Chapter 1
Book 2: The Defense of Wolves
Chapter 1
Act I — WARRANT SEASON AND LINES CROSSED
Jordan POV
By the time I hit the courthouse steps, the sky had that exhausted gray that made everything look like it needed more sleep and less human drama. The kind of morning where even the pigeons looked like they’d like to file a motion to be left alone.
I tightened my coat, took one last sip of coffee that was more burnt than brewed, and reminded myself of three things:
One—grand juries move fast when someone wants them to.
Two—Silvia Smith didn’t want justice. She wanted control.
Three—I was not about to let her turn Mercer into a headline-shaped coffin.
Inside, the building smelled like floor polish and bad decisions. The security guard at the metal detector gave me a nod. I got those nods a lot—half respect, half please don’t make me do paperwork today.
“Morning, Ms. Carter,” he said.
“Morning,” I answered. “If anyone asks, I’m here for the arts and culture exhibit.”
He blinked once. Then, very slowly, his mouth twitched. “Courtroom three. Third floor.”
“Love a man who speaks my language.”
I was halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzed again. I didn’t even have to look to know it was Roger Teller.
“Tell me you’ve got good news,” I said, because optimism is free and delusion is sometimes necessary.
Roger exhaled. “I’ve got news.”
“Okay, we’ll call it a win. Talk.”
“I just got a heads up from a clerk I know. Silvia’s pushing hard. She wants the production order narrowed to basically nothing and she’s trying to line up ‘voluntary’ witness interviews.”
I stopped walking. “Voluntary” was one of those words prosecutors used the way sharks used “friendly.”
“She’s going around me?” I asked.
“She’s going around you,” Roger confirmed.
I closed my eyes for half a second and pictured Silvia’s smile—sweet, polished, sharp enough to cut glass.
“Fine,” I said. “We’re doing this the clean way. You’re still good to be my point on outside contact?”
“Always,” he said. “But Jordan—she’s accelerating. Grand jury’s already meeting again this week.”
“I know.”
“And she wants names.”
My jaw tightened. The name Maddox won’t give.
“Let her want,” I said. “She can want in one hand and hold an empty indictment in the other.”
Roger made a noise. “That’s not how—”
“I’m aware,” I cut in, already moving again. “But I’m charming and I have paperwork. Same difference.”
He sighed. “Call me after you see the judge.”
“You got it. And Roger?”
“Yeah.”
“If I end up in jail for contempt today, please bring me lipstick. I refuse to be the kind of woman who gets processed looking tired.”
He laughed once, then sobered. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” I said, which was technically true. I was just careful in a direction other people didn’t expect.
I hung up and took the elevator up, rehearsing arguments in my head the way some people did affirmations. I didn’t need a mantra. I needed a record.
That’s what today was about—getting the ground rules on record before Silvia could bulldoze past them.
Because once the court agrees to a process, it’s harder for the prosecution to pretend they never did.
The hallway on the third floor was already buzzing with that low-level legal panic energy—clerks with stacks of files, lawyers in too-expensive suits, defendants sitting stiffly on benches like they were trying not to breathe wrong.
And there she was.
Silvia Smith leaned against the wall outside courtroom three like she owned the place. Navy suit, hair pulled back, red lipstick that said she had time for breakfast and chose violence instead.
Her investigator stood a few feet away pretending not to watch me. He was watching me. I clocked the little things: the way his gaze dropped to my hands, not my face, like he was checking for paperwork—or a weapon. The way his jaw worked when he thought no one noticed.
Silvia’s eyes found mine and lit up with polite malice.
“Jordan,” she said, like we were friends who grabbed brunch instead of legal knives. “Early.”
“Some of us enjoy the courthouse ambiance,” I replied. “It’s like a museum, if museums were full of bad fluorescent lighting and lies.”
She smiled, slow. “I’m glad you can still joke.”
“I save the crying for my car like a responsible adult.”
Her smile didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened. “You got my email?”
“The one where you politely requested my client hand you his life like a gift basket?” I asked. “Yes.”
“Voluntary cooperation looks good,” Silvia said, voice smooth. “It tells the grand jury your client isn’t hiding anything.”
“It tells the grand jury your office doesn’t have probable cause,” I said pleasantly. “If you had it, you wouldn’t need voluntary anything.”
Her eyes flicked, just once, toward the courtroom doors, then back to me.
“Careful,” she murmured. “Judges don’t like games.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “That’s why I’m here to set rules, Silvia. You want to talk to witnesses? You’ll do it through counsel. You want documents? You’ll get them through a process that doesn’t trample privilege.”
“Privilege,” she echoed, like the word tasted sour.
“Yes,” I said. “That thing the Constitution and two hundred years of case law are weirdly attached to.”
Silvia’s smile thinned. “You’re living on their land.”
I didn’t blink.
“And you’re trying to indict my client,” I replied. “We both have questionable life choices. Mine just come with better stationery.”
She leaned in a fraction, voice lowering. “You can’t hold back what I’m entitled to.”
“And you can’t take what you’re not,” I shot back. “That’s the whole concept of law, if you remember your first year.”
