Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

Out of nowhere, Ruby, Jenny’s older sister, appears on the steps next to me. She smooths her denim miniskirt then pushes her wavy red locks off her shoulders.

“You certainly got yourself locked in the shithouse this time, Stanton.”

Normally I wouldn’t go to Ruby for any kind of advice—least of all about relationships. But she’s here.

“I . . . I don’t know what happened.”

Ruby snorts. “You told my sister you fucked another girl, that’s what happened. No woman wants to hear that.”

“Then why did she ask?”

She shakes her head, like the answer is obvious. “’Cause she wanted to hear you say no.”

“We agreed to see other people,” I argue. “We said we’d be honest with each other. Mature.”

“Sayin’ and feelin’ are two different things, lover boy.” She picks at her manicure. “Look, you and Jenny are eighteen, y’all are babies . . . this was bound to happen. Only a matter of when.”

I can barely get the words past my constricted throat. “But . . . I love her.”

“And she loves you. That’s why it hurts so bad.”

There’s no way I’m giving up, no way I’m goin down—not like this. It’s the fear that pushes me to do something, say anything. To hold on like a man clinging to a boulder in a current.

I walk up the oak staircase to the room Jenn shares with our daughter and through the closed door that tells me I’m not welcome.

She’s on the bed, shoulders shaking, crying into her pillow. And the knife sinks deeper in my gut. I sit on the bed and touch her arm. Jenny has the smoothest skin—rose-petal soft. And I refuse for this to be the last time I get to touch her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t . . . hate me.”

She sits up and doesn’t bother to wipe the evidence of heartache off her face. “Do you love her?”

“No,” I tell her firmly. “No, it was one night. It didn’t mean anythin’.”

“Was she pretty?”

I answer like the lawyer I’m trying to become. “Not as pretty as you.”

“Dallas Henry asked me to go to the movies with him,” Jenny tells me quietly.

Any remorse I feel goes up in smoke and is replaced with blue flaming anger. Dallas Henry was a receiver on my high school football team—he was always a raging asshole. The kind of guy who made a play for the drunkest girls at the party—the kind who would’ve slipped something into their drinks to get them drunk faster.

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“I told him no.”

The fury cools a notch—but only just barely. My fist is still gonna have a nice long chat with Dallas fucking Henry before I leave.

“Why didn’t you say no, Stanton?” she accuses quietly.

Her question brings the guilt back full force. Defensively, I get to my feet—pacing and tense. “I did say no! Plenty of times. Shit, Jenn . . . I thought . . . it wasn’t cheatin’! You can’t be mad at me for this. For doin’ what you said you wanted. That’s not fair.”

Every muscle in my body strains—waiting for her response. After what feels like forever, she nods. “You’re right.”

Her blue eyes look up at me and the sadness in them cuts me to the bone. “I just . . . I hate picturing what you did with her in my head. I wish I could go back to when . . . when I didn’t know. And I could pretend that it’s only ever been me.” She hiccups. “Is that . . . is that pathetic?”

“No,” I groan. “It’s not.” I drop to my knees in front of her—aware that I’m begging, but not having the will to care. “It has only ever been you—in every way that matters. What happens when we’re apart, only means somethin’ if we let it mean somethin’.”

My hands drift up her thighs, needing to touch her—to wipe this from her mind—wanting so badly for us to be us again.

“I’m home for the summer. Two and half months and all I want to do for every second of that time is love you. Can I, darlin’? Please just let me love you.”

Her lips are warm and puffy from crying. I brush at them gently at first, asking permission. Then firmer, spearing her mouth with my tongue, demanding compliance. It takes a moment, but then she’s kissing me back. Her small hands fist my shirt, gripping tight, pulling me to her.

Owning me. The way she always has.

Jenny falls back on the bed, taking me with her. I hover over her as her chest rises and falls—panting. “I don’t want to know ever again, Stanton. We don’t ask, we don’t tell—promise me.”

“I promise,” I rasp, willing to agree to just about anything at this moment.

