Page 2 of His Verdict

"What if they're innocent?"

Sarah's laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. "Innocent? Honey, ninety percent of our clients are guilty as sin. The other ten percent just haven't been caught at their real crime yet. Your job isn't to determine innocence or guilt—that's what juries are for. Your job is to make sure the state proves its case beyond a reasonable doubt and doesn't railroad anyone in the process."

Before I can respond, a man who seems to be our office manager appears at my desk holding a fresh folder like it's contaminated with radioactive material.

"Sutton? Jim Young. You just got assigned a new case. Guy's being arraigned tomorrow." He drops the folder on my desk with a thud. "Have fun."

I open it, scanning the arrest report.State vs. Wolfe, Jasper.Twenty-eight years old. Charged with theft of technology equipment and intellectual property. No priors. Bail set at fifty thousand dollars.

The mugshot is... unexpected.

Most of the defendants I've seen so far look exactly like what central casting would order for "petty criminal"—hollow cheeks, dead eyes, the general appearance of someone who's been chewed up and spit out by life. This guy looks like he's stepped out of a magazine. Sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes that seem to be looking directly at me even through the photograph,dark hair. Even in the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the booking photo, he's stupidly handsome.

"Tech theft," I murmur, reading through the charges. "That's... different."

"White-collar crime," Sarah says, peering over my shoulder. "Those are usually pretty cut-and-dried. Either they did it or they didn't, and the evidence is usually digital. Hard to argue with computer records."

"I should go see him," I say, closing the folder. "Get a sense of what we're dealing with before the arraignment."

"Good luck," Sarah calls as I head for the door. "Try not to fall for the pretty face. Trust me, the handsome ones are always the most dangerous."

Everyone deserves a second chance,I remind myself as I walk toward the holding cells, clutching the folder like a shield.

Chapter 2

The holding cells beneath the courthouse smell like industrial disinfectant trying and failing to mask decades of body odor and urine. My heels click against the concrete floor as I follow Officer Martinez down the narrow corridor, my briefcase clutched in one hand and Jasper Wolfe's file in the other.

"He's been quiet," Martinez says, stopping in front of cell number seven. "Polite. Hasn't given us any trouble."

"Thank you," I say, straightening my shoulders and trying to project more confidence than I feel. "I'll need about thirty minutes."

Martinez nods and unlocks the cell door with a metallicclangthat echoes off the concrete walls. "I'll be right down the hall if you need anything."

I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a finality that makes my stomach flutter. The cell is small with a narrow bench, a toilet that's seen better decades, and fluorescent lighting.

The man sitting on the bench with his head in his hands looks nothing like the polished professional in the expensive suit from his arrest photo. His dark hair is disheveled, his white dress shirt wrinkled and untucked, and his shoulders curve inward like he's carrying the weight of the world.

He looks... defeated. Lost. Like someone whose entire life has just imploded.

"Mr. Wolfe?"

He raises his head slowly, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.

The mugshot hasn't done him justice. Not even close.

Jasper Wolfe has the kind of face that belongs in magazines or movies—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw with just a hint of stubble, and the most intensely blue eyes I've ever seen. Those blue eyes are sharp and assessing, like he can see right through my carefully constructed armor to all the insecurities and uncertainties underneath.

"Ms. Sutton," he says, rising to his feet with fluid grace that seems almost predatory. "Thank you for coming."

His voice is rich and cultured, with just a hint of roughness that suggests he's been through hell recently. It's the kind of voice that could probably talk someone into anything—or out of anything, for that matter.

Get a grip, Olivia. He's a client, not a date.

"Please, sit," I say, settling into the plastic chair that's been provided for attorney visits. I pull out my legal pad and try to ignore the way he's watching me, like I'm a bug under a magnifying glass. "I've reviewed your case file. The charges are... unusual. Technology theft and intellectual property violations aren't typical street crimes."

He sits back down on the bench, maintaining just enough distance to be respectful but close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that definitely doesn't belong in a holding cell.

"I suppose that's one way to put it," he says, and I catch a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Though I'd argue that what I'm accused of isn't theft at all."