Chapter 18
Eighteen
N oah was immersed in work, reviewing a stack of reports that came in over the new year’s break. The rhythmic tapping of his pen against the desk was the only sound in the room, his focus razor-sharp despite the lingering thoughts of Ruth that flitted at the edges of his mind. He couldn’t help but replay the events of the previous night—the ER visit, the champagne toast, the way she’d looked at him with such vulnerability and trust.
The door opened, and Alex sauntered in, his easy smile in place as he perched on the edge of Noah’s desk. “Hey,” he said casually, folding his arms. “Happy New Year.”
Noah glanced up. “To you as well.”
Alex’s grin widened. “Just wanted to say thanks for taking care of Ruth. Tristan filled us in. He said the doctor was impressed they could set her wrist on the first try without needing surgery. Sounds like she got lucky.”
Noah nodded, setting his pen down. “I’m glad I was there. She was in a lot of pain, but we had it managed pretty well by the time I left. In fact, she insisted on going into work today.”
Alex’s brow arched, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes. “By the time you left, huh? You seem awfully relaxed today. Too relaxed, I’d say.”
Noah’s gaze flicked up sharply, his jaw tightening. “Alex,” he warned, his tone low and controlled. “Don’t.”
But Alex leaned back slightly, his smirk growing. “I was right, wasn’t I? I knew there was something between you two. Don’t even try to deny it.”
“Sheesh, Alex.” Noah shook his head, his tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re worse than a gossip columnist.”
“Someone’s gotta look out for Ruthie,” Alex said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Better me than her mom and sisters. You know she’s not like most people. She’s had a quiet life—doesn’t have much experience when it comes to relationships. You’re… let’s just say you’re not exactly quiet, Noah.”
Noah met Alex’s gaze, his expression steady. “I know that. Believe me, I’m more aware of it than anyone. But I’d never hurt her,” he growled. “And please don’t call her Ruthie. That SOB Matt Brandt calls her that.”
Alex studied him for a moment, his usual teasing replaced by genuine concern. “I believe you mean that,” he said finally. “But if you screw this up, if you break her heart, I swear I’ll fillet you. Got it?”
Noah leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. But you don’t need to worry, Alex. Ruth’s important to me. More than you know.”
Alex nodded slowly. “Good. She deserves someone who’ll put her first, someone who sees how amazing she is.”
“She is amazing,” Noah said, his voice softening. “And I will if she’ll let me.”
For a moment, the two men sat in silence. Finally, Alex straightened, his grin returning as he pushed off the desk. “All right. Tell me, what came in? Just remember—I’m watching you.” He pointed from his eyes to Noah’s.
Noah rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smirk tugging at his lips. “Noted. The boss must have been in early. Take a look at this.” He handed him a file.
Alex chuckled as he walked to his desk. “You look good together, by the way. Just… don’t screw it up.” Before he could sit, his phone rang. “You’re kidding me. It’s not even 0900,” he growled. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” He turned to Noah, whose gaze fixed on him. “The newbie in interstate commerce violations screwed up his presentation of evidence to the grand jury. Tommy has summoned me to fix it. The grand jury reconvenes at ten. I should have taken the day off.”
Noah laughed. “Better you than me.” He watched him go, the teasing lilt in Alex’s voice doing little to mask the genuine care behind his words for Ruth. When the door clicked shut, Noah leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.
Alex was right—Ruth deserved someone who would cherish her, someone who wouldn’t take her for granted. And Noah was determined to be that person. As he picked up his pen and returned to his work, one thought settled firmly in his mind: he wouldn’t let her down. Not now, not ever.
The door began to open. Noah looked up and, in a humorous tone, called out to Alex, “What did you forget?”
But it wasn’t Alex. Two men in dark suits entered, their faces stern. One of them flashed credentials and a badge—FBI.
“Noah Kandor?” the larger man asked sharply.
Noah frowned, immediately feeling a spike of alarm. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s this about?”
“Please stand, Mr. Kandor. You’re under arrest for leaking a classified location related to the murder of a protected witness. Violation of 18 US Code 1512.” The agent pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
Witness tampering? Noah blinked, utterly confused. "What? There’s got to be a mistake. I haven’t leaked anything.”
The two agents weren’t interested in conversation. One grabbed Noah’s wrist and roughly pulled it behind his back. The second removed Noah’s gun from his shoulder holster. Cold metal snapped around his wrists, and the realization hit him like a freight train. This was no mistake. He was under arrest. Someone had set him up.
