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Sloane slammed the phone down and dashed out of the room so fast, Ari expected to see an outline of her in smoke like an old cartoon. Reflexively, Ari strained to eavesdrop, but Sloane had bolted away from the door.

Finding it impossible to get back to work, Ari wondered if Sloane was looking for another job. She spent half her life on her cellphone; maybe she was looking for another six-figure job in New York. It wasn’t as if she’d give a shit about the

three-year commitment if she left town. It would only tarnish her reputation in the small circle she obviously didn’t want to be a part of anyway.

Ignoring the unsettled feeling that rolled into her guts like an unexpected storm disturbing a pristine beach, Ari decided to head to the conference room. Her meeting with Ralph wasn’t for another ten minutes, but she could use the extra time to get organized. She wasn’t getting any more work done now anyway.

In the conference room, Ari spread her papers and a color-coded timeline across the table. At the center, she placed the bullet points from her three-hour long meeting with the victim.

“Wow,” Ralph said as he appeared in the doorway.

“I know it’s probably too much, but—”

“No, no,” he said, hands in his pockets as he looked at what she’d arranged. “This is great. It’s pretty damning evidence,” he agreed, swaying closer to Ari and prompting her to take a step to the side to show him the best part.

As Ari explained every piece of evidence and under what rule she expected to admit it, Ralph pushed back, playing devil’s advocate as he challenged her basis for all of them.

Ari had anticipated nearly every question and had several contingency plans and a binder full of research just in case the judge wanted her to back up her arguments.

“How long did this take you?” he asked when he couldn’t find a way to stump her. “This is an ungodly amount of preparation.”

Ari smiled, her chest close to bursting. “I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

“Don’t you have hobbies or something? I mean, we’re in Miami. We have beaches, clubs, all kinds of entertainment.

Wouldn’t you rather be doing some of that?”

Ari raised her eyebrows. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Akron, Ohio,” he replied with a smirk. “Born and bred. I moved here for this job.”

“That’s why you care about the beach and clubbing,” she decided. “When you grow up with it, it’s not that special. I probably haven’t been to the beach since before law school.

It’s hot, the parking sucks, and you get sand all over your car.”

Ralph laughed. “You make it all sound so magical.”

“Well, I didn’t grow up with an idealized version of Miami from the movies and TV. It’s only slick bars and Ocean Drive for tourists. No o ense, but you haven’t even been through a hurricane yet.”

“None taken,” he replied, holding his hands out in front of him. “What’s the real Miami then?”

Ari took a breath as she considered the question. “It depends.”

“A very lawyerly answer,” he said, hopping up to sit on the table while patting the space next to him.

Ari remained standing. “I mean it’s true. For some people Miami is South Beach and beautiful people in tiny bikinis.

For others, it’s the vibrant history of Overtown, a thriving black community where the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Josephine Baker, Billie Holiday, and Nat King Cole played before it was intentionally devastated by running an interstate right through its heart. There’s people who are born, live, and die in the same middle-class suburb, never

seeing anyone who doesn’t look, sound, and think exactly like them, despite having the world at their doorstep.” Ari paused as the unexpected surge of emotion gripped her throat.

“And for you?” he asked, his voice low.

Ari shrugged. “For me? It’s just home. The place where my family had to flee to start over and I grew up straddling two very di erent identities. It’s hot, tra c-congested, and everything is wildly overpriced.” She chuckled. “But it also smells like too much garlic and cumin. It sounds like my Cuban grandmother reciting poetry by José Martí and singing Celia Cruz. It looks like half the kids in my elementary class wearing white guayaberas for Heritage Day.

It tastes like my Honduran grandmother’s fresh made tortillas, and as much as I resent it sometimes, it’s in my DNA.”

“Wow,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “I’d love to see your Miami sometime.”