The seconds dragged into minutes, each one echoing in the hollow space of the interrogation room.
The door clicked again. I looked up, heart leaping.
A tall Black man in a slightly rumpled suit entered the room, the fabric creased at the elbows and collar like he’d slept in it—or worse, lived in it.
He carried a battered leather briefcase that had seen better decades, its corners worn soft, its latch squeaking faintly when he set it down.
He offered a polite, practiced smile—the kind meant to soothe, to reassure, to signal competence without promising miracles.
“Mrs. Baranov,” he said evenly. “I’m James Walker. Your assigned public defender.”
Assigned.
The word scraped across my nerves.
He sat, unlatched the briefcase, and pulled out a yellow legal pad already dense with scribbles, tabs jutting out like tired flags.
He clicked a pen, then looked up at me, eyes sharp despite the fatigue lining his face.
“I’m going to need you to be completely honest with me,” he said. “Everything. Dates. Conversations. Timeline. Even the things you think don’t matter.” His voice softened slightly. “I can’t represent you effectively if I’m working with incomplete information.”
The nausea surged so fast I had to clamp my jaw shut.
A public defender.
Overworked. Underfunded. Probably juggling twenty other cases—petty theft, drug charges, people without money or influence.
And he was supposed to stand between me and Ruslan Baranov.
The man who bought judges for breakfast and buried evidence for lunch.
The man whose name alone could tilt courtrooms before a word was spoken.
I stood abruptly, the legs of my chair screeching against the floor. The chains at my wrists rattled violently, the sound loud in the small room.
“I don’t want you.”
James blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Ma’am—”
“The hearing is tomorrow?” I cut in sharply, my voice too loud, too brittle.
“Yes,” he answered after a beat. “Arraignment. Nine a.m.”
“Then I’ll represent myself.” My voice trembled, but it didn’t break.
I clung to that small victory like a lifeline. “I’ll tell the judge the truth. They can pull my travel records, my passport stamps, my bank transactions—anything. I’ve never set foot outside this country. Never.”
I turned toward the door before he could respond, panic and fury driving me forward.
“Mrs. Baranov,” he called after me, rising halfway from his chair. “That’s a terrible idea. Judges don’t like emotion. And they don’t like—”
But I was already at the door.
It opened instantly. Two guards materialized as if they’d been waiting for this exact moment. They didn’t argue. Didn’t question. One took my left elbow, the other my right, firm hands steering me away.
Jame’s voice followed us down the hall.
“I’ll be there tomorrow whether you want me or not,” he said. “You’re entitled to counsel.”
