Page 6 of Client Privilege

“A little less than a month ago, I went to a park without telling him.” Alex’s voice dropped. “I just needed air. Space to breathe. His friend saw me there, and told him. When we got home, he—”

Alex’s hands moved unconsciously to his ribs, a protective gesture.

“You don’t have to describe it if you’re not ready,” I said, surprised by the gentleness in my voice.

“I woke up in the hospital. Three broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Concussion.” Alex recited the injuries like items on a shopping list. “When the nurse left the room, I just… walked out. Took scrubs from a supply closet. I’ve been living in my car since then.”

I set my pen down, the rage building inside me now a steady burn.

“Any other contact recently?”

“I found the collar on my windshield.” Alex unzipped his backpack with shaking hands and pulled out a small blue collar with a bell. “This is Buster’s—my cat. Marcus won’t let me have him. The note said if I want to see Buster alive again, I need to come home.”

His voice broke on the last word, and something in me broke with it.

I’d maintained professional composure through horrific cases during my time articling with the Crown prosecutor—child abuse, sexual assault, murder.

But watching this young man cradle a cat collar in his trembling hands shattered something fundamental in my carefully constructed walls.

“He’s using your cat as leverage,” I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Alex nodded, tears welling in his eyes. “Buster’s all I have left. Marcus knows that. He’s the only thing I couldn’t take when I ran.”

The collar’s bell made a soft tinkling sound as Alex’s hands shook. I had the sudden, visceral image of this young man alone in a hospital, bleeding and terrified, making the decision to flee with nothing but the clothes on his back.

“We’re going to get your cat back,” I heard myself say, the words out before I could consider their professional implications. Not “I’ll look into options” or “We’ll address this in the legal strategy.” A promise. Concrete and absolute.

Natalie shot me a surprised glance. I never made promises to clients.

Alex looked up, those remarkable eyes widening with the first hint of hope I’d seen. “You’ll help me?”

I straightened, trying to reclaim my professional demeanour. “Yes. I’ll take your case. We’ll need to file for an emergency protective order immediately. Then we’ll address the financial exploitation and property issues, including Buster.”

“I can’t pay you,” Alex said, his shoulders hunching. “I have about three hundred dollars to my name right now.”

“Pro-bono,” I said firmly. “Natalie was right to bring this to me. Marcus Delaney needs to be stopped.”

As I outlined the legal strategy—protective orders, documentation of injuries, potential criminal charges—I found myself offering more than I normally would. My personal cell number. A recommendation for a secure place to stay. Resources I usually delegated to paralegals or my assistant, Sandra.

Alex listened intently, his artist’s hands moving expressively as he asked questions.

There was an intelligence behind his questions that spoke of someone who, before Delaney, had been confident and capable.

I caught glimpses of who he must have been—who he could be again—in those moments of engagement.

As he asked about the legal process, his hands sketched invisible patterns in the air, a subconscious artist’s habit.

For a brief moment, the fearful, hunched posture gave way to something else—his spine straightened, his voice gained resonance, and his remarkable eyes lit with a quiet intelligence that Marcus hadn’t managed to extinguish.

“So the court can actually freeze his accounts if there’s evidence of financial abuse?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. A flash of something fierce crossed his face—not anger, but determination. The survival instinct that had gotten him out of that hospital and kept him alive these past weeks.

When he spoke about his rights, there was a flicker of the young man who’d once confidently navigated gallery openings, who’d created art that caught Marcus Delaney’s eye in the first place.

His fingers, I noticed, were stained faintly with graphite at the edges—he was still drawing, still creating, despite everything.

That small detail struck me as profoundly brave.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the spark retreated behind careful walls as he caught himself showing too much animation.

He shrank back into the protective shell of trauma, eyes darting to the door again, fingers returning to clutch his backpack.

But I’d seen it—that core of resilience that hadn’t been broken, merely buried.

When our meeting concluded, I walked them to the door rather than having Sandra show them out—another break in my usual protocol.

“Thank you,” Alex said, pausing at the threshold. For a moment, he seemed about to reach out, perhaps for a handshake, but then thought better of it. “For believing me.”

The simple gratitude in those words twisted something in my chest. As if being believed was an unexpected gift rather than a basic right .

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said. “In the meantime, don’t return to anywhere Delaney might look for you.”

After they left, I stood at my office window, staring out at the Toronto skyline without seeing it. My ordered life—my carefully structured days and meticulously maintained professional boundaries—had just become significantly more complicated.

I should have felt annoyed by the disruption. Instead, I found myself thinking of Alex’s eyes, the way they’d lit up with hope when I’d promised to help him get his cat back. The quiet dignity with which he’d recounted his destruction at Delaney’s hands.

My phone buzzed with a reminder about the Halston acquisition—the case that would make or break this quarter’s profits. For the first time in my career, I found myself thinking that perhaps some things mattered more than billable hours and partnership tracks.

I turned back to my desk and began making calls—not to my team about Halston, but to contacts who could help ensure Alex Lajeunesse’s safety. The Halston files sat untouched, my priorities shifting in ways I wasn’t yet ready to examine too closely.