Page 13 of His Verdict
He didn't want a lawyer he had to persuade. He wanted a lawyer he owned. He burned my old life to the ground so he could build a new one for me in his own image.
My career was dead before I even got a chance. My reputation is in ashes. My integrity is a ghost. I have nothing left. Nothing except this contract. This deal with the devil.
Chapter 6
The sun rises on my still-ruined life.
I wake up on the sofa, still in the suit I was fired in. My neck is stiff, my mouth tastes like stale dread, and a jackhammer is pounding behind my eyes. For one blissful, stupid second, I think yesterday was a nightmare. A horrible, anxiety-fueled stress dream.
Then my eyes focus on the coffee table.
The black leather folio sits there, regal and obscene amidst the clutter of my life. The cashier’s check is an insult, its fifty-thousand-dollar figure mocking the ten thousand I now owe the court. And beneath it, the employment contract from Donovan & Creed LLP.
A strangled sound, half-laugh, half-sob, rips from my throat. I scramble off the sofa, my body aching with the kind of deep, cellular exhaustion that sleep can’t touch.
“No,” I whisper to the empty room. “Fuck him. Fuck his money.”
The words are a flimsy shield. I stumble into the kitchen, my movements jerky, uncoordinated. I need coffee. I need to think. I need to find a way out of this coffin he’s built for me. There has to be a way out. I’m a lawyer. I solve problems. That’s what I do.
Not anymore.The thought is a venomous whisper in my own head.
I splash cold water on my face, staring at the stranger in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin is patchy and pale, and there are dark, bruised-looking circles beneath her eyes. She looks like a victim. I hate her.
My personal laptop is still open on the kitchen counter, showing the court’s filing page. I slam it shut and force myself to breathe. One step at a time. Assess the damage. Formulate a plan.
The damage, it turns out, is a mushroom cloud, and the fallout is just beginning.
My phone, which has been unnervingly silent, finally buzzes. It’s a text from an ex-colleague, Emily. She was so bubbly and excited when I met her my first day.
Liv, just saw the news. I’m so sorry. If you need anything…
The words trail off into a useless ellipsis. What could she possibly do? The subtext is clear:Stay away from me. I don’t want to get hit by the shrapnel.The pity is worse than contempt. It’s the final nail in the coffin of my professional relationships. I’m not a colleague anymore. I’m a cautionary tale.
I delete the message without responding.
Then my phone rings, a shrill, jarring sound I’ve set for a specific number. It can only be one person. My mother.
“Olivia, honey? I just saw something on the local news website… some article about your work. It mentioned your name… it sounded so awful. It can’t be true, can it?”
Her voice is laced with a confusion that makes my stomach churn with shame. How do I explain this to a woman who thinks a traffic ticket is a moral failing? A woman who tells all her friends, with teary-eyed pride, that her daughter is a lawyer who “fights for the little guy.”
“It’s complicated, Mom,” I say, my voice a dull monotone.
“But they’re saying you lied to a judge! That you might lose your license! Olivia, you would never do that. You have to fight this. Tell them the truth!”
The irony is a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The truth? The truth is I did it. I sold my soul and got nothing to show for it.
“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up before she can respond, my hand shaking. I sink to the floor, my back against the kitchen cabinets. The silence of the apartment presses in on me, thick and suffocating. This is what it feels like to be a pariah. The world I knew is shrinking, its borders contracting until the only thing left is me and my shame, trapped in these 600 square feet.
And him. His presence is a ghost in the room, a lingering scent of expensive whiskey and quiet control. I can almost hear his voice. He knew this would happen. He designed it that way.
The mail slot clatters. I flinch, my heart leaping into my throat. I crawl to the door and pick up the single, official-looking envelope that has fallen onto my welcome mat. The return address is the State Bar.
My fingers feel like sausages as I tear it open. The language is cold, brutally formal.
…pursuant to Rule 9.4(a), your license to practice law in this state is placed on interim suspension pending the outcome of the formal disciplinary investigation… you are hereby ordered to cease and desist from presenting yourself as an attorney…