“I start school in the fall,” she presses. “I’m gonna meet people too. I’m gonna go out—and you can’t get angry. Or jealous.”

I shake my head. “I won’t. I don’t want to fight. I don’t . . . I don’t want to hold you back.”

And that’s the crazy truth of it.

There’s a part of me that wants to keep Jenny all to myself, lock her away in this house, and know she’s doing nothing else but waiting for me to come back. But stronger than that is the dread that we’ll burn out, end up hating each other—blaming each other—for all the living we missed out on. For all the things we never got to do.

More than anything, I don’t want to wake up ten years from now and realize the reason my girl hates her life . . . is because of me.

So if that means sharing her for a little while, then I’ll suck it up—I swear I will.

My eyes burn into hers. “But when I’m home, you’re mine. Not Dallas fucking Henry’s—no one else’s but mine.”

Her fingers trace my jaw. “Yes, yours. I’ll be who you come home to. They don’t get to keep you, Stanton. No other girl . . . gets to be who I am.”

I kiss her with rough possession—sealing the words. My lips move down her neck as my hand slides up her stomach. But she grasps my wrist. “My parents are downstairs.”

My eyes squeeze closed and I breathe deep. “Come to the river with me tonight? We’ll drive around until Presley falls asleep in the back.”

Jenny smiles. “A truck ride knocks her out every time.”

I kiss her forehead

. “Perfect.”

I lie beside her and she curls into me, playing with the collar of my shirt. “It won’t be like this forever. One day, you’ll be done with school and things will go back to normal.”

Yeah.

One day . . .

3

Ten years later

Washington, DC

The work of a criminal defense attorney isn’t as exciting as you probably imagine. It’s not even as exciting as law students imagine. There’s a lot of research, case law referencing to back up every argument in pages and pages of legal briefs that are filled with enough semantics to give a layman a migraine. If you’re part of a firm, when you’re eventually entrusted to represent your clients at trial, there are rarely any dramatic cross-examination revelations, no big Law & Order moments.

Mostly it’s just laying out the facts for the jury, piece by piece. One of the first rules you learn in law school is: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

Sorry to piss on your parade, but it really doesn’t get less exciting than that.

In the United States of America, defendants get to pick who’ll decide their fate: a judge or a jury of their peers. I always advise my clients to go with the jury—it’s a miracle to get twelve people to agree on where they’re having lunch, let alone the guilt or innocence of a defendant. And a mistrial, which is what happens when they can’t agree, is a win for the defense.

Have you ever heard that old joke about juries? Do you really want to be judged by twelve people who weren’t smart enough to get out of jury duty? Yes—that’s exactly who you want judging you. Because juries are people unfamiliar with the letter of the law. And those are people who can be swayed—by lots of elements that have absolutely nothing to do with facts.

If a jury likes a defendant, they’ll have a harder time convicting them of a charge that could keep their ass in a prison cell for the next ten to twenty years. It’s why an accused thief shows up to court in a nicely pressed suit—not prisoner oranges. It’s precisely why Casey Anthony’s wardrobe and hairstyle were carefully chosen to appear sweetly demure. Sure, juries are supposed to be impartial, they’re supposed to base their judgment on the evidence presented and nothing else.

But human nature doesn’t quite work that way.

Likeability of the defendant’s legal counsel also carries weight. If an attorney is sloppy, grumpy, or boring, the jury is less inclined to believe their version of the case. On the other hand, if the defending lawyer appears to have their shit together, if they’re well spoken—and yes—good looking, studies show juries are more likely to trust that lawyer. To believe them—and by extension, believe their client.

It’s important not to look like you’re trying too hard. Not to appear shifty or sneaky—the last thing you want is to give off a “used car salesman” vibe. People know when they’re being lied to.

But, here’s the most important thing: whenever possible, you want to show them a good time. Give them something to watch. They’re expecting objections and out-of-orders, the pounding of tables and banging of the gavel. They’re hoping for a live reenactment of Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. The system may be boring, but you don’t have to be. You can be entertaining. Show them you’ve got a big swinging dick and you’re not afraid to use it.