The Contract

The room held a metal table, two chairs, and a camera in the corner with its unblinking red eye. She’d been sitting alone in it for four minutes when the door opened.

The client walked in wearing prison orange like it was a deliberate choice. He stopped just inside the threshold—not long, a second, maybe two—and looked at her. Whatever he saw pulled a short breath out of him, the front edge of a laugh he didn’t give. This. She could read it as clearly as the print on his face. They sent this.

Juliette kept her hands flat on the legal pad and didn’t rise to meet him.

Then he moved. The man didn’t go to the chair—he walked toward her side of the table, and through the glass she caught the guard shift half a step toward the door. But the man didn’t look at the guard. He looked at her, stopping at a distance that was closer than it needed to be and slightly farther than the guard would tolerate.

“They must be joking,” he said—to no one, as though she weren’t there to hear it. “You’re my new lawyer.” He tilted his head to meet her gaze. “How interesting. Such a cute, little lamb in a wolf’s lair.” The man leaned down, just slightly. “Aren’t you afraid I might eat you?”

“You can try,” she replied as confidently as she could. “I’ll make sure you choke on it, at least.” Something dropped through her stomach, cold and fast. But she held his eyes anyway.

The silence lasted at least a second longer than it should have. His hand was resting on the table between them, creating a sort of cage he seemed to think he’d trapped her in. Two of his fingers, the index and middle, tapped the metal once. As though she’d just answered a question he hadn’t bothered to ask.

Then he laughed—short, real, like she’d told a joke. When it passed, he looked at her differently. Not warmly. Just differently.

Juliette was watching him sit down across from her, his movements unhurried, like the chair had always been his. Nothing about him belonged to a man the government had spent four years trying to put away for life. The orange, the charges, the federal building around them—he carried it all like a temporary inconvenience he’d chosen to indulge. A game he’d agreed to play because, for now, it felt fun.

The day before.

In the fluorescent lights of the public defender’s office everyone looked slightly dead, which Juliette had come to consider on-brand. She smoothed the front of her navy blazer—the one she’d bought on sale last year, when she’d still believed this job was temporary—and stared at the case files sprawled across her desk.

Twenty-six years old, and already a hundred stories pressed down on her shoulders. Not exactly what she’d envisioned when she’d joined the public defender’s office—back when she’d told herself it was a stepping stone to a leadership role at a private firm, and the seven-figure salary that came with it.

“Carter!” The sharp voice of her boss, Federal Public Defender Richard Simmons, cut through the office noise. “My office. Now.”

Juliette glanced up to find heads ducking behind cubicle walls, colleagues suddenly fascinated with their computer screens, coffee mugs, anything but meeting her gaze. The office fell silent except for the hum of the overhead lights and a phone ringing somewhere, unanswered.

Her stomach tightened into a knot. Whatever waited in Simmons’ office wasn’t good news. But there was nothing she could do.

In a sharp rhythm her heels clicked against the worn linoleum, each step echoing in the sudden quiet. And as she got closer, through the glass partition she could see Simmons and two other men she didn’t recognize.

One wore an elegant suit that screamed federal prosecutor. The other stood like law enforcement or some kind of military man, his gaze moving once around the room before it found her.

She knocked twice before entering.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Simmons didn’t smile. In the three years she’d worked under him, she’d seen him smile exactly twice: once at the office Christmas party when he was three scotches in, and once when a judge had complimented his tie.

“Juliette, this is Federal Prosecutor Marcus Levine and Special Agent Thomas Grayson, FBI.”

Neither man offered a hand to shake. Levine was tall and lean, sharp-featured, with eyes that moved over her once and didn’t bother to come back. His suit probably cost more than her monthly mortgage.

While Levine had already looked away, Grayson kept his hands loose at his sides and his eyes on her—close-cropped hair, an attention that didn’t waver.

“Please, sit,” Simmons said, gesturing to the only empty chair in the room.

The leather chair creaked as she perched on its edge, and right away she straightened her back, years of ballet classes instilling in her a posture that now served as confidence.

Without preamble, Levine started the second she settled into the chair. “Do you know who Kai Corsini is, Ms. Carter?” His voice was smooth to the point of sounding fake, almost robotic.

“I’ve heard of him.” She kept her voice level. “A businessman. Alleged organized crime figure if I’m not wrong. I believe there’s been some news that he was suspected of running various illegal operations throughout the city.”

Grayson and Levine exchanged a look. Then Levine said, almost conversationally: “He’s requested a public defender.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“His personal assets and his primary business holdings were seized during the raid. Accounts frozen pending forfeiture proceedings. He filed an indigency declaration through the court yesterday and asked for court-appointed counsel.” A faint smile touched his features.

“Let’s just say we put a lot of effort into making sure Mr. Corsini can’t afford his own team of lawyers. Or anyone else.” Grayson took a brief pause to think.

He let the silence hold for a beat. “Anyway, we think the public defender’s office should send someone who won’t waste this opportunity.” His mouth twisted. “Alleged organized crime figure. That’s a generous word for what he is, Ms. Carter. There are people in the ground because of this man. Families that haven’t slept in years.”

