Page 10 of His Verdict
“You’re asking me to commit perjury. To lie to a judge,” I say, my voice hollow.
“I’m asking you to be a soldier, not a priestess,” he counters, his eyes burning into mine. “The law isn’t a sacred text, Olivia. It’s a weapon. And for too long, the wrong people have been wielding it. This one act—this single, calculated compromise—will do more for actual justice than you could accomplish in a lifetime of filing legitimate, useless motions for clients the system has already condemned.”
My head is spinning. Every argument he makes is a twisted, seductive version of the cynical thoughts I’ve had myself in the dead of night. The systemisbroken. Justiceisa game for the rich. He’s not wrong. He’s just offering a solution that requires me to set my own soul on fire.
I think of Sarah’s warning.He’s not a cause. He’s a job.
I think of the water stain on my office ceiling.
I think of the mountain of debt with my name on it.
I look at the priceless book in my hands.
He’s asking me to question the one thing I’ve built my entire life around: the sanctity of the law.
He sees the war in my eyes. He moves in for the kill.
“This is your choice,” he says softly. “You can walk out of here, go back to your desk, and spend the rest of your life fighting honorably in a rigged game, slowly drowning. Or you can stand with me, land one decisive, slightly unethical blow, and watch an empire of corruption crumble. You can be a victim of the system, or you can learn to control it. What do you want, Olivia? Real justice? Or the hollow satisfaction of your own integrity?”
The question hangs between us, shimmering and deadly.
My integrity. It feels like a cold, thin coat. It isn’t going to pay my rent. It hasn’t erased my debt. It hasn’t saved me from a broken heart. It has kept me righteous and poor, exactly as he said.
I look from the fabricated memo to the book.
For a moment, I think of the judge’s face. My oath. The hopeful, desperate faces of my other clients. This choice isn’t just about me. It’s a betrayal of everything I’m supposed to represent.
But then I look at Jasper Wolfe. At the absolute, unshakable confidence in his eyes. He’s not offering me a deal. He’s offering me a promotion. An ascension into a world where the rules that have chained me down no longer apply. A world of power.
I slide the memo back toward me. My hand is perfectly steady.
I pick up my glass of whiskey and drain it in one searing swallow. The burn is a baptism.
I meet his gaze, and I hear the sound of a line snapping, a chasm opening at my feet. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel afraid of falling. I feel a terrifying, exhilarating desire to leap.
“Okay,” I say, my voice a quiet surrender. “I’ll do it.”
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across Jasper’s face. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t cheer. He just nods, as if confirming something he’s known all along.
“Welcome to the fight, Olivia.”
Chapter 5
My apartment, usually a cluttered but comfortable sanctuary, feels like a cage. The Rhapsody Lounge is a fever dream, and now, in the harsh light of day, all I have is the hangover and the choice.
The book sits on my cheap IKEA coffee table like a smuggled artifact from another world:To Kill A Mockingbird.
On my laptop screen, the fabricated memo glows, a digital serpent waiting to be unleashed. The flashing cursor is a frantic heartbeat.Click submit. That’s all it takes. One click to trade my soul for a chance at… what? Justice? Power? A way out of the suffocating debt that shadows my every waking moment?
My stomach is a knot of acid. I think of Sarah’s weary, knowing eyes. I think of Judge Harrison’s stern but fair demeanor. I think of my ethics professor at Columbia, a man who spoke of the law with the reverence of a high priest. Their faces flicker in my mind, a pantheon of disapproving ghosts.
This is wrong. A betrayal of everything I’ve sworn to uphold.
But then, Jasper’s voice cuts through the chorus of my conscience, low and certain.The law isn’t a sacred text, Olivia. It’s a weapon.
He’s right. Jasper has handed me a battering ram. He’s told me where to strike.
My hand feels disconnected from my body as it moves to the trackpad. My own reflection stares back at me from the dark screen—hollow-eyed, desperate, and resolute. I am not the woman I was yesterday. That woman believed in the rules. This woman believes in results.