Page 62 of Client Privilege

Damian was instantly on his feet. “Your Honour, with all due respect, the protective order was issued based on substantive evidence that remains valid regardless of the jury’s deliberation. My client’s safety—”

“My ruling stands, Mr. Richards,” Patterson cut him off coldly. “The order was temporary pending the outcome of this trial. As we have no outcome, the default position of this court is termination of temporary measures.”

He banged his gavel with finality. “Court is adjourned.”

The courtroom erupted in murmurs and movement. I sat frozen, unable to process what had just happened. Ten jurors had believed me. Two hadn’t. Not enough for justice. And now, not even enough for basic protection.

Across the aisle, Marcus rose smoothly, buttoning his jacket. As he passed our table, he paused, looking down at me with the faintest smile—not the concerned expression he’d maintained for the jury, but the one I knew from private moments. The one that said he’d won.

“Better luck next time,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

Something snapped inside me. All the careful composure I’d maintained throughout the trial shattered. I surged to my feet, knocking my chair backward.

“You did this!” My voice rose, drawing all eyes in the courtroom. “You got to them somehow. You always do this!”

Marcus stepped back, instantly adopting an expression of concern mixed with fear. “Your Honour,” he called to Patterson, who had paused at the commotion. “I’m concerned for Mr. Lajeunesse’s stability.”

“You’re concerned?” I was shouting now, beyond caring about appearances. “You broke my ribs! You kept me prisoner for three years! And you’re still keeping my cat hostage!”

Damian grabbed my arm. “Alex, stop. This isn’t helping.”

But I couldn’t stop. The injustice was too overwhelming. “He’s going to keep doing this! He’s going to keep hurting people, and nobody will stop him because he has money and connections!”

“Bailiff,” Judge Patterson called, his expression thunderous. “Restore order.”

The bailiff moved toward me, but Damian stepped between us. “I’ve got him, Your Honour. No need for intervention.”

He turned to me, his voice low and urgent. “Alex, you need to calm down. We’re not done fighting, but this outburst will only hurt our case.”

I was trembling violently, tears streaming down my face. “He’s going to win. He always wins.”

“Not this time,” Damian said firmly, guiding me away from the table. “This is a setback, not a defeat.”

Marcus and Blackwood were already leaving, Marcus casting one last satisfied glance over his shoulder. The sight of his confidence, his certainty that he remained untouchable, made me want to scream.

“This is bullshit!” I pulled away from Damian, my voice cracking. “Ten people believed me. Ten! And it still wasn’t enough!”

“Mr. Richards,” Judge Patterson warned, “control your client or I’ll hold him in contempt.”

Damian nodded respectfully to the judge while steering me firmly toward the exit. “We’re leaving now, Your Honour. My apologies to the court.”

In the hallway, away from Patterson’s glare, Damian’s professional demeanour gave way to barely contained fury. “That manipulative bastard,” he muttered, punching the elevator button with unnecessary force. “We had him. We had the evidence. I want to know which jurors held out and why.”

“Can we do that?” Mitchell asked, hurrying to keep up with Damian’s stride.

“No, but I’m going to file for a new trial immediately.” Damian’s voice was hard with determination. “And this time, we’re going to request a different judge. They can’t refuse it after the mistrial. Patterson’s bias was obvious throughout, and now it’s on the record.”

Sandra was already on her phone. “I’ll start the paperwork as soon as we’re back at the office.”

I stood numbly beside them, the adrenaline of my outburst fading into hollow despair. “What’s the point? He’ll just find a way to interfere again.”

Damian turned to me, his eyes blazing with an intensity I’d never seen before. “Listen to me, Alex. This is exactly what he wants—for you to give up, to believe he’s invincible. But he’s not. Ten jurors sawthrough his facade. Ten people believed you despite everything his expensive lawyer threw at them.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” I whispered.

“It’s enough to keep fighting,” Damian insisted. “A mistrial isn’t a loss—it’s a delay. And while we prepare for the next round, we’ll gather more evidence. We’ll depose those other gallery owners who refused to testify this time. We’ll subpoena his financial records to show the pattern of control.”

The elevator arrived, mercifully empty. As the doors closed, shutting us away from curious eyes, I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted beyond words.

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