She kept her eyes on his. They were measuring her, and not bothering to hide it. “So?” Juliette asked, though she already knew where this was going.

“This is a racketeering case that took us four years to build,” Levine said. “Wire fraud. Extortion. Three murders we can prove and at least six we can’t. And we’ve finally got him.”

She fought to keep her expression neutral, her fingers pressing against the cool metal of her watch band. It was taking too long and she started losing her patience. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why I’m here.” Juliette said the only thing that would gently nudge them to the point.

Simmons cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the tense quiet. “We’re assigning you to Corsini’s case. As his defense counsel.”

For a moment, she thought she’d misheard. The rushing of blood in her ears drowned out everything else.

“I—what? But I don’t handle cases at this level. I’ve never touched organized crime, never—”

“You passed the bar. You’re qualified,” Levine cut in.

Technically qualified—maybe. But they had to be joking if they thought she was that naïve. She kept that to herself.

“With all due respect, sir,” she turned to Simmons, the leather seat squeaking as she shifted, “there are more senior attorneys in the office who would be better suited to—”

“It’s you, Carter,” Simmons cut in, his tone making it clear the matter wasn’t up for discussion. “The assignment’s already been processed.”

Right. They wanted her specifically. Wasn’t it clear from the second she was told to come to Simmons’ office? Young, inexperienced, easy to steamroll in court.

They’re setting me up to lose.

She met Levine’s gaze directly. “The evidence must be weak if you’re so concerned about who defends him.”

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps respect—crossed Levine’s features before vanishing.

“The evidence is solid,” he replied, fingers tapping against the polished surface of Simmons’ desk. “But Corsini has resources. Connections. We need to ensure this prosecution proceeds... correctly.”

“By handicapping his defense,” she finished for him, the words bitter on her tongue.

Grayson’s mouth flattened. “By ensuring justice is served.”

She turned back to Simmons. “And you signed off on this? Walked me into it without warning?”

Simmons wouldn’t meet her eyes, his gaze fixed on a spot just past her shoulder. “Our office is facing budget cuts, Carter. We’re drowning in cases. The FBI has offered additional resources, support—”

“In exchange for a guaranteed conviction,” she said.

The silence that followed was all the confirmation she needed, broken only by the muffled sounds of the office beyond the closed door.

“I can’t take this case,” she stated, as firmly as she could.

These words made Simmons finally look at her, his expression a mix of resignation and warning. “Then you’ll need to clean out your desk today. And I’d start looking for another career path, because no firm in this city will touch you after walking away from a federal case.”

The threat sat there, as tangible as the dust motes floating in the shaft of afternoon sunlight from the half-closed blinds. The years of sixty-hour weeks, of ramen dinners and student loan payments, of postponed vacations and missed family gatherings. All of it would be for nothing.

She thought of her modest apartment, of how hard it had been to scrape together the down payment even with her parents’ help. Of Ethan, and the promise to think about moving in together once she landed a spot at a private firm. A firm that required recommendations. That required a track record. That required—

Her stomach dropped. A case people had heard of. And there was no bigger case in this city than the one already in her hands.

“When do I meet him?” she asked.

Levine smiled thinly. “Tomorrow morning. 9 AM at the federal detention center.” He slid a thick file folder across the desk. “Your copy of the case files. I suggest you start reading immediately.”

The folder felt heavy in her hands—the weight of a man’s life, of her future, of a game she’d been forced to play without knowing the rules. They had looked at her résumé and seen someone disposable. Someone who’d lose quietly and be grateful for the scraps afterward. The thought lit a cold, steady anger in her chest, and underneath it something harder and more useful: she was good at this. Better than they’d bothered to find out. Let them watch.

“We’re done here,” Grayson announced sharply. “Ms. Carter, we’ll be watching this case closely.”

I bet you will, she thought.

Something snagged in her mind as she watched them gather their things. Assigning an underqualified attorney created grounds for an ineffective assistance of counsel claim—a procedural vulnerability that could unravel a conviction on appeal entirely.

Any second-year associate could see it. Which meant either they hadn’t thought of it, or they simply didn’t care. She looked at Levine’s unhurried expression and understood: they weren’t planning that far ahead. They just wanted Corsini to lose, and they’d made sure to set up the attorney least likely to prevent it.

The men exchanged nods, their business concluded. Levine straightened his already perfect tie while Grayson collected his briefcase, the metal clasps clicking shut with finality. Neither acknowledged her further as they exited, leaving her alone with Simmons.

After the door closed behind them, Simmons sighed and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. The liquid gurgled as it filled the glass. He didn’t offer her one.

“This isn’t personal, Carter. It’s politics.”

“It’s my career,” she countered, her voice steadier than she felt.

“It’s one case,” he said, not meeting her eyes. Ice clinked in his glass as he took a sip. “Do your job, put up a fight—just enough to look good on the record—and when it’s over, I’ll make sure you get better assignments.”

When it’s over, she thought. When I’ve taken the loss on my record so you can collect your funding.

She stood, clutching the file to her chest. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Simmons shook his head, already reaching for his phone, dismissing her.

