Chapter One
Ava
I hate his face.
Well, that isn’t exactly true. It’s a devastatingly handsome face that I quite enjoy looking at, so long as he doesn’t realize I’m looking. Right now, he’s smirking at me as we’re called to the judge’s bench, so I have to refrain from stomping on his foot with my stiletto. I’ll mentally wax poetic about the square line of his jaw and the dark, neatly trimmed beard some other time.
I’m pissed at myself for walking into his trap, letting him swipe at me just enough to get me to rise to the bait and snap at him, knowing that Judge Reynolds has no tolerance for our bullshit. I’m normallybetter than this, but I’m running on little sleep and nothing but an energy drink. Oh, and a banana that my assistant Shelby shoved in my hand as I made a mad dash from my office to the courthouse.
This case is a doozy. My client, Joseph Simmons, is completely guilty. Everyone in the courtroom knows it. I only hope to prove that the police fumbled the chain of evidence, but it’s not clear yet if that’ll be enough for a win. If I’d been going up against one of the assistant prosecutors, that would have been a different story, but Mark Taylor now oversees any of my cases that land on the docket in his borough. He knows nobody else stands a chance against me if the prosecution’s case is shaky.
After I made partner, I started to get higher-profile cases in Manhattan. So now, it feels like the majority of every day is spent going toe-to-toe with Manhattan’s youngest district attorney.
“You’ve both been warned about your attitudes in my courtroom,” Judge Reynolds leans forward to hiss at us. He’s an older beta, with graying hair receding to balding, showing off a few age spots along his scalp. His eyes are fixed in a seemingly permanent angry squint, but today they seem extra narrowed.
I wince.
Shit. He’s really mad this time.
“I don’t care if we are filming for the mayor’s illustrious NYTV or not. I don’t have the patience for your behavior today. He turns to look directly at Mark. “Wipe that grin off your face, counselor; I saw you set her up for that. Behave, both of you, or I’m calling a mistrial and throwing you in acell to cool off.”
“Yes, Your Honor, sorry,” we both say in unison. I shoot Mark a glare, but quite enjoy the flush around the collar of his shirt. He’s embarrassed for getting called out.
Good.
Shithead.
I walk back to my table, offering a sunshiney smile to my client, a hulk of an alpha that I’ve had to bend over backwards to make look less scary to the jury. I might lose his case, but he doesn’t need to know that. Panicked clients are a pain in my ass. They whine and start questioning everything I do, not understanding that criminal law is a lot like chess. It isn’t only strategy but also anticipating the moves of your opponent. Additionally, this particular client is almost certainly part of the Italian Mafia, and I do try my best not to piss them off.
The problem is that Mark is genuinely a damn good lawyer. We run right at about 50/50 on wins when we go head to head. There’s a betting pool at both my office and the police station over who will win at the end of the year, the viper or the tiger.
The police, unsurprisingly, are not fans of mine, hence the viper nickname. I’ve yet to uncover how Mark got the tiger moniker.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my suit jacket and turn back to the witness I’d been questioning. “I apologize for that interruption. Detective Stephens, could you pleaseanswer the question regarding the gap between when you logged the evidence into the system at 10:32 p.m. and when it was officially signed over to the crime lab at 7:15 a.m. the next morning?”
“I don’t remember your original question,” the detective says coolly, his face carefully neutral even as his eyes flash with loathing.
Liar.
I smile sweetly at him. “Understandable. I’m sure it’s hard to remember minor details when you work as many cases as you do.”
I hear Mark cough, and I bet he’s choking to death on the objection stuck in his throat. But he won’t risk pissing off the judge further, and he can’t technically object to me being a bitch.
“My question was, do you have any explanation for this gap?”
I already know the answer. I’ve gone through all the records with a fine-tooth comb during discovery.
“No,” Detective Stephens says, “but I assume—”
I raise my hand to cut him off. “You aren’t here to testify about assumptions. With no documentation of the evidence’s exact location or who might have had access overnight, can you, without any doubt, swear under oath that its integrity was preserved the entire time?”
“Objection—argumentative. She’s badgering the witness,” Mark says loudly.
Igive the judge an innocent look and wait for his reaction. I totally was, so it’s a fair objection.
Judge Reynolds looks at us both with annoyance and then over at the witness. He chews on his answer for a moment. “Overruled. It’s a fair question, if worded more argumentatively than necessary.”
I manage to refrain from grinning in triumph. But just barely.
