His Verdict (Ruin & Gold #2)

Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights in the women's restroom of the Cook County Public Defender's Office cast everything in a sickly yellow glow that makes my already pale complexion look corpse-like.

I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, straightening my bargain-bin blazer for the third time, murmuring my mantra to myself.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," I whisper to the woman looking back at me—brown eyes wide with nervous energy, dark hair pulled into what I hope is a professional bun. "The law isn't about punishment. It's about justice."

God, I sound like a fucking greeting card.

But I mean every word. This is it. This is why I've spent three years eating ramen noodles and living in a small apartment that smells permanently of the Chinese restaurant downstairs. Why I've turned down Marcus's proposal—well, one of the reasons anyway.

Saint Marcus with his safe job at his daddy's firm and his plans for our safe little life in suburbia with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever.

You're too intense about work, Liv, he's said when I've tried to explain why I can't just take the easy corporate job his father has offered me. You can't save everyone.

Watch me try.

I touch up the red lipstick I've bought specifically for today. If I'm going to save the downtrodden masses, I'm damn well going to do it with perfect makeup.

The restroom door slams open behind me, making me jump and nearly stab myself in the eye with the lipstick.

"Jesus Christ, you look like you're about to throw up," says my new colleague and apparently the office's resident ray of sunshine.

She's maybe thirty-five, with ink-black hair already showing premature gray streaks and the kind of tired eyes that suggest she's seen some shit.

Her suit is rumpled, her coffee cup is stained, and she carries herself like someone who's stopped giving a fuck about appearances around the same time she's stopped believing in fairy tales.

"That bad?" I cap the lipstick and shove it into my purse, trying to look more confident than I feel.

"Honey, I've seen defendants look more relaxed walking into maximum security.

Sarah Lewis." Sarah moves to the sink beside me, splashing cold water on her bare face after her brief introduction.

"Let me guess—you're the new idealist. Fresh out of law school, ready to change the world one case at a time? "

"Something like that. I’m Olivia Sutton." I lift my chin, refusing to be embarrassed by my optimism. Someone has to believe in the system, right? "What's wrong with wanting to make a difference?"

Sarah laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Oh, sweet summer child. You want to know what's wrong with it?

Come back and ask me that question in six months when you're defending your fifteenth meth head who's been in and out of the system since he was twelve, or your twentieth domestic violence case where the victim refuses to testify because she's more afraid of being homeless than she is of her boyfriend's fists. "

"That's exactly why they need good lawyers," I shoot back, my temper flaring. It's the same argument I've had with Marcus, with my parents, with everyone who thinks I'm naive for choosing this path. "Someone has to fight for the people who can't fight for themselves."

"Right." Sarah dries her hands on a paper towel. "And what makes you think you're that someone? What makes you special?"

The question hits harder than I expect, settling somewhere in my chest like a lead weight.

Because that's the thing, isn't it? I'm not special.

I'm not some legal prodigy who's graduated top of my class—that was Rebecca White, who's probably billing eight hundred dollars an hour at some white-shoe firm downtown.

I'm not connected or wealthy or particularly brilliant.

I'm just stubborn as hell and convinced that everyone deserves a second chance, even when they've already blown their first, second, and third chances.

"I don't have to be special," I say finally. "I just have to give a damn."

Sarah studies me for a long moment, and I think I see something that might be approval flicker across her features. Or maybe it's just pity.

"We'll see," she says. "Come on, newbie. Time to throw you to the wolves."

The main office is a symphony of chaos—phones ringing, lawyers arguing, clients pleading, and somewhere in the background, the steady thunk-thunk-thunk of what sounds like someone taking their frustrations out on a very unfortunate filing cabinet.

The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee, desperation (i.e.

sweat), and what I'm pretty sure is someone's leftover fish sandwich from three days ago.

My desk is a battered metal monstrosity that probably served in World War II, complete with a computer that makes sounds like a dying whale when I try to boot it up. The stack of folders waiting for me is roughly the height of a small child.

"Congratulations," Sarah says, perching on the edge of my desk. "You've just inherited the caseload of Larry Brennan, who quit last week to become a real estate agent in Florida. Lucky you."

I flip open the first folder. State vs. Rodriguez—possession with intent to distribute. The second: State vs. Johnson—assault in the third degree. The third: State vs. Washington—burglary, breaking and entering.

"How many?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Forty-seven active cases. Give or take.

" Sarah's voice is matter-of-fact, like she's discussing the weather rather than what feels like my imminent mental breakdown.

"Most of them are pretty straightforward plea negotiations.

Drug possession, petty theft, drunk and disorderly. Nothing you can't handle."

Nothing I can't handle. Right. I've never even handled a parking ticket dispute, but sure. Forty-seven active criminal cases? Piece of cake.

"The secret," Sarah continues, "is not to get attached. Do your job, make sure their rights aren't violated, negotiate the best deal you can, and move on. You try to save every lost soul who walks through that door, and you'll burn out faster."

"What if they're innocent?"

Sarah's laugh is sharp enough to cut glass.

"Innocent? Honey, ninety percent of our clients are guilty as sin.

The other ten percent just haven't been caught at their real crime yet.

Your job isn't to determine innocence or guilt—that's what juries are for.

Your job is to make sure the state proves its case beyond a reasonable doubt and doesn't railroad anyone in the process. "

Before I can respond, a man who seems to be our office manager appears at my desk holding a fresh folder like it's contaminated with radioactive material.

"Sutton? Jim Young. You just got assigned a new case. Guy's being arraigned tomorrow." He drops the folder on my desk with a thud. "Have fun."

I open it, scanning the arrest report. State vs. Wolfe, Jasper. Twenty-eight years old. Charged with theft of technology equipment and intellectual property. No priors. Bail set at fifty thousand dollars.

The mugshot is... unexpected.

Most of the defendants I've seen so far look exactly like what central casting would order for "petty criminal"—hollow cheeks, dead eyes, the general appearance of someone who's been chewed up and spit out by life.

This guy looks like he's stepped out of a magazine.

Sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes that seem to be looking directly at me even through the photograph, dark hair.

Even in the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the booking photo, he's stupidly handsome.

"Tech theft," I murmur, reading through the charges. "That's... different."

"White-collar crime," Sarah says, peering over my shoulder. "Those are usually pretty cut-and-dried. Either they did it or they didn't, and the evidence is usually digital. Hard to argue with computer records."

"I should go see him," I say, closing the folder. "Get a sense of what we're dealing with before the arraignment."

"Good luck," Sarah calls as I head for the door. "Try not to fall for the pretty face. Trust me, the handsome ones are always the most dangerous."

Everyone deserves a second chance, I remind myself as I walk toward the holding cells, clutching the folder like a shield.