The walk back to her desk stretched longer than before, each step weighted as she processed what had happened. She dropped the heavy file onto her cluttered workspace with a dull thud, her mind spinning. A quick glance at her watch—4:37 PM. The office emptied at 5, but she knew she’d be here long past that tonight.

“What was that about?” Kevin from the next cubicle peered over their shared partition, his voice hushed, the scent of his energy drink wafting over.

“I just got assigned to defend Kai Corsini,” she said, the words still feeling unreal on her tongue.

Kevin gaped. “Shit, Jules. That’s... shit.”

“Eloquently put,” she replied, attempting humor she didn’t feel.

“No, I mean... that’s Kai Corsini. The Kai Corsini. A year ago Harriman’s brother had both legs broken in what got written up as a mugging. Six months later Harriman went soft on a Corsini associate in court. Dude, he’s a huge case that requires the whole law office, not just... ” he paused, unable to hold her gaze. “Why would Simmons? This isn’t good...”

“Allegedly,” she interrupted. Whatever he said next wouldn’t give her any new information, and it certainly wouldn’t help her navigate this. “These are all just rumors, Kevin.” Juliette tried to steady her voice. “Nothing is true unless it’s proven.”

Kevin had the decency to look contrite. “Sorry. It’s just...” he looked in the direction of Simmons’ office. “Weird.”And that was a very well-placed word—weird.

She nodded, already opening the file. The folder made a soft whooshing sound as she spread its contents across her desk. Inside were photographs, reports, transcripts—the carefully constructed narrative of a man’s crimes.

The cover sheet noted his employment as Chief Executive of Hartwell Group, the import and logistics conglomerate with over a thousand employees in the city—the legitimate face that made arresting him a citywide story instead of a footnote.

Near the top, a surveillance photograph: two men outside what had once been an office, now a gutted shell of blackened brick. Below it, a coroner’s report on a former associate who’d agreed to testify and then, apparently, changed his mind—permanently.

She closed the folder to take a breath. Just for a second she wanted to drop it. Kevin was right—she didn’t need to read the whole file to know this case would be hard, especially if she meant to win it. And Corsini’s reputation left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t too late to quit, clean out her desk, and look for a job that wouldn’t jeopardize her career, or her life. She still had a choice...

But Juliette opened the folder again. And as she flipped through the pages, something truly interesting caught her attention.

The witness testimony from Corsini’s former driver contradicted surveillance photos placing him across town. Key evidence had been collected during a raid with questionable warrant justification. Three different witnesses gave identical statements—word for word—about a conversation they’d supposedly overheard.

This is what they’re so confident about?

The case wasn’t airtight. Far from it. Which made their insistence on having her—inexperienced, overwhelmed—as defense counsel even more transparent.

She pulled out her phone, the screen’s blue glow harsh in the dimming office light, sending a quick text to Ethan.

Going to be late tonight. Big case. Will explain when I see you.

Ethan’s reply came just seconds later:

No problem. Want me to bring dinner from the restaurant? Thai night special.

She smiled despite her exhaustion.

You’re my hero. Yes please.

The usual pad thai with extra lime?

You know me too well. Thank you.

Been years, Jules. I better know your order by now.

A small comfort in the chaos of her day settled over her like a warm blanket. He’d been there since her law school days when she’d practically lived in his restaurant. And knowing he would still be there, no matter what, gave her a bit more strength.

Yes. I might be REALLY late though.

I’ll wait up. Good luck with your case.

She hesitated, then added a heart emoji before putting her phone away.

Pages turned, coffee grew cold, the bitter tang of it lingering as she abandoned half-full mugs. The office emptied cubicle by cubicle, conversations fading, the hum of computers being shut down giving way to silence. The rhythmic squeak of the cleaning cart wheels moved past her desk, followed by the drone of a vacuum cleaner in the distance.

Nancy from the night crew paused beside her, the scent of industrial disinfectant sharp in the air.

“Burning the midnight oil again, Ms. Carter?” she asked, her Boston accent thick as she emptied the trash bin, with a typical rustling of crumpled papers.

Juliette looked up, blinking away the blurriness that came from hours of reading and rereading the same text. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

As if on cue, the overhead lights dimmed to their energy-saving nighttime setting, casting long shadows across her desk. She stretched, wincing as her spine crackled in protest, the stiffness in her shoulders testament to how long she’d sat hunched over the case files.

“Goodness sake, you should go home,” Nancy said. “Whatever it is will be there tomorrow.”

But that was precisely the problem. Tomorrow, Kai Corsini would be there—in the flesh, not just words on paper. She gathered the scattered documents, arranging them in order before slipping them into her worn leather messenger bag, the strap frayed at the edges from years of overuse.

Before she put the final files in, her fingers found the photograph clipped to his file. The official mugshot: booking number, date, name in block capitals across the bottom.

Most men photographed at that hour looked diminished by it—the overhead lighting, the wall, the absence of choice in the matter. He did not. He was looking slightly past the camera, at whatever stood to the left of it, with an attention that suggested the lens itself hadn’t been worth his time.

Her thumb stayed on the corner of the photograph longer than she could have justified. Then she slid it back between the pages of the file and packed everything into her bag.