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Our firm was born out of a desire to defend those who were seen to be indefensible. Who is in greater need of protection than those who have been found guilty in the court of public opinion even before their trial has begun and the facts have been heard?
The media is not the place for a person’s innocence to be decided. We formed Hughes Brophy with the intention of making sure every client we take on receives the defence they deserve under the law.
That’s why we’re here.
My skin prickles all over. I disagree with the way he practises law but, reading the final paragraph, how can I not understand him a little better? How can I not—somewhat—admire the fact he’s willing to do what others won’t?
And yet I’m blindsided by the piece—how must he feel? I know instinctively that he would absolutely hate this. That he would hate the press, hate the reporting, hate the glorying of his wins—especially the Donovan win. I have sensed a duality in him with this case, a desire not to discuss it, and yet a holding back, as though there are things he wants to say to me but won’t.
I groan as I look up, to where my phone is charging on the bench. He called yesterday. Because he needed to talk to me? Because he wanted me to make this better?
And I was too angry to answer.
Anger is a funny beast. I can’t summon even a hint of the fury that has accompanied me since Friday night. Now, only my concern for Connor is left. That’s the love part, I guess.
I push all thoughts like that aside. Perhaps I’ve thought too much. It’s time to simply act now.
Acting, though, is not so easy.
I call him and he doesn’t answer. So I send him a text and I wait. I call my mum and tell her I’m not well, that I can’t make lunch, and, though I don’t like lying to her, I don’t even feel guilty. Because this is now vitally important.
I try his phone again mid-morning and this time leave a voice message. ‘We need to speak. Call me. Or come over. Something.’ I pause, holding my breath a moment. ‘I just saw the article.’
I disconnect the call and I wait. And I wait. And some time that afternoon it occurs to me that he really isn’t going to call me back.
The call comes around lunchtime Sunday.
A new client, Michael says, and I hear the smile in his voice. ‘Asked for you specifically.’
My breath snags inside me. I stare directly at the white wall opposite. ‘Yeah? What’s the deal?’
Michael runs me through the police report. The charges. The brief
is standard—for me, anyway. It’s the kind of case I’ve defended over and over.
But fuck. The idea of doing so again is like a hammer against my skull.
‘Arraignment is set for first thing tomorrow. Jeannie’s organised the jet.’
I expel a sigh. ‘I’ve got lectures.’
Silence. And we both know why. I took up this position on the proviso I’d make it work with our firm. Michael and I built Hughes Brophy from the ground up—it’s our passion. Or it was, anyway.
‘I’d run the case but he’s adamant he wants you,’ Michael murmurs.
Fuck.
‘Sure.’ My gut rolls like a stone has been thrown at it. ‘No problem.’
No problem? This is a big problem. I’m shying away from a bread and butter case and for what? I’ve had my break. It’s time to get off the mattress now.
I’m a criminal defence barrister. That’s what I do and, more than that, it’s who I am.
This has all been a fantasy land—an elaborate game of make-believe.
I agree I’ll fly back later tonight and I disconnect the call. The university will understand why I can’t finish out the semester—they always knew I was a flight risk.
But Olivia?
