road lifts up in a none-too-gentle hill as I approach Putney, running along the river, and I keep going, each agonising step after the other, until finally I reach the café on the corner of my street. It’s busy, as usual at this time of the week. I join the queue—it’s almost out of the door—and shuffle forward incrementally, just me and my anger, and a need for coffee I have been delaying since daybreak.
I order the biggest size, a jumbo, and shift away from the counter, absentmindedly reaching for a paper. I lay it on a vacant table at the back and turn the pages, pretending to read without really taking any of it in.
My name is called by the barista and I turn the page once more, simultaneously lifting my head as if to move to the counter and collect my drink.
But Connor is there. His eyes. Somewhere. I have the vaguest impression of having stared straight into them moments ago.
My blood pounds through me and my body squeals with instant, gale-force recognition. I scan the café urgently, my frown deepening when I can’t locate him. I shift my attention back to the paper, to return it to the front as I leave, and then I see him once more. His ocean eyes stare at me from the pages of the magazine section.
Donovan’s Goliath, the headline reads. I scoop the paper up and reach for my coffee.
‘Can I buy this?’ I ask the barista, lifting the paper higher.
‘Nah, it’s yesterday’s. Help yourself.’
‘Yesterday’s?’
Anger is a funny beast, like I said. It has stalked me and hounded me but in that moment it dissipates instantly. New feelings overtake it.
My coffee and the paper deserted, I bustle out of the café and move briskly down the street. My head is bent, my heart thumping. It’s not from the exertion of my run, though.
Donovan’s Goliath
The article beckons me. I fumble my key into the door and push it inward then place my coffee down on the kitchen bench, spreading the paper out wide and flicking back to the magazine. It takes me a few moments to find the right page but, when I do, my heart throbs painfully. It is a great photo of him, a posed publicity shot. He’s staring straight at the camera and his expression is both impatient and sardonic, as though he has no tolerance for the 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,
