Page 6 of His Verdict
"Very well." Judge Harrison makes his final notes. "Mr. Wolfe, you are released on fifty thousand dollars bail with the following conditions: you will surrender your passport to the court clerk before leaving today; you will report to pretrial services every Wednesday at ten AM; you will not access any computer systems belonging to Meridian Technologies or its subsidiaries; and you will not leave the state without prior court approval. Do you understand these conditions?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Excellent. Status conference is set for forty-five days from today." He consults his calendar. "October eighth at two PM. Both counsel will submit any pretrial motions no later than October first. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Brown and I say in unison.
"Court is adjourned."
The gavel cracks. The sound echoes in the sudden vacuum of noise, sharp and final. Court adjourned. Just like that.
A collective sigh ripples through the courtroom. Papers shuffle, chairs scrape against worn linoleum, and the low murmur of conversation resumes. For me, the sound is muted, distant. All I feel is the thrumming in my veins, the chemical high of a win—even a small, provisional one like bail—that feelslike mainlining victory. I turn to Jasper, a professional smile already forming on my lips, ready to explain the next steps, the logistics of posting bond.
But the words die in my throat.
He’s already looking at me. Not with the relief of a client just granted his freedom, but with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. His eyes are narrowed slightly, analytical. Assessing. As if the arraignment wasn’t the main event, but merely a prelude. As ifIwas the one on trial.
“Good work, Ms. Sutton,” he says, his voice a low timbre that cuts through the courtroom chatter. It’s too intimate for this public space.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back into the role of Public Defender Olivia Sutton, not… whatever this fluttering, unnerved creature is. “We’ll get the paperwork processed. You’ll be released from the courthouse holding cell once bail is posted.”
A bail bondsman I’d contacted earlier is supposed to meet me at the clerk’s desk.
Two deputies approach to escort him out. As they move to flank him, Jasper’s hand—still cuffed—brushes against the back of mine. It’s a fleeting, feather-light touch, skin on skin for no more than a second, but a jolt of pure electricity shoots up my arm. My breath catches.
He’s your client.The voice of my conscience is thin, reedy, easily ignored.
He doesn’t look back as they lead him away, his posture ramrod straight, a king being led from a temporary inconvenience, not a felon facing years in prison. I stand therefor a moment, the ghost of his touch tingling on my skin, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.
“Nicely done, Sutton.”
I jump, spinning around to face ADA Jessica Brown. She’s packing her briefcase, her expression a mixture of professional respect and weariness. “You too, Brown. You almost had me sweating with that computer access clause.”
She gives me a wry, humorless smile. “Harrison was never going to deny him bail. Not for a non-violent offense.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “Be careful with this one. He feels… different.”
“Different how?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. Defensive.
Brown’s eyes hold mine for a long beat. “Like a wolf who enjoys pretending to be a sheep. See you in forty-five days.” She gives me a curt nod and walks away, her heels clicking a sharp, cautionary rhythm on the floor.
I gather my own files, my hands not quite steady. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving behind a shaky exhaustion and the lingering, phantom sensation of Jasper Wolfe’s touch.
The Public Defender’s office is a world away from the stately tension of the courthouse. A brown water stain blooms on theceiling tiles directly above my desk, a permanent reminder of the building’s—and the system’s—decay.
My desk is a war zone. Piles of files—assaults, DUIs, petty thefts— teeter precariously, each one representing a life in free fall. This is my reality. A grim, thankless grind of defending the broken and the forgotten.
I drop my briefcase beside the leaning tower of files and sink into my squeaky, decade-old chair. The win in court feels like a distant memory, a flicker of light from a star that’s already dead. Here, there are no real wins. Just mitigated losses. Plea deals that trade five years for ten. Reduced charges that still ruin a life.
Student loans. A mountain of them.
Rent, three days late.
The credit card bill I can’t even bear to open.
The numbers scroll through my head, a litany of my failures. I took this job to make a difference, to stand for the little guy, to be the shield for the defenseless. My idealism feels stupid now, a flimsy coat against a blizzard of debt and disillusionment. My ex-fiancé, Marcus, had called it my “savior complex.” He’d said it from the comfort of his corner office at a corporate firm where billable hours were the only form of morality. He wasn’t wrong, really.
I run a hand over my face, the exhaustion a physical weight. I should start prepping for the Miller hearing tomorrow. Or draft the motion for the Rodriguez case. I should do myjob.
Instead, I find myself pulling out the file for Jasper Wolfe.