Page 12 of His Verdict

Judge Harrison’s expression hardens. It’s a look of pity curdling into contempt. He doesn’t believe me. Why would he?

“Ms. Sutton,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “The document was filed under your bar number. It is your work product. Your responsibility. I am not going to make a formal finding of fact on the matter of fraud today. That is a question for another venue.”

He lets that hang in the air, a guillotine suspended over my neck.

“However,” he continues, his voice like chipping ice, “the court has exceptionally serious concerns regarding the authenticity of this document and the circumstances of its filing. I am therefore striking the motion to compel from the record. And given the gravity of the potential ethical breach, I have no choice but to refer this matter to the State Bar for a full and immediate investigation.”

It’s happening. The end of everything. A referral to the bar. The three words every lawyer dreads more than death. I feel Sarah’s gaze on my back, a physical weight of shame. I can’t look at her. If I look at her, I will shatter.

“Furthermore,” the judge says, his eyes boring into me, “for the submission of a filing that, on its face, represents a frivolous and misleading claim before this court, I am sanctioning you, personally, Olivia Sutton, in the amount of ten thousand dollars. That sanction is to be paid within thirty days. This conference is concluded.”

He bangs no gavel. He just stands, turns, and sweeps out of the courtroom, leaving a vacuum of absolute ruin in his wake.

The finality of it is absolute. Not the loud crash of a car wreck, but the silent, final click of a coffin lid shutting.

I stand there, frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. My legs won’t work. The world has narrowed to a single point of blinding, deafening shame. ADA Brown is gathering her files, refusing to meet my eyes. Her expression isn’t triumphant. It’s pity.

The next morning, the consequences roll in like a tidal wave.

The first blow arrives at 8:05 AM. An email from the court clerk, attaching Judge Harrison’s official written order. The language is even more brutal on paper. Motion stricken. Counsel sanctioned for frivolous filing. Matter referred to the State Bar for review of conduct inconsistent with the Rules of Professional Responsibility.

The second blow lands minutes later. A call from Mr. Davies’s assistant. “He’d like to see you in his office. Now.”

My firing is swift and clinical. He doesn’t ask for an explanation. He doesn’t yell. He just looks tired, a copy of the judge’s order on the desk between us like a dead animal.

“The reputation of this office is all we have, Olivia and you’re still under your probationary period,” he says. “We can’thave one of our own dragging us into a bar investigation. Pack your personal effects. Security will escort you out.”

And that’s it. My life and dreams are crushed in a single, sterile conversation. As I’m packing my things into a cardboard box, my phone buzzes. A news alert from a local legal blog. The headline makes me want to vomit:Public Defender Faces Bar Investigation After Sanctions in High-Profile Tech Case. It leaked. Of course it did.

The final, official blow comes just as I’m walking out the door for the last time, a pariah under the sympathetic gaze of the security guard. An email with a subject line that feels like an epitaph:The State Bar of Illinois - Notice of Pending Investigation. It’s a formal letter, full of terrifying legal phrases that all mean the same thing: your career is over.

What am I going to do now?

I get home and sit on my sofa. The silence in my apartment is absolute. I am radioactive. The rational part of my brain knows Jasper did this. He engineered my fall from grace.

Evening comes. I haven’t moved. I just stare at the wall, the scene in the courtroom playing on a loop. My humiliation. Sarah’s disappointed face. My entire future circling the drain.

Just as darkness swallows the city, my buzzer rings, jarring me from my stupor.

“Courier for Olivia Sutton,” a crisp voice says through the intercom.

Confused, I buzz him in. A minute later, a man in a sleek, black uniform hands me a large, black leather folio. I sign for itnumbly and close the door, setting it on the coffee table next toTo Kill A Mockingbird—a cruel joke now.

My fingers feel clumsy as I open the clasp. Inside, resting on a bed of black satin, are two things.

The first is a cashier’s check. My eyes scan the numbers, and a choked, hysterical laugh escapes me. The check is made out to me, Olivia Sutton, for the amount of fifty thousand dollars. Five times the sanction from the court.

The second is a contract. The letterhead is thick, creamy, and embossed in silver. Donovan & Creed LLP. A name I’ve never heard of, but it sounds powerful. Inevitable. It’s an employment contract. Position: Counsel. The listed salary makes my vision swim. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. A clause states that the firm will handle all legal fees and representation concerning my “pending professional inquiry.”

Tucked into the contract is a single, small card. On it is a note.

Your real work begins now.

-J.W.

My blood runs cold. I sink to my knees, the pages of the contract slipping through my fingers.

It all crashes down on me. The fake evidence. The public humiliation. The firing. The instant, perfect solution landing on my doorstep.