Late afternoon on the fifth day of Raymond's detention, I received an email from the court clerk's office. Arraignment scheduled for Friday morning. And what did catch my attention, though, was the reason attached to the delay. Says the prosecution requested additional time to formalize charges.
I scoffed under my breath as I reread the line.
Formalize charges, my ass.
They already had enough to bury him. This was about polishing the narrative, making sure everything looked airtight before they dragged him in front of a judge.
Still… it bought me time. And right now, time was the only thing working in my favor.
So instead of wasting it, I used it. By four in the afternoon, I was already inside the courthouse, heading toward a familiar office I hadn't stepped into in a while. Judge George Winchester. Thirty-five years on the bench, and somehow still sharper than most attorneys half his age. I'd known him for twenty-five of my own years in this profession, long enough to know exactly how much nonsense he was willing to tolerate.
Not much.
He didn't look particularly thrilled to see me either.
"You want something," he said without greeting, already reaching up to remove his glasses as I stepped inside. "You only show up like this when you want something."
"Good to see you too, Your Honor," I replied, closing the door behind me before taking a seat without being invited.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Let me guess. Gilmore."
"Raymond Gilmore," I confirmed. "I'm filing a motion for independent toxicology retesting."
George gave a slow blink, like he was already bored. "Denied."
"I haven't even explained—"
"I don't need you to," he cut in. "Initial report came back clean. No alcohol, no narcotics. End of story."
I exhaled quietly, leaning forward just enough to shift the tone. "Respectfully, it's not the end of anything."
That got his attention.
"Go on," he said.
I reached into my folder and slid a printed photo across his desk. The image of the Raymond's neck stared up at him.
"Injection mark," I said. "Documented after intake."
George picked up the photo, adjusting it slightly under the light. His expression didn't change much, but I could see the gears turning.
"Could be anything," he muttered.
"Exactly," I replied. "And yet the initial toxicology screen didn't test for anything beyond standard panels. No extended screening for fast-metabolizing agents. No specialized compounds. Nothing that would actually explain a complete memory blackout."
He set the photo down slowly. "You're suggesting your client was drugged."
"I'm saying there's enough inconsistency to justify a second look," I corrected. "My client claims he has no memory of the event. That alone doesn't prove anything, I know. But combined with a physical indicator like that?" I nodded toward the photo. "It's reasonable doubt territory."
George leaned back again, studying me now instead of the evidence. "Or," he said, "your client is lying."
"Also possible," I admitted without hesitation. "But that's not the point."
His brow lifted slightly at that.
"The point," I continued, "is that if there's even a chance he was administered something that compromised his awareness, then the current report is incomplete. And if it's incomplete, then we're building a case on partial information."
George tapped the edge of the photo once, thoughtful now, not dismissive.
"You're asking for a court order," he said.
"I am."
"For a retest that may come back exactly the same."
"Then we lose nothing," I replied. "But if it doesn't—"
I let the sentence hang, but I know he knew how that ended.
George exhaled slowly, picking his glasses back up but not putting them on yet. "You always did like digging where things don't want to be dug."
I gave a faint smile. "That's why you haven't gotten rid of me yet."
He didn't smile back.
"I'll review the motion when it's formally filed," he said after a moment. "No promises."
"I wasn't expecting any," I replied, standing up.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"Campbell."
I glanced back.
"If this turns out to be nothing…"
"It won't," I said quietly.
Not because I was sure. But because at this point, I needed it not to be.
And I swear to God, for a brief, deeply unprofessional second, I considered kissing George. The man actually approved my motion. The email came in early the next morning, short and painfully formal, but it might as well have been a love letter. Motion granted. Independent retesting authorized. I didn't even bother finishing my coffee, let alone breakfast. I grabbed my keys and was out the door in under a minute.
