Motion to Claim

Chapter One

Ava

I hate his face.

Well, that isn’t exactly true. It’s a devastatingly handsome face that I quite enjoy looking at, so long as he doesn’t realize I’m looking.

Right now, he’s smirking at me as we’re called to the judge’s bench, so I have to refrain from stomping on his foot with my stiletto.

I’ll mentally wax poetic about the square line of his jaw and the dark, neatly trimmed beard some other time.

I’m pissed at myself for walking into his trap, letting him swipe at me just enough to get me to rise to the bait and snap at him, knowing that Judge Reynolds has no tolerance for our bullshit.

I’m normally better than this, but I’m running on little sleep and nothing but an energy drink.

Oh, and a banana that my assistant Shelby shoved in my hand as I made a mad dash from my office to the courthouse.

This case is a doozy. My client, Joseph Simmons, is completely guilty.

Everyone in the courtroom knows it. I only hope to prove that the police fumbled the chain of evidence, but it’s not clear yet if that’ll be enough for a win.

If I’d been going up against one of the assistant prosecutors, that would have been a different story, but Mark Taylor now oversees any of my cases that land on the docket in his borough.

He knows nobody else stands a chance against me if the prosecution’s case is shaky.

After I made partner, I started to get higher-profile cases in Manhattan. So now, it feels like the majority of every day is spent going toe-to-toe with Manhattan’s youngest district attorney.

“You’ve both been warned about your attitudes in my courtroom,” Judge Reynolds leans forward to hiss at us.

He’s an older beta, with graying hair receding to balding, showing off a few age spots along his scalp.

His eyes are fixed in a seemingly permanent angry squint, but today they seem extra narrowed.

I wince.

Shit. He’s really mad this time.

“I don’t care if we are filming for the mayor’s illustrious NYTV or not.

I don’t have the patience for your behavior today.

He turns to look directly at Mark. “Wipe that grin off your face, counselor; I saw you set her up for that. Behave, both of you, or I’m calling a mistrial and throwing you in a cell to cool off. ”

“Yes, Your Honor, sorry,” we both say in unison. I shoot Mark a glare, but quite enjoy the flush around the collar of his shirt. He’s embarrassed for getting called out.

Good.

Shithead.

I walk back to my table, offering a sunshiney smile to my client, a hulk of an alpha that I’ve had to bend over backwards to make look less scary to the jury.

I might lose his case, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Panicked clients are a pain in my ass. They whine and start questioning everything I do, not understanding that criminal law is a lot like chess.

It isn’t only strategy but also anticipating the moves of your opponent.

Additionally, this particular client is almost certainly part of the Italian Mafia, and I do try my best not to piss them off.

The problem is that Mark is genuinely a damn good lawyer. We run right at about 50/50 on wins when we go head to head. There’s a betting pool at both my office and the police station over who will win at the end of the year, the viper or the tiger.

The police, unsurprisingly, are not fans of mine, hence the viper nickname. I’ve yet to uncover how Mark got the tiger moniker.

Clearing my throat, I straighten my suit jacket and turn back to the witness I’d been questioning.

“I apologize for that interruption. Detective Stephens, could you please answer the question regarding the gap between when you logged the evidence into the system at 10:32 p.m. and when it was officially signed over to the crime lab at 7:15 a.m. the next morning?”

“I don’t remember your original question,” the detective says coolly, his face carefully neutral even as his eyes flash with loathing.

Liar.

I smile sweetly at him. “Understandable. I’m sure it’s hard to remember minor details when you work as many cases as you do.”

I hear Mark cough, and I bet he’s choking to death on the objection stuck in his throat. But he won’t risk pissing off the judge further, and he can’t technically object to me being a bitch.

“My question was, do you have any explanation for this gap?”

I already know the answer. I’ve gone through all the records with a fine-tooth comb during discovery.

“No,” Detective Stephens says, “but I assume—”

I raise my hand to cut him off. “You aren’t here to testify about assumptions. With no documentation of the evidence’s exact location or who might have had access overnight, can you, without any doubt, swear under oath that its integrity was preserved the entire time?”

“Objection—argumentative. She’s badgering the witness,” Mark says loudly.

I give the judge an innocent look and wait for his reaction. I totally was, so it’s a fair objection.

