Across the aisle, the opposing counsel's team drops their eyes to their notes.
“I find no evidence that the plaintiff failed to meet her contractual obligations. The defense’s position relies on contingencies not contemplated in the original agreement.” He slides his glasses back on. “I find in favor of the plaintiff. Fullpayment as stipulated, plus punitive damages for breach of contract in bad faith.”
The gavel comes down.
Beside me, Mrs. Vance makes a sound caught between a sob and a laugh. Then she pulls me into a hug, her limbs trembling with three months of anxiety finally releasing.
“Oh, thank you,” she breathes into my shoulder. “Thank you. My shop, my employees, my family—”
“You earned this,” I murmur, squeezing back. “You kept your end of the deal. They were the ones trying to cheat.”
When she pulls away, her mascara is a little smudged, and she looks ten years lighter. “I don’t know how I could have afforded someone like you,” Mrs. Vance says, laughing. “When you said pro bono, I thought maybe you were new, that you needed practice, but you—” she lifts a hand and makes an explosive gesture toward the defense table— “youdestroyedthem.”
Across the aisle, the corporate team packs up. They’ll bill for the loss and forget this case by dinner. Vultures in Armani. It’s a game to them, always has been.
To my client, it was survival.
I help gather her documents, sliding them into a neat stack, walking her through which copies to keep. The courtroom slowly empties around us, and once we're done, I walk with her toward the gallery where her daughter and granddaughter are waiting.
“Grandma,” the little girl, maybe seven years old, tugs on her grandmother's sleeve and whispers something in her ear. Mrs. Vance's lips twitch.
"Tell her," the girl hisses, nudging her grandmother when she doesn't immediately comply.
The older woman tsks fondly and turns to me. "My Sofia says she wants to look like you when she grows up. Like a movie star teacher."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "A movie star teacher?"
The girl scuffs her shoe on the floor, suddenly shy but determined. "Because your hair is red like Ariel's, but short. And you know all the answers."
I touch my bob self-consciously. It's not often I get compared to a Disney princess.
“Well,” I say, something warm unfurling in my chest, “if you ever want advice on law school when you grow up, your grandma has my email.”
She nods solemnly, and it feels as though we’ve just signed our own private contract.
I walk them out through the heavy courthouse doors, into the afternoon light where the city hums with its usual chaos. We say our goodbyes on the steps, Mrs. Vance hugs me again, her daughter thanks me, and Sofia gives me a tiny wave that makes my chest ache in the best way.
This is why I do it. Not the headlines. Not the stats. Moments like that.
I lean against a pillar, gather my files, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Finally, I flick my phone off airplane mode.
It immediately starts buzzing like an angry wasp trapped in my palm.
Three texts from Eliot, John, and Ezrela, former colleagues, all wanting contract advice.
And one email from Mia, my boss.
URGENT - Athlete Contract Dispute: Potential breach
* * *
I'm folding butter. Again.
Manhattan doesn't sleep, and neither do I. Not tonight.
So, butter and flour it is.
My phone buzzes against the island. It's Eliot again.
