De Novo （adj.） – Liam
DE NOVO (ADJ.):
LATIN FOR "ANEW," WHICH MEANS STARTING OVER.
LIAM
Two Weeks Later
Imiss you.
Come back to me.
We should pick up right where we left off…
Please, just come back to me…
My fingers hovered over the send button, but I couldn’t bring myself to settle on which message would be best.
I’d gone through this same routine of torture every night—all while sending Olivia her favorite coffee, flowers, and bookstore gift cards—hoping that she would say something to me.
What am I doing wrong?
Sighing, I zipped up my robe and slipped into court for a special early-morning arraignment. I figured I’d try my best to focus, but it was no use.
I was still struggling to get a decent night’s sleep without Olivia, and our simple text exchange was not enough for me.
I needed her back in my life, and if I had to confess to everything, I’d do it and hope she’d understand instead of running away.
“Case 789675,” Mara read. “The State of New York versus Lucas Hunter.”
I looked over to see Julia glaring at the defense and realized why.
I shook my head at the sight of Jameson Tate and braced myself for his usual performance in bullshit.
I’m not letting this go longer than five minutes…
“Multiple cases of racketeering, interstate theft, and…” I stopped reading. “Let’s cut straight to the chase, Mr. Tate. Why should I grant your client bail?”
“Your Honor, my client is a loving father who has deep ties to this community.”
“Yeah, mob ties.” Julia coughed.
“Let Mr. Tate finish.” I lightly tapped my gavel. “This isn’t a trial.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Mr. Tate smiled. “Like I was saying, my client keeps a rooftop garden full of a special collection of rose bushes that he would never risk leaving. They depend on his touch and care to survive.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“Also—” He cleared his throat. “He hasn’t traveled anywhere for the past thirteen months, which clearly shows he’s not a flight risk to the great state of New York or this amazing country.”
Here he goes…
“He’s determined to fight these charges, restore his name, and make sure that justice is served at the highest level.”
“Save your Oscar-worthy performance for your trial, Mr. Tate.” I held back a groan. “Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars and the defendant will surrender his passport to the court.”
“Sold.” He smiled at me. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“You’re welcome.” I banged my gavel. “Court is in recess until this evening.”
I slipped into my chambers and found Damien Carter sitting behind the desk, in my chair.
“Get the hell up,” I said. “Now.”
“I was just keeping it warm for you, Your Honor.” He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m going to get the cushion cleaned tomorrow.”
He laughed and handed me a copy of The New York Times.
“Let me guess,” I said. “I’m a filthy judge now instead of a dirty one?”
“Filthy is my word.” He smiled. “I think you’re clean now, though.”
My eyes widened as I took in the top three headlines.
The largest one, paired with a photo of Grant Jenkins in handcuffs, was the longest.
“Jenkins Agrees to Plea Deal Ahead of Trial—Will Serve Original Sentence Given Under Judge Ashton”
The other two deserved to be just as large, but they were on opposite sides of the paper.
Trevor Jenkins Arrested on Charges of Bribing Federal Officials
Trevor Jenkins Linked to Multiple DUI Accidents in Past Five Years
The bylines all read the same.
By Sylvia Castwell
With extensive reporting from Olivia S.
I settled into my chair, reading stories I never expected to see in print—stories I never even considered because I was so caught up in rereading my own.
My chest ached as I realized that the reason Trevor’s lawyers never looked into me was because he’d done this to plenty of other people without consequence.
When I reached the last line, I stared at it for a while, knowing that it was penned by Olivia.
“So it seems that perhaps Judge Ashton had a reason to rule in the way he did; that perhaps he saw through the senior Mr. Jenkins’ lies and was trying to ensure that the wealthy and the poor all get treated to the same blend of justice.”
“So, are you going to call her with a thank you?” Damien asked as I set down the paper.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Is that what you would do?”
“I’d probably text first, call later.”
“Well, in that case, no.” I grabbed my jacket. “I’m not going to do that at all…”