Page 43 of His Verdict
The FBI? They’re playing checkers while Jasper is playing a three-dimensional chess game on a board I can't even see. He got my State Bar investigation, a formal, public, on-the-record proceeding, dismissed in a single night with a quiet phone call. He is not just powerful. He is a force of nature that bends reality to his will.
And Agent Jennings wants me to go up against that, armed with nothing but a promise of witness protection? It’s a fucking joke. It’s a life of cheap motel rooms in dusty, forgotten towns, a life of forever looking over your shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up. And it would. It always does. The Sinclairs would find me. It might take them a week, a month, a year. But they would find me. And when they did, my death would not be quick and clean like Arthur Vance’s. It would be slow andagonizing, a lesson to anyone else who ever thought of betraying them.
The thought solidifies in my mind with a dreadful, chilling certainty: running to the Feds isn’t a choice for freedom. It’s a choice of how I want to die.
And then, another question, cold and sharp, cuts through the fear. Who talked? How did the FBI know I was in that room? The other four executives from Meridian are terrified. They wouldn’t dare whisper a word. Jasper’s people, Katherine, the cleanup crew—they are loyal to a fault, bound by fear or money or both. That leaves only one possibility. The FBI has a source deep inside his organization. A mole. Someone close enough to know the details of that meeting.
The thought is both terrifying and a little bit thrilling. He’s not completely untouchable. He has a weakness. There is a crack in his fortress.
But that doesn’t help me. In fact, it makes my situation a thousand times more dangerous. If he has a leak, he will be hunting for it. And if I, the newest, most volatile addition to his inner circle, suddenly start acting suspiciously or disappear, who will he suspect?
My blood runs cold. I am a good witness. That’s why Jennings approached me. I’m a lawyer. My testimony would be credible, detailed. I saw the gun. I heard the shot. I saw the body. I’m the FBI’s dream witness. But that’s what makes me a liability. Just by existing, just by holding this knowledge in my head, I am a threat.
He likes me. He desires me. He finds me… compelling. But I am not a fool. I know that his affection, his obsession,whatever it is, has a limit. And that limit is self-preservation. I know that just because he fucks me with a terrifying tenderness, he would kill me without a second thought if he believed I was a threat. Quietly. Efficiently. And he’d probably feel a flicker of that same sad disappointment he felt when he thought I’d become a broken shell. A tragedy. But a necessary one.
I don’t want to find out what that feels like. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of his gun.
By the time the car pulls up to Sapphire Heights, my decision is made. It’s not a choice I feel good about. It’s not a choice for happiness or for justice. It’s a choice for survival. I am staying. Not because I love him, not because I am broken. But because, in a world of monsters, the safest place to be is right next to the biggest, most powerful monster of them all.
I step out of the car, my face a mask of neutrality. I walk into the penthouse, and the life he has built for me closes around me like a warm, velvet-lined coffin.
Jasper is there, waiting for me. He’s standing by the window, a drink in his hand, looking out at the city. He turns as I enter, a questioning look on his face. He’s waiting for my report on the hearing.
“The motion to dismiss was denied,” I say, my voice a flat monotone. I drop my briefcase by the door.
“Good,” he says, a flicker of pride in his eyes. He starts to ask another question, but then he sees my face. His own expression changes, the satisfaction draining away, replaced by a sharp, analytical concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, walking past him toward the sofa. “I’m just tired. Marcus Thorne was opposing counsel. It was… draining.”
It’s a plausible excuse. He knows all about Marcus. He probably arranged the whole thing.
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze so intense it feels like he’s trying to read the secrets printed on the back of my skull. He is a human lie detector, and I am a terrible liar. But he doesn't push. He seems to sense that I am a wounded animal right now, something too fragile to be prodded.
“Alright,” he says slowly, accepting my flimsy excuse, for now. “Get some rest.”
The next couple of days are a quiet, agonizing hell. I exist in a state of hyper-vigilance. I am trying to act normal, but nothing is normal. Everything I do is a performance. I smile at the right times. I make small talk about my work. I let him pull me into his arms at night. I let him fuck me, my body responding on a purely reflexive level while my mind is a million miles away.
The business card is a burning secret in my wallet. I feel its weight with every step I take. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart leaps into my throat, convinced it’s Agent Jennings. Every time Jasper looks at me for a second too long, I am certain he knows.
The paranoia is eating me alive.
The question of whether or not to tell him becomes the central, obsessive focus of my thoughts. If I don’t tell him, and he finds out some other way—and hewouldfind out, the Sinclairs find out everything—then I am a traitor. My silence becomes anact of complicity with his enemies. He would see it as a betrayal of the highest order. And I know what he does to people who betray him.
But if Idotell him… what then? Will he praise me for my loyalty? Or will he see me as tainted, a liability that has now been compromised by the FBI? Will telling him make him trust me more, or will it just put me on his radar as a problem to be managed? It’s an impossible calculation. There is no right answer, only varying degrees of risk.
After two days of silent, agonizing debate, I come to a conclusion. The risk of him finding out from someone else is greater than the risk of me telling him myself. I have to get in front of it. I have to control the narrative. I will tell him, not as a panicked confession, but as a calm, logical report. An asset reporting a potential threat to the organization. It's the only way to play it.
I make the decision on a Wednesday evening. He’s in the shower, the sound of the water a steady hiss from the master bathroom. My moment of courage is a fragile thing; I know if I don’t do it now, I never will. I’ll sit on the sofa in the living room, my hands clasped in my lap, and wait for him to emerge. I’ll be calm. I’ll be professional.
His phone is on the nightstand beside the bed, charging. It buzzes, a new message coming in. I glance at it, my lawyer’s curiosity a professional reflex. But before I can see who it’s from, the screen goes dark. I reach over to tap it, to wake it up again.
And that’s when I see the background image.
My mind goes completely, utterly blank.
The photo is old, faded at the edges, the colors washed out in that way that only old, pre-digital photographs are. It’s a picture of two children on a sunny day, standing in front of a large, sprawling oak tree.
One of the children is a boy, maybe seven or eight years old. He has dark, serious eyes even then, a mop of unruly black hair, and a small, stubborn set to his jaw. He’s wearing a tiny, formal-looking suit. It’s him. It’s unquestionably Jasper.