Chapter 3
I open it before I can stop myself.
My checking account sits at four hundred thirteen dollars, and my first public defender paycheck is still a couple of weeks away. Rent cleared yesterday, thankfully. Power bill Monday. I do the math twice, like maybe the numbers will flinch and show mercy. They don’t.
My so-called savings account—my safety net—is down to forty-eight bucks. It’s not raining; it’s a damn monsoon.
I minimize the email, but the number burns behind my eyelids. Law school promised justice and purpose. It forgot to mention interest rates.
“Congratulations, Counselor,” I mutter under my breath. “You got that white collar job, but you can’t afford groceries.”
I shove my phone back in my bag as the officer opens the courtroom doors, informing those of us standing in the hallway that we can come inside now.
The courthouse at nine in the morning buzzes with the chaos of arraignment day.
Defendants in orange jumpsuits shuffle in chains while their families clutch tissues and whisper prayers.
Lawyers juggle multiple case files, and court reporters prepare for another day of transcribing humanity's worst decisions.
I take a seat in the front row of the gallery, my notes organized in what I hope looks like professional competence rather than barely contained anxiety. This is my first arraignment as lead counsel, and the butterflies in my stomach feel more like pterodactyls.
The bailiff calls case after case. Domestic violence. Drug possession. DUI. Each defendant shuffles forward, mumbles answers to the judge's questions, and shuffles back to await their fate. The whole process has a mechanical rhythm that's both comforting and deeply depressing.
"State versus Wolfe, Jasper," the bailiff announces.
My heart does something embarrassing in my chest as the side door opens and Jasper emerges, flanked by two deputies. Gone is the disheveled man I met in the holding cell yesterday. This version of Jasper Wolfe looks every inch the tech professional his file claims he is.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his jaw clean-shaven to reveal that sharp bone structure that has no business being that distracting in a courtroom.
The orange jumpsuit somehow manages to complement his skin tone, which is just unfair to every other defendant who's worn the same outfit.
But it's his eyes that make my breath catch—those piercing blue eyes that seem to find me in the gallery and hold my gaze for just a moment too long.
Professional, I remind myself sternly. Be professional.
I stand and make my way to the defense table, my heels clicking against the marble floor with what I hope sounds like confidence. Jasper is already seated when I reach him, his hands folded on the table in front of him like he's attending a business meeting rather than a criminal proceeding.
"Good morning," I murmur as I set my briefcase down and arrange my files.
"Ms. Sutton." His voice is low enough that only I can hear it, and the way he says my name makes something warm unfurl in my stomach. "You look lovely today."
I shoot him a sharp look. "This is a courtroom, Mr. Wolfe. Not a dinner party."
His smile is unrepentant. "Noted. Though I maintain that observing beauty is appropriate in any setting."
Before I can formulate a response that's both professional and cutting, the judge begins.
"Good morning, counsel," Judge Harrison says as he settles behind the bench.
He's in his sixties, with silver hair and the kind of stern expression that suggests he's seen every possible variation of human stupidity and isn't impressed by any of it.
"This is the matter of State versus Wolfe.
I see we have Mr. Wolfe present with counsel. Ms. Sutton, I presume?"
I stand, my voice steadier than I feel. "Yes, Your Honor. Olivia Sutton for the defense."
"And for the state?"
Assistant District Attorney Jessica Brown rises from the prosecution table.
She's in her forties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of sharp suit that screams competence.
I've watched her in court before—she's brilliant, ruthless, and has a conviction rate that makes other prosecutors weep with envy.
"Jessica Brown for the state, Your Honor."
Judge Harrison nods and consults his notes. "Mr. Wolfe, you're charged with theft of technology equipment and intellectual property in the first degree. The bail was previously set at fifty thousand dollars. Ms. Brown, does the state have any objection to the bail amount?"
Brown stands again, her voice crisp and authoritative.
"The state believes the current bail amount is appropriate, Your Honor.
While Mr. Wolfe has no criminal history, the nature of the charges suggests sophisticated criminal knowledge.
However, he does appear to have ties to the community and a stable address. "
Something about the way she phrases that makes my skin prickle with unease. I glance at Jasper, but his expression remains perfectly calm, almost bored.