“Whoa, stop. This is insane! I didn’t do anything!” he shouted, but his voice echoed down the empty hallway, falling on deaf ears. The accusations swirled in his head—classified location, witness death. His thoughts were a blur of confusion and disbelief. They couldn’t possibly believe he’d betray the State’s Attorney’s Office. Could they?
The first agent shot him a hard look. "You can explain it to your lawyer."
The hallway was too quiet as they led him past rows of offices, his mind spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, but one thought rose above the mess: who could have done this?
He had a gut feeling: someone wanted the Maxim Fairchild investigation shut down. Noah hadn’t even had time to think about hiring a lawyer. Luke Andrews’ words—"I can trust you,” echoed in his mind. The only people he trusted who held a law degree were Ruth and Alex. His trust for anyone else in the office was shattered the moment those handcuffs locked into place.
* * *
Ruth Everhart’s four-inch heels clicked sharply against the marble floors of the courthouse as she walked with purpose toward the courtroom. Her briefcase barely registered in her good hand. The real weight, the one that always pressed on her chest, was the case she was about to close. She could already feel the eyes of the gallery on her, the anticipation of the jury, and the quiet malice of the prosecutor seated at the opposing table. It was another chance to prove her skill.
As she entered the courtroom, the tension grew. Ruth was known for dismantling the opposition with surgical precision, and everyone knew it. She wore her black suit like armor, her confidence radiating as she approached the defense table. Her client, a terrified young man named Eamon Wright, sat hunched over, pale and sweating. He was facing serious drug trafficking charges—charges she knew were built on flimsy evidence and a desperate prosecution.
She offered him a quick nod of reassurance as she took her place. “Stay calm, Eamon. They don’t have enough to convict,” she whispered, her tone firm yet reassuring.
Ruth sat and listened, expressionless, her mind already anticipating the prosecutor’s missteps. The prosecutor had overplayed his hand, and she knew it. The petite redhead with wide hazel eyes, wearing lipstick that matched her hair, and a casted arm cradled in a sling, stared at the judge.
“Ms. Everhart, I’m sorry to see your injury. Are you able to proceed?”
She smiled. “Thank you for asking, Your Honor. A little misstep on the ice. But I’m able to go on.”
The judge nodded. “Good to hear.” He called the court to order, and the prosecutor rose for his closing argument.
He painted a picture of Eamon as a career criminal, tied to a drug ring that spanned several states. In truth, he was a stupid kid who bought two pills he thought were Percocet. In reality, he was lucky the police moved in before he took them. They were laced with fentanyl. If he swallowed the pills, he’d have likely died. He was connected to nothing.
Her turn. She commanded the room’s attention as she approached the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice steady but firm, “you’ve heard the prosecution’s narrative. A story built on circumstantial evidence, conjecture, and fear. But where is the proof? Where are the facts that tie my client, Eamon Wright, to these alleged crimes? He’s a dumb kid who got caught buying a couple of pills to get some sleep after downing a gallon of coffee in his study group. At most, he was in possession of drugs without a prescription. The DA turned that plea down.”
She paced slowly, making eye contact with each juror. “The law demands proof beyond a reasonable doubt, and today, the prosecution has given you none. You’ve seen their star witness crumble under cross-examination. You’ve seen that the evidence against Eamon is thin to none. The truth is, this case should never have gone to trial.”
Ruth allowed her words to settle over the jury, then delivered her final blow. “Trust how smart you are. You know the evidence presented proves nothing. The only choice you have is to set him free.”
She returned to her seat, the silence in the courtroom deafening. The judge gave his final instructions, and the jury was dismissed to deliberate. Ruth remained calm, her pulse steady. She knew the jury would return with the right verdict quickly.
As she sat with her client, waiting in an anteroom for the jury to return, her phone buzzed quietly in her bag. If it was important, they would leave a message. She let it go to voicemail, knowing better than to break her focus. Courtroom victories required total concentration, and this case was no exception.
Four hours later, surprised deliberations had gone so long, she was preparing Eamon for the possibility that the jury would be sent home for the night. Then the jury returned their verdict: “Not guilty.”
The words sent a ripple through the room. Eamon slumped in his seat, tears welling in his eyes. Ruth nodded toward him but didn’t celebrate—she never did. Winning was expected at Ellison & Grant, and the relief of victory faded quickly for her.
As Eamon was wrapped in the embrace of his parents and girlfriend, she packed up her briefcase, her mind already moving on to her next case. But as she left the courtroom, the buzzing in her bag started again. Something felt off, and a knot of unease twisted in her stomach. She glanced at her phone.
Several missed calls from an unfamiliar number were followed by a text message from Alex Marcel.
Ruth, it's urgent. Call me ASAP.