Her investigator shifted. I caught it. Small, like he wanted to step closer, like intimidation was a reflex. Silvia didn’t even look at him. She didn’t need to. She was the type who wore control like perfume.
“We’ll see what the judge says,” she said, and turned just as the bailiff opened the doors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, courtroom is now in session.”
We filed in, and I took my seat with my folder open, pen ready. My hands were steady. My mind was sharp. My stomach… oddly calm.
That should’ve made me happy. Instead, it made me uneasy.
Because I hadn’t taken my stomach pills in days. I still had the full bottle, none taken yet—tucked into my bag like a security blanket—but my body hadn’t punished me for skipping them.
And I didn’t love mysteries that involved my health.
Judge Halprin took the bench with the weary authority of someone who’d heard every excuse and believed none of them.
He adjusted his glasses. “Counsel.”
I rose.
“Your Honor,” I began, voice even, “this is about protocol. The State has accelerated grand jury activity while attempting to contact represented witnesses directly, and they’ve demanded materials that are clearly privileged—attorney-client and work product—without offering any protective mechanism.”
Silvia stood next. “Your Honor, we’re investigating a homicide and obstruction on the defendant’s property. We are entitled to communications, internal records, and the ability to interview witnesses.”
Whitaker’s gaze slid to me. “Ms. Carter?”
I didn’t flinch. “They’re entitled to what the law allows. Not what fear inspires.”
That got a small shift in the room. A few heads turned. Judges liked that kind of sentence when it wasn’t too dramatic.
“Here’s what we’re asking for,” I continued, flipping to my prepared document. “A production order with specific categories, clear deadlines, and an in-camera review process for anything contested on privilege. Sealed. Logged. No fishing.”
He leaned forward. “And the witness contacts?”
Silvia’s mouth tightened.
“I represent Mercer and its key employees in this matter,” I said. “The State is attempting to isolate them, use ‘voluntary’ interviews as pressure. That’s improper. We’re asking the court to order that all contact requests go through counsel.”
Silvia lifted a brow. “We’re not targeting anyone. We’re seeking truth.”
“Then you don’t need shortcuts,” I said, still calm. “Truth holds up under process.”
Halprin tapped his pen, thinking. Silence stretched, just long enough for the room to feel it.
Finally, he spoke. “I’m granting the production order in part.”
Silvia started to smile.
“Specific categories,” he added, looking at her like he could smell her satisfaction. “No broad sweeps of internal communications without a showing. Deadlines will be set, and anything claimed as privileged will be submitted under seal for in-camera review. No one is handing boxes to the State without a privilege log.”
Silvia’s smile died politely.
“And witness contact,” he continued. “If Ms. Carter has entered appearances for those individuals, contact goes through counsel. If you want interviews, you request them. You don’t ambush people.”
Silvia opened her mouth.
Halprin raised a hand. “I’m not debating it. Follow the rules.”
My pulse didn’t spike. I didn’t let it. I just nodded once and said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
We’d gotten it on record.
That mattered.
Court adjourned ten minutes later with all the warmth of a slammed door. I gathered my files and stepped into the hall, already dialing Kane as I walked.
He answered on the second ring. “Jordan.”
“What’s the temperature in the house?” I asked.
“High,” Kane said. “Word got out about grand jury again. People are panicking.”
“Tell them to panic quietly,” I replied. “And tell them the court just set sealed privilege rules. No one hands anything over without my review. No one speaks without me present.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And Kane?” I paused at the window, watching the parking lot like it owed me answers. “If anyone tries to run, you stop them.”
Kane didn’t hesitate. “Already planned.”
That was Kane. Reasonable, steady, terrifying when necessary.
I ended the call and turned—
—and almost collided with a man holding a clipboard and a too-cheerful expression.
“Jordan Carter?” he asked.
I gave him a look that usually made grown men remember appointments they were suddenly late for.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got service for you.”
My stomach dropped anyway, because my instincts didn’t trust good mornings.
He handed me an envelope and a stapled packet.
The header hit me like a slap.
SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM—and below it, in bold: INVESTIGATOR.
Then I saw the second request.
Not to Mercer. Not to Maddox. Not to Elias, or Elaina, or Kane.
To me.
REQUEST FOR PHARMACY AND MEDICAL RECORDS.
My eyes scanned down and landed on the line item that made my blood go cold in a way I didn’t understand yet.
Prescription history.
Refills.
Prescribing physician.
“Ms. Carter?” the process server prompted, like I’d forgotten how to speak.
I lifted my gaze slowly—and across the hall, Silvia Smith stood watching me with a small, satisfied smile.
Like she’d just found the lever she’d been looking for.
I forced my face into calm, because fear was fuel and I refused to feed her.
But inside, something sharp and ugly curled in my chest.
Because this wasn’t about my ethics.
This wasn’t even about optics.
This was personal.
And it was targeted.
I stared at the paper until the words blurred, then looked up again.
Silvia’s smile deepened.
And I knew, with sudden, crystal clarity, that whatever was in my medical file—whatever my father had done, whatever those pills really were—
Silvia had just told me she was coming for it.
And she wasn’t the only one.
