Discretion （n.） – Liam
DISCRETION (N.):
THE POWER OF A JUDGE, PUBLIC OFFICIAL OR A PRIVATE PARTY TO MAKE DECISIONS ON VARIOUS MATTERS BASED ON HIS/HER OPINION WITHIN GENERAL LEGAL GUIDELINES.
LIAM
Iwaited until Miss Spencer disappeared before deciding that dinner could wait until later.
Returning inside the courthouse, I headed to my chambers and shut the door.
I opened my laptop and pulled up her driving record, wondering if maybe—just maybe—I’d ruled with clouded judgment.
At first, only a few infractions appeared. They were just the previous warrants I’d sent and this year’s violations.
Then another row of ten.
Then another.
Then another.
What the hell…
By the time the full page finished populating, there were eighty-six documented citations, and half of them were for the simplest things.
Failure to use a turn signal, failure to come to a complete stop at a stop sign, failure to slow at a yellow light.
There were five citations for jaywalking, four for a broken taillight, and three for illegal U-turns.
It’s like she’s allergic to every single traffic law.
By the time I read through her fiftieth “warning,” I realized that if anything, I was far too lenient today. And I should’ve suspended her license for life.
“Judge Ashton?” Mara knocked on my door. “Are you in there?”
“I am,” I said. “Come in.”
She opened the door and leaned against the frame.
“I could’ve sworn I saw you leave to get us some food.”
“Us?”
“Yes, us.”
“Only one of us is an assistant, Mara…”
She rolled her eyes, confirming that she was the only person on this staff whom I would ever let get away with that. She’d been with me long before I became a judge and she could practically get away with anything.
Except murder.
“Whatever came up must be important,” she said. “So can I have a few minutes of your time?”
“You can have exactly three.”
“Thank you.” She shut the door and handed me a sheet of paper. “Mister New York wants you for its annual ‘Men of Manhattan’ feature—cover shoot and all.”
“I’m not interested,” I said. “For the sixteenth time.”
“They know that, but they’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer this time,” she said. “They’re going to run a third-person version of your story, and they’re willing to use your official swearing-in photo if you don’t agree to an interview.”
“Tell them there are plenty of other judges and lawyers they can use,” I said. “Give them my list. Start with—”
“Damien Carter?” She interrupted.
“Yes.” I smiled. “I’m sure he’ll love the attention.”
“He did,” she said. “They profiled him last year, and then he had the audacity to send them an invoice for the time he lost during the three-hour cover shoot.”
Of course… “What about Jameson Tate?”
“The lawyer who makes a living defending the worst of the worst?”
“The alleged worst of the worst,” I said. “I’m sure he has some interesting things to say.”
“I doubt his clients would appreciate him talking to the press—ever.”
“Fine,” I said. “How about—”
“If you say Andrew Hamilton or anyone else who you’ve already recommended long ago, I’m going to lose it, sir.”
“It’s not personal, Mara.” I shut my laptop. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for a judge to ever talk about his personal life.”
“I’ve already written most of the answers that I think you would approve of—” She slid a sheet across my desk. “The only one I left blank was regarding your feelings about all the backlash you got years ago for the Grant Jenkins sentencing.”
“I don’t have any feelings about that,” I said. “Grant Jenkins deserves to spend the next twenty years under the jail. I was more than generous by letting him spend that time in a very nice prison—with air conditioning.”
“He was only twenty-five years old at the time, sir.”
“He killed five people.”
“Via car accident.”
“Drunk-driving is not an accident.”
“I know, but—”
“There is no ‘but,’ Mara,” I said. “He deserved triple the years of what I gave him, and anyone who feels sympathy for him should think about his five victims instead.”
Silence.
“I’ll tell them that you won’t address that topic at all,” she said finally. “And I’ll tell them you’re considering an in-person interview?”
“No.” I skimmed her sheet and slid it back. “They can have your written version. Check the grammar on questions three, eight, and nine, though.”
“Very well.” She folded it. “Anything else you need before this evening’s final arraignments?”
“Yes.” I opened my drawer and took out an envelope. “Can you tell the administrators to hurry up and get me three new clerks?”
“They’re on it,” she said. “They’ll be here soon.”
“How soon?” I asked. “Judge Watson and Judge Harold requested clerks after me and they already have them.”
“They’re not as picky about the qualifications as you are.” She opened the door, then she looked over her shoulder. “And two quit within seconds of realizing they’d be working under you.”
“That’s their loss, correct?”
She didn’t answer.
She slipped out and shut the door.
Seconds later, my phone vibrated with a message from her.
Mara
Dinner from Nolan’s? Steak. Bloody Mary (hold the alcohol). Sautéed veggies. Cheesecake for dessert.
Yes.
Am I that hard to work for? Tell me the truth.
I’ll have an intern deliver your food straight to chambers in twenty-five minutes.
I asked you a question, Mara.
She didn’t text me an answer.
Rolling my eyes, I logged into my thread of haters on Reddit, but today’s comments were just complaints and whines.
Nothing that entertained me.
Against my better judgment, I logged into my burner account on Instagram. Then I typed in “Olivia Spencer.”
A page full of profiles appeared, but the tiny picture of the woman I was looking for was hard to miss.
I clicked on it and her page opened.
There were rows of photos of her walking around New York, hanging out at a children’s library, and—
What the hell am I doing?
I blocked her page and logged out, vowing to never visit it again.