Page 60 of Client Privilege

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “this is undoubtedly a troubling case. No one wishes to dismiss genuine suffering. The question before you, however, is not whether Mr. Lajeunesse was injured—clearly, he was. The question is whether my client, Marcus Delaney, was responsible for those injuries.”

Blackwood moved to stand beside Marcus, who sat with a perfectly composed expression of concern.

“Consider what you know about Marcus Delaney. A respected philanthropist who has contributed millions to charitable causes, including domestic violence shelters. A man with no prior history of violence or legal troubles of any kind. A man who opened his home and his resources to support a young artist’s career.”

He gestured toward Marcus as if presenting evidence itself.

“Now consider what the plaintiff is asking you to believe—that this exemplary citizen suddenly became a monster behind closed doors. That a man who has built his life around public service engaged in mental, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse for three years without anyone noticing.”

Blackwood shook his head with practiced incredulity.

“Or is it more plausible that a young man with documented financial struggles and a history of emotional instability saw an opportunity in his wealthy partner? That when questioned about concerning behaviours—unexplained absences, suspicious communications—he chose to flee rather than address these legitimate concerns?”

My fingernails dug into my palms. The selective presentation offacts, the twisting of timeline—it was maddening to sit silently while he reimagined my nightmare as opportunism.

“The plaintiff has presented no witnesses who actually saw any abuse occur. No recordings, no text messages showing threats or control. Just a narrative constructed after the fact, when financial motives became clear.”

Blackwood’s voice softened to something almost paternal.

“We don’t dispute that Mr. Lajeunesse was injured. But the leap from ‘injured’ to ‘injured by Marcus Delaney’ requires evidence the plaintiff simply hasn’t provided. Instead, we’ve seen a pattern of selective storytelling that omits crucial context.”

He approached the jury box, his expression grave.

“The plaintiff’s own nurse testified that he left the hospital before a complete examination could document his injuries. Why would someone truly seeking justice flee before evidence could be properly collected?”

My throat tightened. He made my terror sound like calculation.

“The plaintiff has painted a picture of financial control, yet the evidence shows he enjoyed a standard of living far beyond what he could achieve independently. He’s portrayed artistic isolation, yet Mr. Delaney funded exhibitions of his work and introduced him to influential collectors.”

Blackwood’s voice hardened slightly.

“Most troublingly, the plaintiff has weaponized our cultural understanding of domestic violence—a serious issue deserving our attention—to extract financial gain from a generous patron whose only mistake was caring too much.”

He returned to stand beside Marcus, resting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you must base your verdict on evidence, not emotion. And the evidence simply doesn’t supportthe plaintiff’s dramatic allegations. It shows, instead, a relationship that ended poorly—as many do—and an opportunistic attempt to profit from that ending.”

Blackwood nodded solemnly.

“We ask that you return a verdict for the defendant, not just for Marcus Delaney’s sake, but for the integrity of our legal system, which must not be manipulated by unfounded accusations and financial motives. Thank you.”

As Blackwood returned to his seat, Marcus reached out to squeeze his arm in apparent gratitude. The performance made me sick.

Judge Patterson cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence and arguments in this case. Now it falls to you to determine the facts.”

He proceeded to instruct them on the legal standards, the burden of proof, the specific claims they needed to evaluate. His tone was technical, removing all humanity from what had happened to me.

“You will now retire to deliberate,” he concluded. “Take as much time as you need to reach a unanimous verdict. Court is in recess until the jury returns.”

The bailiff led the twelve jurors out through a side door. As they filed past, I tried to read their expressions, but they kept their eyes carefully averted—trained to reveal nothing of their thoughts.

The courtroom began to empty as Judge Patterson left for his chambers. Marcus and Blackwood huddled in conversation at their table, neither looking in our direction.

“What happens now?” I asked Damian, my voice barely audible.

“We wait,” he said simply. “They could be out for hours or days. There’s no way to know.”

Mitchell gathered our materials. “Let’s move to the conference room. It’ll be more comfortable, and we can get some lunch brought in.”

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