vanity exercise of a photographic portrait.
Connor Hughes, long-regarded as a Teflon defence barrister, has gone from criminal-defence wunderkind to a veritable Goliath of the justice system. Adored by his clients, his fame—or should that be notoriety—extends across the country, and now the world. At thirty-five, he’s garnered the kind of professional success most can only dream of, amassing a fortune and a prestigious law firm along the way.
His previous wins are notable, but none more so than the stunning verdict he was able to procure for Murray Donovan. The accused’s acquittal in the case that had gripped all of Great Britain was shocking to any who followed the trial. For his client’s guilt had been predetermined by many, and yet Connor Hughes proved otherwise.
Today we take a closer look at the man who seems to have the Midas touch when it comes to winning unwinnable cases.
I frown, continuing to skim the article. It catalogues several of his previous legal victories, most of them also controversial in the same way: where public opinion largely disagreed with the verdict rendered.
It’s a flattering puff piece. Long and detailed, yet it gives no new information and the only quotes from Connor have obviously been compiled from previous interviews. There’s no mention of his parents’ death, either, nor the fact he was raised from the age of twelve by his local priest. Both of these titbits are worthy of running in a story like this, which makes me realise that those facts mustn’t be widely known.
I skip to the bottom of the piece—a paragraph that hangs beside another photo of Connor, this one with his partner, Michael Brophy.
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?
God, Olivia.
Part of me wants to skulk off to Ireland without telling her why, but I can’t do that. I have to face this. I have to show her who I am, show her she’s wrong to have got involved with a guy like me. Wrong to have thought I was anything other than scum. I’ve laid down with dogs too often.
I don’t bother calling her. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. I need to see her.
I drive to her place, my mind already sifting through the case, the analytical side of my brain unable to resist shifting the case around in my mind, seeing it from all angles, exploiting possible weaknesses, and I’m disgusted at how easily I can do that. How I can list ten things that might allow my new client to have these charges thrown out of court at the arraignment. Guilty or not, it’s all a game of law.
I pull up in front of her flat and my body stills. I can see her in the kitchen; a glass of wine to one side of her, she’s leaning forward, writing in a notebook. I’d put my whole fortune on the fact she’s listening to a lecture. Studying.
Like the good girl she is.
My chest heaves.
I step out of the car and cross the street, knocking on the door before I can change my mind about doing this in person.
I jam my hands in the pockets of my jeans and I wait.
She jerks the door open and her beautiful face greets me. She smiles, but it’s a careful smile. Apologetic. Shy. Something. ‘Hey,’ she says, pulling the door wider. ‘Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ she says, wiping her hands on a tea towel in the kitchen and waving towards a seat. ‘I saw the article, in the paper. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘It’s just an opinion piece.’ I shrug, aware of the way she’s looking at me, seeing everything. I don’t even attempt a smile. ‘Most people would have considered it flattering.’
‘But you’re not most people.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve been in the paper.’
She