‘Yes. John, this is Gregory Ryans.’
The men shake hands, one firm, solid movement. ‘Thank you for seeing us on a Sunday, Mr Harrison,’ Gregory says.
‘Sadly, you can’t elect on which day another chap might tryto kill you, old boy, can you?’ John flicks a hand to the two red, leather armchairs in front of his dark, wooden desk. ‘Please do take a seat. You can call me John.’
John unbuttons his pinstripe suit jacket and wiggles the knot of his red tie, a movement that doesn’t prevent his shirt collar from digging into the extra roll of skin beneath his chin – a mark of a sedentary profession. He settles back into his chair and rests his hands on top of his rounded belly.
Gregory removes his coat and scarf then straightens the arms of his jumper and crosses one ankle over his opposite thigh. ‘Scarlett tells me you’re the best, John. What does the best strategy look like for this case?’
‘Oh, ho! Young man, I need to hear your tale first. I pride myself on my reputation and I did not create the stature I have by taking on cases I simply cannot win.’
Gregory grunts just loud enough for me to hear in the seat beside him.
‘Righty-ho then, from the top, old boy.’
Through clenched teeth, I’m sure I hear Gregory whisper, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’ But he starts his story. He talks John through the party at Lara’s house, the ride home in the Bentley, the slashed tyres, the tampered lift door. He speaks of the lift as if there weren’t six million emotions and thoughts circling his body. Then he speaks of Jackson, the shot, running upstairs for a gun. He skims over the tussle with Pearson and describes how he had no choice but to pick up the Glock and shoot him.
John ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ as he listens to the story, not once making a note. When Gregory stops talking, he glances to me from the corner of his eye. I know he’s checking that I’ve kept it together.
‘To recap then.’ John rolls his index finger across his top lip,then nips his chin between his middle finger and thumb as he speaks. ‘You walk into the apartment. Your driver is shot. You tell Scarlett to look after him and, knowing that there is a violent man in the apartment who is most likely intent on killing you and who has already shot a man, you toddle off upstairs to collect a weapon and toddle back down, all the while leaving the attacker free to come after your girlfriend.’
Gregory turns his clenched fist in his other hand and clears his throat. This is going badly.
‘He was very quick,’ I jump in but I drop my focus to my feet when John glares at me.
‘Righty-ho. Now, you have the gun and you go to chase down your attacker. You scuffle and he drops his gun. He injures you with glass from the broken mirror. You somehow fumble your way into the adjacent gym room and the next thing you know, there’s a chain around your neck. What was this chain? Where did it come from?’
Gregory swallows slowly and finally unclenches his fist. ‘It’s a chain that connects a lat pulldown bar to a gym frame.’
‘Jolly good. So there you are, a chain around your neck, bursting back into the lounge. You are struggling to breathe, you think you are going to die. Pray tell me where Scarlett and your driver were at this time? I can scarcely believe they stood by, watching you die.’
I stare at the nude patent leather of my shoes. I want to tell him. I want to tell John the truth. I want someone to know.
‘Like I said, Jackson was injured. He was shot in the leg. And Scarlett…’ He turns to look at me but I can’t meet his eye. I don’t want him to lie for me. ‘Scarlett was taking care of him. She did the right thing to stay back; she could’ve been hurt otherwise.’
‘Mmhmm. I see. Let us move on for now.’
‘No,’ Gregory snarls. ‘Let’s move on for good. We won’t pursue that line of questioning again.’
John leans back, his leather chair gently rocking, and forms a steeple with the tips of his fingers.
‘Let me tell you something, old boy. If, and I sayif, I agree to defend you, I will be defendingyou. If you intend to hide something from me, if you try to protect another, I will struggle, despite my best efforts, to shield you from a murder charge. Do we understand each other?’
Gregory’s chest rises and falls with his slow, shallow breath. He’s controlled, measured. CEO mode is activated. ‘Mr Harrison, allow me to tellyousomething. I killed a man because he was about to kill me. I killed a man in self-defence. If you can’t prevent a charge on those grounds then you surely don’t deserve the right to call yourself King’s Counsel.’
The two men regard one another thoughtfully then John dips his head. The battle for alpha is over. ‘Let us consider yourmens rea: your state of mind or motive, if you will. The attacker, were you aware of who he was and why he might have wanted to harm you?’
Gregory sits taller in his chair and clenches a fist again, the white of his knuckles fighting to break the surface of his skin. ‘His name was Kevin Pearson. He was my biological father.’
‘Hmm, yes, you do tend to know the attacker. Not many people strike without cause. So tell me, he hated you because…?’
Gregory rolls his jaw left then right. ‘I bought his company with the sole intention of selling it off.’
‘A hostile takeover?’
‘In more ways than one,’ Gregory declares.
‘Mmhmm, there we are then: we have your attacker’s motiveand what about yours? I presume the takeover was intended to punish your father. Give me the facts.’
