“Then live by them now,” he says softly. “Tell me what I need to know.”
I think of what I cannot say. Of Luca in an exam room he isn’t supposed to be in, slipping through a side door because he can’t risk the front; the way his hand felt wrapped around mine when our child’s heart beat into the room for the first time.
I think of lunch in the sun, of ginger and lemon, of the way the jasmine sent a dizzy sweetness into my blood and made me reckless on a stone bench by a fake creek.
I think of the time after that in his bed, where I told him I trusted him and meant it, and then handed him my body to prove it.
No.
“There is nothing to disclose,” I say, each word brisk and clipped.
Hart doesn’t blink. “You left your apartment through your garage at 6:30 two mornings last week,” he says. “Our building cameras catch you returning past 9:00 both nights. The marshals report your protective posture eased; you didn’t have tails by then. Where did you go?”
“Out,” I say.
“Where?”
“Anywhere I want,” I say, and now I do show my teeth because I can’t not. “I’m not under investigation, Miles. Do you want to ask for my phone location? My OnStar? My Amex? You want to plant a GPS under my bumper? You want to subpoena my medical records while you’re at it? Sit down and draft the papers. I’ll move to quash.”
Mara’s typing stops outside like a radio cut off mid-song. The blinds click in the quiet. Hart’s jaw works once, twice, then relents; it’s the only part of him that betrays annoyance.
“Elena,” he says. “Don’t make me pull rank on you. This isn’t about you and me. It’s about the case.”
“It’s also about me,” I return, evenly. “Because if this is a fishing expedition based on defense gossip, no. If it’s an administrative check-in, I am not your optics problem.”
“You are if the story becomes you,” he says.
I bite down on the first response—something about judges who lecture about impartiality while checking their retirement portfolios. I bite down on the second—something about patriarchy, and if he’d be speaking like this if a man sat across from him. I go with the only thing that won’t get me walked out by Security.
“Let me work,” I say. “You’ve seen my memos. You’ve heard my proffers. You put me in front of the magistrate to argue conditions because you knew I’d be precise. You don’t have to like me to trust me.”
“I do like you,” he says. “That’s not the point.”
No. It isn’t.
He closes the top folder. The sound is soft, final. “Whether or not there’s anything to disclose, the perception is already in play,”he says. “I can’t control the photographs or the rumors, but I can control our house.” He lines the edge of the folder with the pad precisely. “Effective immediately, I’m reassigning you from Conti.”
The words hit like a door slamming my ass on the way out. Pressure builds in my chest. I blink once because the alternative is smashing my fist into his desk. His face. “To what?” I ask, because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of “You can’t.”
“Violent crime,” he says. “You’ll cover arraignments for two weeks while we redistribute. Then we’ll see.”
“Arraignments,” I repeat. My tongue tastes like metal. “You’re benching me.”
“I’m protecting the case,” he says.
“You’re protecting yourself,” I say, low. “Your office.”
“Same thing,” he says, not flinching. “Elena, this is not a punishment. It’s a step back. Let the heat fade. You’ll still be on your feet in court. You’ll still carry weight.”
I stare at the view over his shoulder because if I look at his face, I will say something that burns it all down. The river glints in the distance; a gull wheels lazily against the pale sky.
The sun ought to at least dim when your life goes sideways; it doesn’t. I pull in air that tastes like old carpet and wood cleaner and try to spit out words that won’t make it worse.
I choose the smallest true thing. “I’ve spent years doing this,” I say. “I cameherefor this. You built a team for this case around that experience. This isn’t good for the case.”
“You’re not the only lawyer in the district.” He doesn’t gloat; I half-respect that. “We’ll brief Keating, bring in Ferris from Newark to co-chair. You can write. If we need you for witness prep or history, we’ll ask.”
“Ask,” I repeat. I can hear how thin my voice is. I hate it. “Miles, I—” I stop. Don't say: I need this. Don’t say: This is all I am.
