Page 11 of His Verdict
The cursor hovers over the “File with Court” button. A breath held. A choice made. A career immolated on a digital pyre.
I click.
The screen refreshes. A confirmation stamp appears:FILED: 9:17 AM.
It’s done. I’ve jumped. Now I just have to wait to see if I fly or if I splatter on the pavement below. For a moment, nothing happens. The world doesn’t end. No alarms blare. Just the quiet hum of my refrigerator and the frantic thumping of my own heart. A wild, giddy sense of power surges through me. I did it. I took control.
Then my work email pings.
It’s an automated notification from the court’s e-filing system, confirming receipt of my motion. Standard procedure. I take a sip of my bitter, instant coffee, the adrenaline making my hands shake. I feel like a soldier who has just planted a bomb, waiting for the inevitable, glorious detonation.
Less than two hours later, another email arrives. This one is not automated.
My blood doesn’t just run cold; it freezes solid in my veins. Clerk of Court, Courtroom 6B.
My heart stops. It’s too soon. Way too soon. A motion like this should take days to be reviewed, to get a response from the prosecution. An immediate summons? That’s not procedure. That’s a fire alarm.
The subject line is a model of bureaucratic terror: NOTICE OF EMERGENCY CHAMBERS CONFERENCE - State v. Wolfe, Case No. CR-24-9183.
My hand is trembling so hard I can barely control the mouse to open it. The body of the email is short, sterile, and utterly devastating.
Counsel for the Defense and Prosecution are hereby ordered to appear before the Honorable Judge Martin Harrison for an emergency chambers conference regarding the defense’s recent filing. Be in Courtroom 6B at 3:30 PM today.
3:30 PM. It gives me a few hours to marinate in my own terror. To wonder. To second-guess. To feel the walls closing in.
A cold, greasy sweat breaks out across my skin. This isn’t the reaction Jasper predicted. This isn’t Meridian’s lawyers scrambling. This is the system itself turning its terrible, all-seeing eye directly on me.
It was a trap. The thought screams through my mind. Not Meridian’s trap. Jasper’s. He gave me a suicide bomb and lit the fuse himself.
Somehow, I get dressed. I put on my best suit, the one I’ve been saving. It feels like I’m dressing my own corpse for a funeral. The hours before the hearing are a blur of silent, mounting panic. I try to call Jasper’s personal number. It goesstraight to voicemail. I call the number for the shell corporation that posted his bail. A generic recording plays. He’s a ghost.
I walk into Courtroom 6B at 3:28 PM. It’s the same room, but the atmosphere has been poisoned. The air is thick with a dreadful, formal silence. This isn’t a public hearing; the gallery is empty, which somehow makes it worse. More intimate. An execution with no spectators except the executioners.
ADA Jessica Brown is already at the prosecution’s table, her posture rigid, her face a mask of grim professionalism. Mr. Davies, the head of the Public Defender’s office, and my mentor, Sarah, are sitting in the first row of the gallery. They must have been notified. My stomach plummets. This isn’t just about a motion. This is about my conduct.
My client, Jasper Wolfe, is nowhere to be seen. Of course. This isn’t about him anymore. It’s about me.
The clerk’s voice rings out. “All rise.”
Judge Harrison sweeps into the room, his black robes billowing. He sits, and his expression is not his usual stern neutrality. It’s a look of profound, icy disappointment. A father about to disown a child. He looks directly at me, and I feel my soul shrivel under his gaze.
“Please be seated,” he says, his voice quiet, devoid of all warmth. “Ms. Sutton, Ms. Brown. We are here on the record to discuss the motion to compel filed by the defense at nine-seventeen this morning.”
He gestures with an open hand toward the prosecution. “Ms. Brown, the court received your ex parte communication requesting this conference. Please state your concerns for the record.”
Brown stands, her movements sharp and precise. She doesn’t look at me. She addresses the judge as if I’m already gone. “Yes, Your Honor. Upon review of the defense’s submission, the State has grave concerns. Specifically regarding Exhibit A, a purported server log from Meridian Technologies.”
My blood turns to ice. Exhibit A? I didn’t attach any exhibit. Jasper’s instructions were clear: just file the motion text. Who the hell added an exhibit?
Brown continues, her voice clinical. “The state immediately conferred with Meridian’s technical team. They confirmed that the log excerpt in Exhibit A is a fabrication. The syntax is incorrect, the timestamps are chronologically impossible, and the server architecture it references does not exist within their system. It is, to be blunt, Your Honor, a forgery.”
The word hangs in the air. Forgery. It sounds so much worse than fiction. It sounds criminal.
Judge Harrison’s gaze settles on me, heavy as a shroud. “Ms. Sutton. A very serious allegation has just been made by a fellow officer of the court. Would you care to respond to the State’s assertion that the evidence you submitted is fraudulent?”
The room is utterly silent. The only sound is the frantic pounding of my own heart. I see Jasper’s face in my mind, that calm, predatory smile. This was the plan. The public humiliation. The undeniable proof of my corruption. He must have had someone amend the filing after I submitted it, adding the clumsy forgery. He didn’t just want me to lie; he wanted me to be caught, unequivocally and brutally.
My voice is a ghost. “Your Honor, I… I can’t explain the exhibit. The version of the motion I prepared did not contain it.” The excuse sounds pathetic, childish, even to my own ears.