Patterson’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Richards, that’s enough. I won’t have unsubstantiated accusations in my courtroom.”
I took a breath, regaining my composure. “Your Honour, I apologize. But I would ask the court to consider why a man of Mr. Delaney’s resources hasn’t produced a single piece of my client’s artwork, which represents years of professional work.”
“Perhaps because your client abandoned his property when he left Mr. Delaney’s home without notice,” Blackwood suggested. “My client has been more than generous in returning personal effects. If specific items are missing, Mr. Lajeunesse should provide a detailed inventory, and my client will make every effort to locate them.”
It was a delaying tactic, and we all knew it. More meetings. More opportunities for Marcus to intimidate Alex.
“Your Honour,” I tried once more, “we’re asking for enforcement ofthe existing order. All property means all property, not just what Mr. Delaney deems appropriate to return.”
Patterson shuffled his papers. “Gentlemen I find no evidence of wilful non-compliance at this time. Mr. Delaney will continue his search for the missing cat and any artwork that may be in his possession. Mr. Richards, have your client provide a detailed inventory of any missing items. We’ll reconvene in two weeks to assess progress.”
He banged his gavel, effectively ending the discussion.
“Two weeks, Your Honour?” I protested. “My client is currently homeless, with limited resources. His artwork represents his livelihood.”
“Which he knowingly chose to leave behind in Mr. Delaney’s residence,” Patterson replied coldly. “Two weeks, Mr. Richards. Court adjourned.”
I stood rigid as Patterson left the bench, my knuckles white around the edge of the table. Across the aisle, Blackwood was already gathering his papers, looking supremely satisfied.
Marcus caught my eye as he stood to leave, his expression one of polite concern—the same look he’d given Alex when asking if he was “eating properly.” But beneath it, I saw something else: triumph.
“Better luck next time, Mr. Richards,” Blackwood murmured as they passed my table. “Perhaps you should focus on the Halston acquisition. I hear it’s quite lucrative for your firm.”
The implied threat wasn’t subtle. Take the hint, drop Alex’s case, return to the profitable corporate work that kept Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery thriving.
I waited until they left before gathering my own materials. Sandra approached cautiously.
“That didn’t go well,” she observed.
“That,” I replied, shoving papers into my briefcase with more force than necessary, “was a travesty. Patterson didn’t even pretend to beimpartial.”
“What now?”
I paused, considering. The firm would expect me to back down after this setback. Marcus would expect it too. They all thought they knew me—the Ice Man, the pragmatist, the corporate lawyer who followed the path of least resistance to the greatest profit.
They were wrong.
“Now,” I said, snapping my briefcase shut, “we change the game. Call Judge Sommers directly. Tell her I need fifteen minutes of her time regarding a domestic abuse case that’s being deliberately mishandled. Then contact every gallery in Toronto that’s exhibited Alex’s work. I want documentation of every piece, every showing, every review.”
Sandra raised an eyebrow. “And the managing partner?”
“Tell him I’m still indisposed.” I headed for the door, a new determination settling over me. “Apparently, I have a stomach for this fight after all.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Damian
THE ECHOof my footsteps reverberated in the hallway leading to Justice Sommers’ chambers. My heart raced as I thought about what I was about to do. For a little over a week, I had navigated the legal minefield surrounding Alex’s case with precision, but today felt different. Today, I was effectively challenging a presiding judge—something that could have serious repercussions for my career.
I knocked on the door, taking a moment to collect myself before stepping inside.
“Mr. Richards,” Justice Sommers greeted me, her expression neutral but alert. She gestured toward a chair across from her desk. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Honour,” I replied, settling into the chair opposite her. The walls of her chambers were adorned with photographs—not just the expected ceremonial images, but also those showcasing her work with various legal advocacy groups. A small Pride flag stood discreetly on her bookshelf, alongside volumes of Canadian case law.
“Your assistant mentioned this was regarding the Lajeunesse case,” she said, her tone measured. “I understand Judge Patterson is presiding?”
“Yes, and therein lies the problem.” I placed my briefcase on my lap and extracted a carefully organized folder. “I believe there are grounds for concern regarding judicial impartiality in this matter.”