"Ms. Sutton?" Judge Harrison turns to me. "Any objection to the bail amount?"
I rise, grateful that my voice comes out steady. "No objection to the amount, Your Honor. However, the defense would like to note that Mr. Wolfe has been fully cooperative with authorities and poses no flight risk."
"Duly noted." Judge Harrison makes a note on his file. "Mr. Wolfe, please stand."
Jasper rises beside me, and I'm suddenly aware of his height, the way he seems to command space even in restraints. He stands with his shoulders back and his chin up, meeting the judge's gaze directly.
"Mr. Wolfe, you're charged with theft of technology equipment and intellectual property in the first degree. This is a felony. Do you understand the charges against you?"
"Yes, Your Honor." Jasper's voice is clear and respectful, with just the right amount of deference.
"How do you plead?"
I feel rather than see Jasper turn slightly toward me. This is the moment—the formal declaration that will set everything in motion.
"Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Judge Harrison makes another note. "Very well. Plea of not guilty is entered. Now, regarding conditions of release." He looks up at both tables. "Ms. Brown, does the state have any special conditions to request?"
Brown consults her notes. "The state requests that Mr. Wolfe surrender his passport, report to pretrial services weekly, and refrain from accessing any computer systems belonging to Meridian Technologies or its subsidiaries."
"Ms. Sutton?"
I stand again. "The defense has no objection to surrendering the passport or weekly reporting, Your Honor.
However, we would like clarification on the computer access restriction.
Mr. Wolfe's livelihood depends on his ability to work with technology systems. We request that the restriction be limited to Meridian Technologies specifically, not all technology work. "
Judge Harrison considers this. "Ms. Brown?"
"That's acceptable to the state, Your Honor."
"Very well." Judge Harrison makes his final notes.
"Mr. Wolfe, you are released on fifty thousand dollars bail with the following conditions: you will surrender your passport to the court clerk before leaving today; you will report to pretrial services every Wednesday at ten AM; you will not access any computer systems belonging to Meridian Technologies or its subsidiaries; and you will not leave the state without prior court approval. Do you understand these conditions?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Excellent. Status conference is set for forty-five days from today." He consults his calendar. "October eighth at two PM. Both counsel will submit any pretrial motions no later than October first. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Brown and I say in unison.
"Court is adjourned."
The gavel cracks. The sound echoes in the sudden vacuum of noise, sharp and final. Court adjourned. Just like that.
A collective sigh ripples through the courtroom.
Papers shuffle, chairs scrape against worn linoleum, and the low murmur of conversation resumes.
For me, the sound is muted, distant. All I feel is the thrumming in my veins, the chemical high of a win—even a small, provisional one like bail—that feels like mainlining victory.
I turn to Jasper, a professional smile already forming on my lips, ready to explain the next steps, the logistics of posting bond.
But the words die in my throat.
He’s already looking at me. Not with the relief of a client just granted his freedom, but with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. His eyes are narrowed slightly, analytical. Assessing. As if the arraignment wasn’t the main event, but merely a prelude. As if I was the one on trial.
“Good work, Ms. Sutton,” he says, his voice a low timbre that cuts through the courtroom chatter. It’s too intimate for this public space.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back into the role of Public Defender Olivia Sutton, not… whatever this fluttering, unnerved creature is. “We’ll get the paperwork processed. You’ll be released from the courthouse holding cell once bail is posted.”
A bail bondsman I’d contacted earlier is supposed to meet me at the clerk’s desk.
Two deputies approach to escort him out. As they move to flank him, Jasper’s hand—still cuffed—brushes against the back of mine. It’s a fleeting, feather-light touch, skin on skin for no more than a second, but a jolt of pure electricity shoots up my arm. My breath catches.
He’s your client. The voice of my conscience is thin, reedy, easily ignored.
He doesn’t look back as they lead him away, his posture ramrod straight, a king being led from a temporary inconvenience, not a felon facing years in prison. I stand there for a moment, the ghost of his touch tingling on my skin, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.
“Nicely done, Sutton.”