Page 7 of Client Privilege

Damian

“Morning, Mr. Richards. Everything alright?”

“Fine, Charles. Just getting an early start.”

The forty-second floor was dark and silent, exactly how I preferred it. I unlocked my office, set my briefcase on the desk, and removed Alex Lajeunesse’s newly created file. The manila folder looked deceptively thin—a stark contrast to the Halston acquisition’s towering stacks of documentation.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the digital case notes I’d created after yesterday’s meeting.

Alex’s intake form was complete with additional information and details he had provided to Natalie prior to and after their initial meeting.

The form stared back at me, the clinical language failing to capture the quiet dignity with which he’d recounted his destruction.

I found myself scrolling back to re-read sections I’d already memorized:

Client reports gradual isolation from friends and family over three-year relationship.

Alleged abuser (M. Delaney) initially restricted contact through emotional manipulation (“they don’t understand our relationship, the age difference is too much for them”), later escalated to direct control (monitoring phone, requiring permission for outings).

My jaw tightened as I reviewed the medical records Alex had authorized the hospital to release—fractured ribs, concussion, internal bleeding consistent with repeated blunt force trauma.

The attending physician had noted “suspected domestic abuse” but Alex had fled before social services could intervene.

I pulled up Canlii and began searching precedents for similar cases. Domestic violence between same-sex partners presented unique challenges in court—juries sometimes struggled with identifying the power dynamics, judges occasionally betrayed their biases in rulings. I needed every advantage.

Three hours disappeared as I built a foundation of case law. I’d filled twelve pages with notes on successful protective orders, damages awarded in similar cases, and potential criminal charges. The legal framework was taking shape, but something felt like it was missing.

I found myself typing “trauma responses domestic abuse” into the search bar. Not strictly necessary for the legal argument, but understanding Alex’s psychological state would help prepare him for testimony. Purely professional reasoning, nothing else, I subconsciously reasoned to myself.

Yet I lingered over articles describing hyper-vigilance, emotional shutdown, and flinching from physical contact—all behaviours I’d observed in Alex. One paper detailed how victims often minimize their abuse, how they apologize excessively, how they struggle to make eye contact.

Just for the case , I told myself, downloading several academic papers.

By 8:30, the office had come alive around me. I heard Sandra arrive, the familiar sound of her setting up for the day—computer powering on, coffee machine gurgling, calendar being reviewed.

At precisely 9:00, she knocked on my door .

“Morning, Mr. Richards. You’re in early.”

“I need to adjust some priorities,” I said, gesturing to the Halston files. “The Lajeunesse case takes precedence.”

Sandra’s eyebrows rose fractionally—the closest she ever came to expressing surprise. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. The Halston team is expecting your review of the acquisition documents by end of day.”

“They’ll need to wait. I’m filing an emergency protective order today. I need court time as soon as possible.”

Sandra’s pen paused mid-note. “Today? We typically prepare those over three to five business days.”

“Not this time.” I handed her the draft I’d been working on. “I need this processed immediately. Call Judge Sommers’ clerk—she owes me a favour after the Braddock case. If she can’t accommodate, try Charest.”

“This is… unusually urgent,” Sandra observed, scanning the document.

“The client is in active danger,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “His ex-partner left threatening messages on his vehicle. He’s currently homeless, sleeping in his car to avoid detection.”

I didn’t mention the cat collar or the nightmares I’d had the night before about a young man bleeding alone in a hospital corridor.

“I’ll make it happen,” Sandra said, her professional mask firmly in place. “What about the Halston team?”

“Tell them I’m handling an emergency matter. I’ll review their documents tomorrow.”

“Very well.” She paused at the door. “This Delaney… he’s Marcus Delaney of Delaney Holdings?”

“Yes.”

“He’s on the hospital board with Mr. Montgomery,” she said, referring to our managing partner .

“I’m well aware of Mr. Delaney’s connections.”

