Page 4 of Omega's Fever
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her mahogany desk.
I take the offered seat, then sit back waiting for what I know is coming.
“Andrews won’t be back for at least a week,” Anne says without preamble. “Food poisoning, apparently, though I suspect it’s more likely a hangover from his weekend in Vegas.” She slides a thick manila folder across the desk toward me. “Pre-trial hearing is this morning.”
The folder is thicker than it should be. Exactly what I don’t need right now.
“Anne, I’m not sure I’m the right person for this. Criminal defense isn’t really my area of expertise, and I have the Morrison deposition tomorrow.”
“Milo.” Her voice carries that subtle edge that makes junior partners scramble to attention. “You’re a lawyer. You went to Harvard. You passed the bar. Handle it.”
I sigh inwardly. I had to try. I take the folder “Of course. I just—”
“The hearing starts in an hour. You should probably get reading.”
And that’s me dismissed. I make it back to my desk without running, but it’s a close thing. The folder seems to mock me as I set it down next to my computer.
Kao glances over from his own paperwork. “That bad?”
“Pre-trial hearing in an hour for a case I’ve never seen.” I flip open the folder and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The photograph on top shows a man who looks like he could bench press a small car. Broad shoulders strain against an orange prison jumpsuit. Dark hair, dark eyes, a nose that’s been broken at least twice. There’s a scar on his left eyebrow and what looks like the edge of a tattoo peeking out from his collar.
He looks exactly like what he is. A thug.
Kellen Hayes, age thirty-two, arrested during a raid on some club called The Pit. Charges include human trafficking, fraud, assault and battery, racketeering, and about six other felonies.
I flip through the police reports, trying to make sense of the timeline. Underground fighting ring. Illegal gambling. Women forced to work as dancers and... other things. My stomach turns as I read the details.
This isn’t some kid caught dealing drugs to pay for college. This is serious. Organized crime serious. It’s the kind of case that makes careers or destroys them, depending on how badly you screw up. No wonder no one wants to touch it.
I check my watch and curse under my breath. 9:47 AM. The hearing starts at 10:30, and I still need to drive across town to the courthouse.
“This looks pretty cut and dried,” I mutter, more to myself than to Kao. “Guy runs illegal fighting operation, gets caught, goes to prison. Simple.”
“Famous last words,” Kao says without looking up from his computer screen. “Have fun.”
I gather the documents and stuff them into my briefcase. No time to read everything, but the basics seem straightforward enough. We’ll try for a plea bargain, reduced sentence, case closed. I can have this wrapped up by the end of the week.
“Wish me luck,” I say, already heading for the door.
“You won’t need it,” Kao calls after me. “Just don’t let the big scary alpha intimidate you.”
If only he knew how laughable that suggestion is. I’ve been dealing with alphas my entire life. Growing up with my uncle Kenneth, working in a law firm where I’m one of three omegas out of forty-seven attorneys, navigating a world that still sees omegas as a pretty decoration rather than an asset.
The elevator down to the parking garage gives me a few precious minutes to think. This is exactly the kind of case Anne warned me about when I started. The problem isn’t the defendant himself, but these cases can drag on if you’re not careful.
You get guilty clients who insist on their innocence and prosecutors looking to make examples.
My BMW starts with a purr. It’s my pride and joy. I’ve been fortunate in a lot of ways. I know that, but I also work long hard hours. The car is a well-deserved treat. The drive to the courthouse should only take twenty minutes, but despite the speediness of my car, downtown traffic has other ideas and I know I’m going to be late.
I use the time at red lights to think through my approach to the Hayes’ case. He has no prior arrests, although one of the police statements hinted at a sealed juvenile record. The cops aren’t supposed to tell us about that kind of thing but they do it anyway. Whoever this asshole is, he started his life of crime young.
I find a spot on the third level of the courthouse parking garage and take a moment to check my appearance in the rearview mirror. My tie is straight. My hair is neat. I look professional. I take a deep breath and whisper, “Professional. Confident. Competent.”
I’m a control freak and I know it. My parents died when I was young and I was raised by my uncle. I don’t remember if I was so controlling before they died, but ever since I can remember, I’ve needed to do everything exactly right or I get a stomachache.
It’s one of the things that attracted me to law. Yes, I come from a family of lawyers, but there’s something ironically simple about the intricacy of the legal system. There’s not much black and white. You win the case or you lose it. Your argument is legally valid or it is rejected.