s looking at serious time. I’m not inclined to budge on this one, we have him dead to rights as far as I’m concerned.”

When court resumed after the recess, Marcus no longer looked diminished. Instead, there was a dangerous rigidity to his posture, his jaw clenched in defiance. Blackwood approached him, leaning down to whisper something urgently, but Marcus shook his head sharply.

“Your Honour,” Blackwood began, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “after consulting with my client—”

“I’d like to address the court,” Marcus interrupted, rising to his feet.

Blackwood’s face paled. “Mr. Delaney, I strongly advise against—”

“You’re fired,” Marcus announced loudly, turning to face his lawyer. “I’ll not be bullied into pleading guilty to crimes I haven’t committed.”

The courtroom erupted in whispers. Judge Collins gaveled for order, her expression severe.

“Mr. Delaney, this is highly irregular. Do you understand the consequences of dismissing your counsel at this stage?”

“Perfectly, Your Honour.” Marcus straightened his tie, the gesture so familiar it sent a chill down my spine.

“I’ve been the victim of a coordinated campaign to destroy my reputation.

I am a respected member of Toronto society, a philanthropist, a patron of the arts.

I will not plead guilty to these absurd charges. ”

Blackwood gathered his papers, his expression a mixture of frustration and relief. “Your Honour, I request permission to withdraw as counsel.”

“Granted,” Judge Collins said. “Mr. Delaney, do you wish to request a continuance to secure new representation?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll represent myself.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom. I glanced at Victoria, who was watching Marcus with the focused attention of a predator spotting weakness.

“Very well,” Judge Collins said. “The court will proceed. Mr. Delaney, you may present your defence.”

Marcus strode to the centre of the courtroom, every inch the commanding presence I remembered. But something had changed—the jury was watching him with wary, skeptical eyes. They’d heard the recordings, seen the evidence. His charm couldn’t erase what they now knew.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his voice smooth and confident, “you’ve been presented with a carefully constructed narrative designed to paint me as a monster.

But consider who I am—a man who has dedicated his life to supporting the arts, to charitable works, to building this community. ”

He gestured dismissively toward me. “And consider the source of these accusations—a young man of no particular standing or achievement, a failed artist looking for a payout.”

Victoria stood. “Objection, Your Honour. Mr. Delaney is testifying, not presenting an opening statement.”

“Sustained. Mr. Delaney, please confine yourself to presenting evidence or calling witnesses.”

Marcus’s composure slipped momentarily. “I intend to call myself as a witness, Your Honour.”

“Very well. Please take the stand and be sworn in.”

After taking the oath, Marcus settled into the witness chair with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to .

“Mr. Delaney, as you are representing yourself, you’ll need to pose questions and then answer them,” Judge Collins instructed.

“Of course.” Marcus cleared his throat. “Mr. Delaney, did you assault Alex Lajeunesse on September 17th?”

“Absolutely not. We had an argument, yes, but any injuries he sustained were either self-inflicted or occurred after he left my home.”

“And the recording from the motel?”

“Heavily edited. Taken out of context. I was understandably upset that Mr. Lajeunesse had made these false accusations against me. My words were twisted.”

“Did you bribe jurors in the civil trial?”

“That’s preposterous. Why would I need to? The truth was on my side.”

For nearly an hour, Marcus continued this way, denying every charge with increasing indignation. But with each denial, the jury’s expressions grew more skeptical. One woman actually rolled her eyes when Marcus dismissed the forensic evidence as “fabricated.”

When Victoria rose for cross-examination, there was something almost predatory in her smile.

“Mr. Delaney, you’ve denied bribing jurors. Yet we have testimony from a juror who received a bribe from you, bank records showing your cash withdrawals, and your own recorded admission. Are they all lying?”

“They’re mistaken, or coerced,” Marcus insisted, but his confident facade was beginning to crack.

“And the notebook found in your home, detailing plans to locate and confront Mr. Lajeunesse—was that planted as well?” Victoria asked, lifting a clear evidence bag containing a leather-bound journal.

“That’s not what that notebook was for,” Marcus replied, a flash of irritation crossing his face.

“Please explain to the jury what else it could possibly be for.” Victoria opened the notebook to a marked page and approached the witness stand.

Marcus straightened his tie. “It’s a personal journal. For thoughts and reflections.”

“Reflections.” Victoria nodded slowly. “So these entries listing Alex’s potential hiding places—motels categorized by price range and proximity to bus routes—those were just… reflections?”

“I was concerned for his well-being.”

“And this map?” She turned the page. “With red circles around his former professor’s home, his old workplace, and every coffee shop within walking distance of both?”

“As I said—”

“Or these detailed notes about Claude Mercier’s teaching schedule? The times his office would be empty? The building’s security vulnerabilities?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “You’re taking everything out of context.”

“Then there’s this page.” Victoria turned to another tab. “A list of medications with notes about side effects. ‘Drowsiness,’ you’ve underlined. ‘Disorientation,’ with a star beside it. What context should we understand this in, Mr. Delaney?”