Deadlines

"Looks like we'll have a tough case on our hands pretty soon," said Pablo Hyatt, my legal assistant. Papers jutted out at odd angles from his arms as he shuffled through my office door, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floors. He made his way to the computer in the corner, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up Google.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air. My third cup of the day sat cooling on my desk, another testament to the endless hours we'd been putting in at the firm as of late. I watched Pablo work, grateful for his dedication despite the grueling amount of high-profile cases we were looking at.

"Oh really? Is it the CEO murder?" I asked with a laugh, though there was some seriousness in my questioning. As one of New York City's premier criminal defense firms, handling Brian Thompson's death wouldn't surprise me. The media circus surrounding his murder had dominated headlines for weeks. It was the kind of case that could make or break a lawyer's career.

"Actually," Pablo rose from the computer as fresh papers emerged from the printer, his expression unreadable, "yeah." I watched him straighten and paperclip the stack, combining them with the documents he'd brought in. He was a simple guy who liked routine, he did the same things every day. So I knew just when he'd pivot toward me and plop those damned papers on my mahogany desk.

"These are the facts we know," Pablo said, sliding the packet toward me. "Suspect's names at the bottom."

I always checked the suspect's name first as it helped me visualize who I'd be defending. Certain surnames, like Rodriguez or Chen, gave me a cultural context to work with. My eyes scanned the page, searching. "I don't see one," I muttered, before involuntarily gasping.

Luigi Mangione?

"What?" Pablo paused in the doorway, his slight Cuban accent present. Personally, I had always found Pablo to be captivating. There was just something about the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, oblivious to his own appeal. Though his slight frame and short stature gave him a somewhat twinkish look, there was an undeniable charm about him that drew me in.

"By any chance," I squinted at him, trying to prevent any suspicions, "do you know what the accused looks like?"

"Of course," Pablo scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. "It's plastered all over the internet." My stomach churned at the mention of social media. I'd always been somewhat antisocial, but it had gotten dramatically worse after my breakup with...

Well, Luigi Mangione.

Though I couldn't be certain it was the same one. Italian ancestry was common enough in America that it could be anyone. But something in my gut, that same instinct that had helped me win countless cases, told me my worst fear was about to come to life.

"Some white kid," Pablo continued, unaware of my stress. "Pretty built, but not bodybuilder-type. Low-cut curly hair, tall, killer smile with these charming smile lines, thick eyebrows that somehow work for him—"

"Alright." I cut him off, noting how Pablo was starting to sound smitten. My fingers drummed against the desk nervously in thought.

"Hold on." I raised a finger and typed my ex's name into the browser, worry filling my stomach. Eight years ago, when he'd cowardly avoided breaking up with me in person, I had sworn never to even as so little as read his name again. Yet here I was, potentially becoming responsible for his freedom.

"God," I groaned, elbows pressing into my desk as the search results loaded. The first image confirmed my suspicions: it was him, and somehow he'd gotten even more attractive with age. His features had matured, yes, but those eyes... ugh they still held that same intensity I remembered. "What the fuck was he thinking?"

"Language," Pablo jokingly reprimanded me. But his smile faded when he saw my reaction. "Oh..." he trailed, "seems like... you know this guy?"

"Know him?" I almost laughed, growing bitter in thought as a ruminated on what I used to think were the best days of my life. "I dated him. Slept with him. Planned marriage and kids with the fucking guy. We had our whole lives mapped out."

I found myself continuing, the words spilling out like a gash wound. "The Luigi I knew was a nerd. A fun-loving, hardworking, compassionate nerd. He'd catch and release house flies instead of killing them. He'd bag his own groceries to spare the cashier extra work. Hell, he even volunteered at animal shelters every weekend. He was perfect."

My voice dropped to a whisper. "Or at least, I thought he was."

Would a perfect man dump me via note on my car? Block me on all social media platforms without explanation? Skip graduation and cut off his parents, ensuring I had no possible way to reach him? The questions that had haunted me for years came rushing back. Fuck him.

I hadn't realized I was thinking aloud until Pablo spoke, careful of his words. "Sounds like he was having a mental crisis," he suggested, shrugging. "He cut off his parents too, Jasmine, not just you." He scoffed softly. "Either he's been unstable for years, or he's having another breakdown. Only this time, somebody's dead."

"I don't think I'll take this case," I shook my head, shoulders slumping. "How can I defend him? Maybe he is a bad guy, look what he did to me."

"Before today, I didn't know the whole story," Pablo closed my door for privacy. "You only said you became a lawyer to channel your pain. You turned it into passion and built a career."

I turned to my right, glancing from my 18th floor window, which overlooked Manhattan. "That I did."

"Yeah," Pablo agreed, making his way toward my desk, but stopping short a few feet. "A damn good one. One that never let past or personal feelings interfere." I squinted, surprised by his intensity.

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm saying, you're one of New York's best lawyers for a reason. Don't let your inner teenager control your decisions. This could be your biggest case yet."

"And who knows?" Pablo's eyebrows wiggled, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe this is destiny. Maybe this is God's way of bringing you two back together."

"Please," I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't help the small smile forming. "I don't date felons. Eighteen-year-old heartbroken Jasmine Noir might have, but successful, multi-millionaire, twenty-six-year-old Jasmine? Never."

"Yeah, okay," Pablo dismissed my claim. "I saw how you looked at his pictures just now. But keep telling yourself that, Ms. Noir. Boss says the initial consultation, if you accept, will happen when he's extradited from Pennsylvania to New York on Monday."

"I'll do it," I exhaled, pushing aside my tumultuous emotions. "Update me if anything comes up. Otherwise, see you Monday, my friend."

As Pablo left my office, I found myself staring at Luigi's picture again, wondering if maybe this was an act of God. Perhaps I'm meant to show my ex what he missed out on, using my defense skills.

And better yet? The ball is in my court. If I wanted to, I could screw everything up and get him locked away for good. I bet that'll have him regretting.