Chapter 17
17
Holland adjusted his robe and sat down, feeling the familiar scratch of polyester against his shoulders. The courthouse smelled like stale coffee and old paper, same as it always did, but today it made his stomach turn. He didn't look up right away. He didn’t have to. He could feel Hiller’s eyes on him now. That man could see through to someone’s soul.
Holland didn’t squirm. Not yet.
But damn it, he always hated it when Hiller was in his courtroom. Especially since the Tolben case. When Holland had screwed up—now Hiller watched every move he made and second-guessed every word Holland said. Judge or not, Hiller didn’t give a damn.
He cleared his throat and shuffled the papers on the bench, avoiding the bold header glaring up at him. His fingers itched to crumple it up and toss it in the wastebasket. Instead, he smoothed it out and lifted his eyes.
Hiller sat there, cool and like he was the man in charge instead of Holland. The man always looked like that. Hiller was going important places someday. It shocked the hell out of Holland that Hiller hadn’t been snapped up by the biggest, best firm out of Barrattville. Barratt, Barratt, & Barratt had a reputation for only wanting the best. For head-hunting. Holland had heard B-3 was looking for junior partners now, as well. Expanding.
Hiller had been headhunted as far back as first-year law school at FCU. But he’d wanted Value, Hiller had said.
Because Value was home.
Holland swallowed the bitterness creeping up his throat and looked past him, scanning the rows of people in the gallery. And there he was.
Ward.
Leaning against the back wall, arms folded, watching. His uniform made him fucking hard to miss.
“We’ll begin with opening statements now. Mr. Hiller, you may begin.”
Hiller stood. No hurry. He adjusted his tie, shot Holland a glance that made the judge’s gut twist, and stepped forward. Hiller was a man on the hunt.
“Your Honor, we’re here today to revisit established case law. Specifically, precedents that have stood in this state for over twenty years.” His voice was even, but there was something underneath it. A bite.
A fucking taunt, that was what it was.
Holland’s grip tightened on the gavel.
Hiller continued, “ Hobbart v. Kingston, 2008, set clear guidelines for contested land sales. Guidelines that were ignored in the Tolben ruling.”
Holland’s fingers curled tighter. He knew Hiller was right—and so did Hiller. “Stick to the current case, Counselor.”
Hiller just watched him for a long moment.
Judging the judge.
“Of course…Your Honor.” Hiller turned his attention to the courtroom, but Holland felt the words were still aimed at him. “Today’s case raises similar concerns. Established law should not be ignored to benefit outside interests. That’s not how justice works.”
Holland could hear the unspoken accusation. But it’s how you work, isn’t it, Judge?
He cleared his throat. “Proceed.”
Hiller sat down, not bothering to look at Holland again, which somehow felt worse than when he had been staring.
Holland looked down at his papers. “Mr. Atkins?”
The opposing counsel, Ward’s guy, stood, all stoop-shouldered and sloppy looking, and gave some polished nonsense about property values and economic development. Holland let the words wash over him, barely listening. He already knew how this was going to end. It didn’t matter what Hiller argued, not today. Not with Ward watching. Hiller had lost before he’d even arrived. Holland just had to find the words to make it sound convincing.
Holland shifted in his seat, sneaking a glance toward the back. Ward caught his eye and gave the smallest shake of his head. Don't even think about it.
Holland wiped his palm on his robe and nodded slightly. “Let’s move on.”
The case dragged on. Hiller pushed every chance he had, laying precedent after precedent at Holland’s feet.
Hiller wouldn’t give up.
And he was setting up for an appeal. Doing a damned fine job of it, too. Holland could see Ward getting more and more pissed as the case dragged on. As Hiller just continued.
And damn it, Hiller was the brightest attorney to have stepped foot in Holland’s courtroom. Holland didn’t know how long he could keep this going, keep playing cat and mouse with George Hiller. The man just saw too much.
Holland’s head pounded. He could feel the sweat building under his collar, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just wanted it over. Finally, Holland brought down the gavel.
His voice cracked as he found against Hiller, and he hated how it sounded in the near-empty courtroom. Hiller hadn’t lost. Not really. And Holland was jeopardizing his own damned career right now. He was tightening the noose on himself. Just because of Ward.
Damn it, he hated Ward and he hated Hiller. Most of all, Holland hated himself for getting messed up with Wyatt Ward in the first place. The money just wasn’t worth it any longer.
Hiller didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, staring at the papers in front of him, like he was trying to decide whether or not to say what Holland knew was sitting on the tip of his tongue. Then, too slow for Holland’s liking, he stood and walked toward the bench.
Holland stiffened.
Hiller set an envelope down. “Motion for reconsideration, Your Honor.”
Holland stared at it like it might catch fire. Hiller had already had it prepared. Because he’d known exactly what Holland would do today. They were in a chess game now. And Hiller was winning. Hiller didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked out, his steps slow and deliberate.
Holland snatched the envelope off the desk, stuffing it under the stack of papers. He barely heard the shuffle of people leaving the courtroom.
Hiller had known—Hiller had known what he was going to say, even before he said it. Because he saw right through Holland and always had.
Back in his chambers, Holland dropped into his chair and yanked open the bottom drawer, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot into a coffee mug, his hands shaking just enough to slosh a little onto the desk.
The door creaked open. Ward didn’t knock. He never did. He didn’t think he had to now. They knew who really ran things around here now.
“You’re losing your touch, Judge.” Ward walked to the desk, helping himself to the whiskey bottle, pouring a bit into another mug. “Hiller’s got you nervous.”
Holland scowled. “He has nothing.”
“Sure about that? Seemed like he had something today. You going to do something about it?”
Holland wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll handle it.”
Ward leaned in, resting his hands on the desk, too close, too comfortable. “Do it fast.”
Holland sat there long after Ward left, staring at the empty mug in his hand. He’d handle it.
He had to.
Holland just didn’t know how.