“Detective Stephens logged the evidence into the computer, but before we could take it downstairs, we were called to an emergency scene. I watched him seal the bag and initial the tape before locking it into the evidence locker near our desks. In the morning, I unlocked it and took it downstairs.”
“So you followed standard NYPD protocol during the transfer?”
“Except for the signature portion, yes, sir. That was the only mistake.”
I wish I’d had a little more time to prep her for the stand. She needed to learn to only answer my questions and not offer anything additional. I made a mental note to have my assistant reach out to her captain to set up some training time. If she is going to remain a detective, she needed to be better prepared to face off with Ava.
“Explain what you mean about the signature.”
“I read the sign-in sheet incorrectly. I thought it was asking for the name of the officer who had logged it into the system, not who was bringing it to the lab. So I signed Stephens’s name. I—”
I cut her off before she can continue adding on. “At no point was the evidence unsecured or able to be accessed by anyone but law enforcement?”
“No, sir.”
I nod once, letting it settle into the jury for a moment. “Just to be clear, the discrepancy the defense highlighted yesterday reflected only who physically transported the sealed evidence, not whether the evidence was compromised. Correct?”
“That is correct.”
I glance toward the jury, then back to her.
“No further questions.”
I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is already running through the angles Ava will take during cross-examination. She’ll likely attack Vega’s inexperience and poke holes in whether there is any proof to back her claim. Insinuating this was damage control, which it was.
But the jury should hopefully see it for what it is. Stephens misspoke, and Vega clarified that a simple first-day-on-the-job error occurred.
I give Ava a quick wink as I head back to my seat.
The case finally wraps for the day, Judge Reynolds practically shoving us out with threats of contempt if we so muchas breathe too loudly in his courtroom tomorrow. My staff flies out ahead of me, discussing catching up on paperwork.
When I step out on the courthouse stairs, the late afternoon light is dappling between the heavy gray clouds. It looks like rain. Probably if I were home, it would smell like rain too, but here in the city, you aren’t able to catch that.
Ava is ahead of me, waiting on the curb for her car. Her phone is to her ear, voice clipped, and it’s the same voice she uses when she’s cross-examining. Business, then.
I should keep walking. Hail a cab and get back to my office. Yet my feet betray me, and I’m by her side before I know it. Even in her ridiculously tall heels, I still tower over her, and she has to tip her chin to look up at me. The wind blows a tendril of hair across her cheek, and I have the strangest urge to wrap it around my finger just to see if it feels as silky as it looks. This close, I should be able to scent her, even though betas have muted scents, but Ava always wears a heavy-duty neutralizer. I don’t know what she smells like, and it bothers me.
“Kendrick. A solid attempt at a win, but I think we both know how this one is going to go,” I say, unable to stop myself from baiting her.
She lowers her phone and smiles at me, but there’s no sweetness in it. Her eyes are sharp and sparkling, the black cat-eye liner around them making the deep emerald green pop. “Don’t get too comfortable, counselor. The jury is smarter than you give them credit for. They can smell a rushed cover story.”
I can’t help but smirk. “I guarantee everyone on that jury has fucked up on their first day on the job at some point.”
Her car pulls up, long, sleek, and black. “Can’t relate. I don’t make mistakes.” She opens the door, casually tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Have a good night, counselor.”
My grin widens despite myself, and I give a sharp salute with my fingers as she pulls off.
The mayor had invited me to a dinner event he was hosting at a private club downtown, which clearly meant I was expected. It’s all mahogany walls, leather chairs, the faint smell of cigars baked into everything. A place that prides itself on being exclusive. Men in tailored suits stand around cocktail tables, talking too loudly and laughing even louder. A few are sprawled in the large chairs, clouds of smoke hovering above their heads. Servers weave between them with silver trays, keeping glasses full so no one has to stop bragging.
Almost all these guys are alphas—old money types. A few have brought their omegas with them, but they all hover together, far away from everyone else. To be honest, I’m envious of them. I wish I could avoid talking to most of the men here. I don’t particularly like them. If I’m very lucky, I can make myself visible and only manage small talk with the ones that are tolerable while flying under the radar of the ones I can’t stand. They have a habit of slapping me on the backand talking down to me like I’m a child, which to be fair, they also do to the omegas.
If I were a better alpha, I wouldn’t stand for it, but the testosterone-laden posturing never came naturally to me. I prefer to win an argument with words. Not that I can’t beat the snot out of someone if they push me—I grew up on a farm, after all—it’s just not my go-to.
Back home in Missouri, I didn’t grow up around many alphas or omegas. My folks are both betas. I was the first alpha in the family in a couple of generations. Most of what I know about designation dynamics I picked up from textbooks, case law, or the occasional news story. At UCLA, I didn’t have time to think much about it. I was too busy clawing my way through law school. Even now, in a room full of other alphas, I still feel like an outsider.
It doesn’t matter. I need to get and stay on these guys’ good side. If that means playing the game and letting them think they are bigger, badder men than me, so be it. Campaigns aren’t built on strategy alone. They need connections, handshakes, and money.
In an ideal world, this would not be the case. But this isn’t an ideal world; it’s America, and this is the system we have. If I want to make real change in this city, I have to get to the top. Which unfortunately means I have to “talk less, smile more,” as Lin-Manuel Miranda so eloquently put it.
