Page 4 of His Verdict
"And what do you think I am?"
The question catches me off guard. I study his face—those sharp features, those intelligent eyes, the way he holds himself like someone who's used to being in control even when the world is falling apart around him.
"I think," I say slowly, "that you're a man who's convinced himself that the ends justify the means. And I think that's a very dangerous way to live."
His eyes flicker—approval? Amusement? I can't tell.
"Perhaps," he says. "But sometimes danger is the only thing that creates change."
I find myself staring at him, trying to figure out what it is about this man that has me so off-balance. Yes, he's handsome.Yes, he's intelligent and articulate. But there's something else—something that makes every instinct I have both scream warnings and beg me to get closer.
"I'll take your case, Jasper," I say finally, surprised by my own certainty. "But I want one thing clear between us—I'm not here to judge whether you're right or wrong about Meridian Technologies. I'm here to make sure you get a fair trial and that your rights are protected. Nothing more."
His smile is warm and grateful and completely disarming. "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything else."
As I gather my things and prepare to leave, he catches my wrist gently. The contact is brief—barely a touch—but it sends electricity shooting up my arm and makes my pulse jump in ways that are entirely unprofessional.
"Ms. Sutton," he says, and his voice is rougher now, like he's struggling to control some emotion. "Thank you. For believing that I'm worth defending."
I look down at where his hand has touched my wrist, then back up at his face. For just a moment, I see what looks like vulnerability, maybe, or gratitude—that makes my chest tighten with an emotion I definitely shouldn't be feeling for a client.
"Everyone deserves a defense," I manage to say. "That's what the system is supposed to be about."
"Olivia," he says quietly, and hearing my first name in his voice does something to my insides that I absolutely am not going to analyze.
"I’ll see you tomorrow."
After Officer Martinez lets me out, I walk back through the courthouse in a daze, my skin still tingling where he's touched me. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Chapter 3
The courthouse Wi-Fi stutters as my phone buzzes again.Subject:Your Student Loan Payment Is Due in 3 Days.
I open it before I can stop myself.
Amount due:$1,287.42.
My checking account sits at four hundred thirteen dollars, and my first public defender paycheck is still a couple of weeks away. Rent cleared yesterday, thankfully. Power bill Monday. I do the math twice, like maybe the numbers will flinch and show mercy. They don’t.
My so-called savings account—my safety net—is down to forty-eight bucks. It’s not raining; it’s a damn monsoon.
I minimize the email, but the number burns behind my eyelids. Law school promised justice and purpose. It forgot to mention interest rates.
“Congratulations, Counselor,” I mutter under my breath. “You got that white collar job, but you can’t afford groceries.”
I shove my phone back in my bag as the officer opens the courtroom doors, informing those of us standing in the hallway that we can come inside now.
The courthouse at nine in the morning buzzes with the chaos of arraignment day. Defendants in orange jumpsuits shuffle in chains while their families clutch tissues and whisper prayers. Lawyers juggle multiple case files, and court reportersprepare for another day of transcribing humanity's worst decisions.
I take a seat in the front row of the gallery, my notes organized in what I hope looks like professional competence rather than barely contained anxiety. This is my first arraignment as lead counsel, and the butterflies in my stomach feel more like pterodactyls.
The bailiff calls case after case. Domestic violence. Drug possession. DUI. Each defendant shuffles forward, mumbles answers to the judge's questions, and shuffles back to await their fate. The whole process has a mechanical rhythm that's both comforting and deeply depressing.
"State versus Wolfe, Jasper," the bailiff announces.
My heart does something embarrassing in my chest as the side door opens and Jasper emerges, flanked by two deputies. Gone is the disheveled man I met in the holding cell yesterday. This version of Jasper Wolfe looks every inch the tech professional his file claims he is.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his jaw clean-shaven to reveal that sharp bone structure that has no business being that distracting in a courtroom. The orange jumpsuit somehow manages to complement his skin tone, which is just unfair to every other defendant who's worn the same outfit. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch—those piercing blue eyes that seem to find me in the gallery and hold my gaze for just a moment too long.