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I shrug. “Louis Vuitton.” I didn’t grow up on a horse ranch. I just prefer it to this.

I pass over the envelope containing the photographs Derek requested while Marc fills out the check-in form. I’m next, then we empty our pockets before going through the metal detector. On the other side, Marcus holds his arms up as the security guard pats him down. It’s like going through airport security, but worse. No cell phones in jail, no devices of any kind. If something goes down, we’re stuck here just like every other criminal in the joint.

“I spent half the night going over all we’ve got,” he says under his breath, as we follow the guard down the corridor. “Sloan Reynolds has no family, no dependents, and his company doesn’t want his shit coming out.” His eyes meet mine, and he nods.

I smile and nod back. “You’re the best, right?”

“That’s what I hear.” We pause outside the door before facing the prosecution.

* * *

We enter the small conference room and each shake the hand of the prosecutor, a solemn-looking African-American gentleman.

“Earl Mason,” he says, taking a seat across the table from us, files spread out before him. “I’ve reviewed the case against Derek Alexander, and I have to say, it looks pretty open and shut.”

Dark eyes glance up at us, and I can tell he’s not finished. “Your client willfully and of sound mind murdered Sloan Reynolds. He said so right here in his confession. As far as I can tell, we have every reason to expect a conviction for first-degree murder.”

Marcus places his satchel on the table beside him. “Quite a bit is left out of that confession, which is why we’re here today.” I watch as he pulls out three thick files.

“And you are?” A salt and pepper brow lowers over Earl’s eyes.

“Marcus Merritt, attorney for the defendant.”

“I haven’t seen you around the courthouse before.” He scrutinizes the man beside me, but I don’t even sense a tremor from Marc. “Are you licensed to practice in the state of Maryland?”

“If necessary, I will associate local counsel for trial, but we don’t think a trial will be necessary.” Marcus answers with a swagger that makes me wince. This old man is not one to fuck with.

The prosecutor holds his gaze a beat longer before returning to the documents in front of him. “We’re here to informally discuss resolution of the pending charges against Mr. Alexander before pretrial discovery and trial preparation begins. I’ve told you what I have. What do you have?”

Sliding the first folder across the table, Marcus begins. “My client is, and was, engaged to the ex-wife of the deceased.”

“That doesn’t exactly help you.”

Marcus pauses, and his expression grows stony. “Until you see what’s in that folder.”

We wait as Earl opens it, watch his brow line as he peruses Melissa’s evidence. “What is this?” he finally asks.

“Miss Jones divorced Sloan Reynolds after he beat her to the point documented in that photograph.” A pause, and I feel my partner collecting himself. “That battery followed her discovery of his penchant for prostitutes.”

A slow inhale, and our opponent closes the folder. “Was this incident reported to the police?”

“No.” Marcus’s voice is grave. “But she has a witness that can corroborate her story.”

“It’s weak, but I’m still listening. You’re describing a conviction for second-degree murder, a crime committed in the heat of passion. It carries a ten-year sentence with at least five to be served. Do you have anything else?”

Another manila folder crosses the divide. “The defendant was in the process of building a case against Sloan Reynolds when the crime occurred. In this folder you will see evidence, including photographs almost identical to Miss Jones’s, of a woman Reynolds assaulted, Jessica Black. My client had reason to believe Reynolds murdered Miss Black.”

Again we wait while the prosecutor evaluates the files in front of him. His lips tighten as he turns page after page. “Is any of this on the record?”

“Miss Black did file a police report for battery, which is how we obtained that photograph of her beaten face.” Marcus’s fingers cross as he folds his hands. “She later backed down from pressing charges. She didn’t name Reynolds in her case, but we have evidence that she was in Baltimore as his escort when the crime occurred.”

A few moments pass, and the attorney across from us puckers his lips as he thinks. “So Mr. Alexander took the law into his own hands. Voluntary manslaughter.”

No one speaks for a moment.

“So there’s more. Okay, Mr. Merritt. What’s behind Door Number Three?” His eyes are on the last folder Marcus holds.

“It’s the heart of our defense of others argument.” He slides it across, and the older man takes it. “Inside you see a photograph of the victim dead, and in his pocket is a pair of thong underwear.”