Sandra nodded once, understanding the subtext. Taking on Marcus Delaney meant potential complications with our own firm’s leadership. She didn’t ask if I’d cleared this with the partners. She didn’t need to.

“I’ll have the protective order ready for your signature within the hour.”

After she left, I returned to building our case.

The complaint needed to be airtight—not just for the protective order, but for the civil suit that would follow.

I meticulously documented each instance of abuse Alex had described in the case notes provided by Natalie, cross-referencing with the medical records where possible.

When I reached the description of the final assault—the one that had sent Alex to the hospital—my fingers paused over the keyboard. The clinical language felt wrong, somehow diminishing the reality. Client reports being physically and sexually assaulted, while pinned to the ground.

Behind those sterile words was Alex curled on the floor, while the man who claimed to love him broke his body. I found myself staring at the screen, a strange pressure building in my chest.

I stood abruptly, walked to the window, and focused on regulating my breathing. This was not productive. Emotional responses had no place in legal strategy. I was building a case, not seeking vengeance.

Yet when I returned to my desk, I added a paragraph about pain and suffering damages that was perhaps more detailed than strictly necessary.

At 10:45, Sandra returned with the protective order ready for filing.

“Judge Sommers can see us at 2:30 today,” she said. “I’ve arranged for a courier to deliver the necessary documents to Mr. Lajeunesse for signature. He’s currently at the address you provided.”

The address I’d provided—a safe room at a local LGBTQ+ shelter. Another breach of my usual protocols.

“Excellent. And the civil complaint? ”

“Ready for your final review.” She handed me another folder. “I’ve scheduled filing for tomorrow morning, as requested.”

I nodded, already scanning the document. “Thank you, Sandra. Clear my schedule for the afternoon. I’ll handle the hearing personally.”

“Already done.” She hesitated. “Mr. Montgomery asked about the Halston review. I told him you were in court.”

Not technically a lie, but not the full truth either. Sandra was protecting me from partnership politics. I made a mental note to approve her next round of requested vacation days without question.

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

After she left, I reviewed the civil complaint one final time.

Forty-two pages detailing three years of escalating abuse, financial exploitation, and ultimately, violence that could have been fatal.

The document was comprehensive, meticulous, and damning.

It would be public record once filed—the first step in bringing Marcus Delaney’s private behaviour into the light.

It was also a declaration of war against one of Toronto’s most connected businessmen.

The complaint named specific damages—$2.

4 million for lost income, medical expenses, emotional distress, and punitive damages.

Enough to hurt Delaney financially, but not enough to bankrupt him.

A strategic amount that courts might actually award.

I signed the filing authorization, then sat back in my chair, a strange mixture of professional satisfaction and unease settling over me.

The legal framework was solid. The strategy sound.

Yet I couldn’t shake the knowledge that Marcus Delaney would respond with everything in his considerable arsenal.

I found myself reaching for my phone, checking that the security measures I’d recommended for Alex were in place.

The shelter supervisor had confirmed no visitors would be allowed without explicit authorization.

The temporary phone I’d provided was untraceable.

The protective order, once granted this afternoon, would legally prevent Delaney from approaching within 500 metres.

All proper precautions for a high-risk client. Entirely professional.

Yet as I closed the file and prepared for court, I knew with unsettling certainty that I would be speaking with the shelter’s supervisor tonight, just to be sure Alex was safe.

That I would be personally calling him with updates rather than delegating to an associate.

That this case had already breached the carefully constructed walls between Damian Richards, the lawyer, and Damian Richards, the man.

I straightened my tie, gathered the necessary documents, and headed for court. Whatever complications my unusual investment in this case might create, they were problems for tomorrow. Today, I had a protective order to secure and a predator to put on notice.

Alex

I SAT on the edge of the shelter bed, staring at my trembling hands. I’d spent so many years hiding my emotions that it felt strange to acknowledge the hope bubbling in my chest. Someone was finally listening. Someone with power. Someone who couldn’t be charmed or bought by Marcus.