Inside my studio, I dropped my briefcase and stood in the middle of the room trying to decide what to do with myself. It was 4:15 PM. Too early for dinner. Too late to justify going back to the office. Too wired to sleep.
I pulled out my laptop and opened the case file again. Reread everything with fresh eyes, looking for details I'd missed. The police reports. The witness statements—before and after they'd recanted. The medical records showing the compound fracture in the Costello nephew's arm.
They were compensated for their inconvenience and chose to forget what they saw.
Sandro had admitted to witness tampering with the same calm tone most people used to discuss the weather. No shame. No hesitation. Just the facts of what had happened, delivered with perfect honesty because I'd demanded it.
I should have been horrified. Should have withdrawn from the case immediately. Should have called the bar association and reported the admission.
Instead, I was sitting in my apartment getting hard thinking about the way he'd looked at me. The way he'd invaded my space deliberately, watching to see if I'd back down. Testing me. Measuring my reactions like data to be analyzed and used.
Knowledge is the only currency that matters in my world.
My phone rang. I almost didn't answer when I saw the caller ID, but avoiding Marco indefinitely wasn't a viable strategy.
"What?" I said instead of hello.
"Charming as always." Marco's voice carried that particular tone he used when he was about to say something he thought was for my own good. "I heard you went to court this morning. Representing Vitale at his bail hearing."
"News travels fast."
"It's a small legal community. Everyone's talking about it. About you."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I don't have time for this, Marco."
"Make time. I'm trying to help you understand what you're getting into."
"You already told me what you think. Multiple times. I'm taking the case anyway."
Silence on the other end. Then: "You're going to regret this."
"Maybe. But it'll be my regret, not yours. We're divorced, remember? You don't get to have opinions about my career anymore."
"This isn't about us," Marco said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "This is about you throwing away everything you've worked for. Do you know what happens to lawyers who get too close to people like Vitale? They either end up disbarred or dead, Emilio. There's no third option."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait—"
I ended the call and turned my phone face-down on the coffee table. Stared at it like it might ring again. When it didn't, I felt both relieved and strangely disappointed.
Everyone wanted to save me from myself. Sarah. Marco. Probably Richard too, in his own calculating way. They all thought I was making a terrible mistake.
They were right.
But I was making it anyway.
I worked through the evening, making notes and drafting preliminary motions. At 11 PM I ordered takeout from the Chinese place down the block. At 1 AM I was still awake, cross-referencing case law and building defense strategies on three hours of sleep and too much coffee.
At 3 AM I finally admitted I wasn't going to sleep and went to the office instead.
The building was empty at that hour. Security waved me through with barely a glance—they were used to associates keeping ridiculous hours. I rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor and let myself into my small office with a view of a brick wall.
My desk was covered in active case files. The personal injury suit. A contract dispute. Two divorces and a DUI. The kind of work that paid bills but didn't build careers. I pushed them aside and spread out the Vitale materials.
I worked until the sun came up, until my eyes burned and my back ached from hunching over my desk. Built a defense strategy that assumed the prosecution would have nothing solid. Prepared for witness impeachment. Researched jury selection criteria for assault cases.
At 6:30 AM, my office phone rang. Internal extension. Richard's secretary.
