Page 98 of Client Privilege

Throughout the morning, our witnesses established the timeline of my career’s destruction. Gallery owner Elizabeth Tremblay described how Marcus had personally delivered my “resignation” and pressured her to cancel my exhibition. My former agent testified about Marcus’s interference with potential buyers.

During the lunch recess, Damian and I stepped into a small conference room, finally alone.

“You’re doing great,” he said, his professional mask slipping momentarily. “Sommers is clearly seeing through Blackwood’s attempts to separate the cases.”

“She seems tough but fair,” I said, unwrapping the sandwich Sandra had brought us.

“She is. That’s why I wanted her for this case all along.” Damian checked his watch. “You’ll testify after lunch. Just remember—”

“Tell the truth. Stay calm. Speak clearly.” I’d rehearsed these instructions for days.

Damian’s eyes softened. “You’ve got this, Alex.”

For a moment, we stood close enough that I could smell his cologne. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before he stepped back, clearing his throat.

“We should get back,” he said, his professional demeanour slidingback into place.

When court resumed, I took the stand, swearing to tell the truth with a steady voice that surprised even me. Damian guided me through my testimony with practiced precision, his questions building a clear narrative of Marcus’s control and its impact on my life and career.

“Can you describe what happened to your artwork?” Damian asked.

“Marcus kept most of my original pieces at his apartment. When I left, he refused to return them.” I swallowed hard. “After his criminal conviction, police found my sketchbooks and canvases in his home—most had been slashed or damaged beyond repair.”

“And what was the financial impact of losing these works?”

“Beyond their potential sale value, I lost my portfolio—the evidence of my artistic development and skill that galleries require to represent an artist.” I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Damian, ignoring Marcus’s stare from across the room. “Without them, I will essentially have to start over from nothing.”

During Blackwood’s cross-examination, I felt Damian’s tension though he maintained a neutral expression. Blackwood tried repeatedly to portray Marcus’s financial support as generosity rather than control.

“Isn’t it true that Mr. Delaney paid your rent? Bought your supplies? Funded your early exhibitions?” Blackwood pressed.

“He took control of my finances,” I corrected. “My earnings went into accounts he managed. What appeared to be generosity was actually my own money, doled out at his discretion.”

Blackwood’s questions grew increasingly aggressive, but Justice Sommers intervened when he began repeating himself. “Move on, Mr. Blackwood. The witness has answered this line of questioning thoroughly.”

By late afternoon, both sides had presented their cases. Justice Sommers adjusted her glasses, reviewing her notes before addressing the courtroom.

“Given the evidence presented and the established facts from the criminal proceedings, I’m prepared to rule.” She looked directly at me. “Mr. Lajeunesse, please rise.”

I stood on shaky legs, Damian rising beside me.

“This court finds in favour of the plaintiff. Mr. Delaney’s actions caused substantial and documented harm to Mr. Lajeunesse’s career, health, and well-being.” She turned to the paperwork before her. “I award compensatory damages in the amount of $950,000 for lost career earnings, $450,000 for emotional distress, and $200,000 for medical expenses and ongoing therapy costs.”

She paused, her gaze shifting directly to Blackwood. “Additionally, given the egregious nature of Mr. Delaney’s actions, his attempt to obstruct justice through jury tampering, and the need to deter such defence in the future, I am awarding punitive damages in the amount of 2.4 million dollars.”

The total—4 million dollars—made me dizzy. It exceeded even what we’d initially sought, and represented not just compensation but a true reckoning.

“Additionally,” Justice Sommers continued, “Court costs are assigned to the defendant.” She tapped her gavel. “We are adjourned.”

As people began filing out, I turned to Damian, overwhelmed. Our eyes met, and in that moment, all our careful professional distance evaporated. His expression held everything we hadn’t been able to say—pride, relief, and something deeper that made my heart race.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“We won,” he replied simply. “It’s over, Alex.”

As we gathered our papers, I realized he was right. It was over—the case, the danger, the uncertainty. But something else was just beginning, something I finally felt ready to explore.

Outside the courtroom, I caught Damian’s sleeve. “What happens now?”

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