Judge Reynolds looks at us both with annoyance and then over at the witness. He chews on his answer for a moment. “Overruled. It’s a fair question, if worded more argumentatively than necessary.”

I manage to refrain from grinning in triumph. But just barely.

Our first recess starts at noon, and I tell my client to enjoy his lunch. I gather up my things. If I hurry, I might beat the rush to the hand-pulled noodle place a couple of blocks away for some of my favorite potstickers.

“Glad to see you can rein it in when the judge is on your ass,” Mark says, leaning against my table as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I frown and “accidentally” move my briefcase so the corner catches his hip, stifling a laugh at his wince.

“You’re the one who got us yelled at in the first place, but sure, you can blame me if it makes you feel better about being chastised.

Male egos and all that,” I say, rubbing my temple with my middle finger.

“What’s the matter, Ms. Kendrick? Not feeling up to your normal antics today? Does the viper need a nap?”

I glare at him. “If anything, it’s dealing with your childish nonsense and inept police force that’s giving me a damn headache. Honestly, it’s no fun when you just keep handing them to me. Now get out of my way so I can go get some lunch.”

“Yes, I’d hate to see you hangry,” he says with a laugh before walking out ahead of me, whistling as he goes.

I try—and fail—to not watch the way the muscles in his ass and thighs bunch underneath the fabric of his tight slacks as he walks away. Alone in the courtroom, I allow myself the small indulgence of a frustrated whine. God, that man infuriates me.

I find my spot at the little noodle shop, tucked at a corner table with a plate of steaming dumplings and my case file spread out in front of me. The server doesn’t even blink anymore, she’s seen me do this too often.

I pop the dumpling in my mouth with my chopsticks, keeping a mental tally as I chew.

Six dumplings on the plate; I’ll allow myself four.

Around four hundred calories, give or take, plus the noodles I’ll pick at later.

Add that to the banana and the energy drink this morning, and I can still comfortably have dinner with something green to round out my macros while staying under the number I allow for myself.

It’s better now than it used to be. At least I eat within a mostly healthy range and try to focus on getting plenty of proteins and veggies, even if the caloric amount is lower than my brother Jack would like.

I’ve struggled with an eating disorder since I was a teenager, and watching me go through all of it—the dieticians, the personal chefs, the hellscape that is inpatient therapy food—inspired to become a registered dietician.

Jack is a big, dumb golden retriever about ninety-nine percent of the time, but not when it comes to food.

That, he takes seriously, and he’s helped me more than anyone. I’d be lost without him.

So I mostly follow his plan, keep up on my therapy, and I’m at a healthy weight. Counting is a habit I haven’t been able to shake, try as I might. Like a little ghost that lingers, despite all the attempts to exorcise it.

Balancing a dumpling in one hand, I scan the evidence log in front of me again, trying to think of any other angles I can take. I know there isn’t one, but it never hurts to be sure.

The courtroom hums with low chatter as everyone filters back in after recess. Mark strolls in last, which gives me pause. He’s normally in before everyone else. His tie is looser, not enough to make him look unprofessional, but I notice it. What was he doing on his lunch break, and why do I care?

I force myself to turn back to the bench as the bailiff calls us to order and Judge Reynolds returns. “Ms. Kendrick, are we ready to resume?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I say smoothly.

The detective shifts in his seat as I return to cross-examination. Perfect. He already looks like he’d rather swallow glass than face me for another round, which is exactly how I like a witness for the prosecution.

“Detective Stephens,” I begin, “earlier you testified you collected the evidence yourself, logged it into the system, and delivered it to the lab. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, can you explain this decidedly elegant signature on the sign-in sheet? It doesn’t match your signature on the original report.” I push a button on my laptop and cast a picture comparing the two in split screen on the large monitor facing the jury.

Stephens freezes, and I watch the color drain from his face.

“Objection,” Mark snaps, already on his feet. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

I tilt my head. “The lab’s report and sign-in sheet are in evidence. Pages forty-three and ninety-two.”

The judge waves a hand, impatient. “Overruled. Answer the question.”

Stephens hesitates, fumbling for an answer, and I wait him out, calm as a cat watching a cornered mouse. “I, uh, my partner ran it down to evidence for me.”