The drive felt longer than it was, mostly because my mind refused to stay in one place. Too many things didn't line up. Too many inconsistencies, all circling back to one person. Raymond. The CCTV. The money. The way he looked at me last time, like he'd already made a decision I wasn't part of. Red flags everywhere. But this? This came first. Proof before theories.
By the time I stepped into the building, I was already moving too fast for anyone to stop me. My phone buzzed in my hand just as I reached the hallway leading to Grace's lab. I glanced at the screen and it's from Detention Center.
I answered without slowing down. "Campbell."
"This is Moore. Jonah."
I kept walking. "Let me guess. You're calling to tell me you didn't move him."
A pause on the other end. Then, "Actually, I did. Early this morning. He's in isolation now."
I slowed down just slightly, processing that. Well.... that was unexpected.
"Look at that," I muttered. "You do listen."
"Don't get used to it," Jonah replied dryly.
"Wasn't planning to."
I pushed the lab door open with my shoulder, stepping inside while still holding the phone to my ear. "Anything else?"
There was another pause. Slightly longer this time.
"Yeah," Jonah said. "There is."
I frowned faintly. "What?"
"He sent a check to your office."
My steps faltered.
For a split second, my brain just… stopped.
"I'm sorry," I said slowly, like maybe I'd misheard him. "He did what?"
"A check," Jonah repeated. "Came in this morning. Addressed to your firm."
I nearly tripped over my own feet.
"You're kidding me."
"Do I sound like I'm kidding?"
No. He didn't.
I ran a hand over my face, a short, disbelieving laugh slipping out before I could stop it. "That's… that's interesting."
"Thought you'd want to know," Jonah added.
"Oh, I definitely want to know," I muttered. "Thanks for the heads-up."
"Yeah."
The line went dead. I lowered the phone slowly, staring at it for a second longer than necessary.
A check.
I stood there in the middle of Grace's lab like an idiot. Because here's the thing—this same Raymond Gilmore, the man currently enjoying detention center hospitality, had told me two days ago he had exactly sixty dollars and eight cents to his name. Not sixty thousand. Not sixty million. Sixty. Dollars. And eight cents. So either I was defending the most financially inconsistent human being alive, or I was slowly building a case for insanity on both sides of the table. Honestly, at this point, I'd put my money on both.
After giving Grace the court approval and making sure she understood exactly how little time we had before arraignment, I didn't linger. I went straight back to my office.
The moment I stepped inside, I found Natalie at her desk.
"Package," I said, not even slowing down.
She looked up immediately, already reaching for it. "Came in this morning."
She handed me a clean white envelope, heavier than it should've been. I didn't open it there. I just nodded once and walked straight into my office, closing the door behind me.
I sat down, placed the envelope on my desk, and stared at it for a second.
Then I opened it.
Inside, a single folded sheet.
I pulled it out, unfolded it and just sat there.
Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
I actually blinked. Like maybe the number would change itself into something more reasonable if I gave it a moment.
But it didn't.
I leaned back slowly in my chair, letting out a low breath.
"Please be fake," I muttered, rubbing my forehead with one hand. "I swear to God, please be fake. I would love for you to just be a broke idiot again, Raymond."
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number listed on the check.
It rang twice.
"Thank you for calling JPMorgan Chase, this is Daniel speaking. How may I assist you today?"
"Hi, Daniel," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I've got a check here that's either going to ruin my week or significantly improve it, and I'd like to know which one."
There was a brief pause.
"I can certainly help verify a check for you, sir. May I have the routing number and account number listed?"
"Fantastic," I muttered under my breath as I held the check closer, squinting slightly. "Routing number is 021000021. Account number… 8847-3291-556. And the check number is 1048."
"Thank you, sir. And the amount of the check?"
I exhaled slowly. "You're gonna love this one. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Silence.
Actual, real silence.
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. That's the reaction I was hoping for."
"One moment, please," Daniel said, voice a little tighter now.
I tapped the edge of the check lightly against the desk while I waited.
"Come on," I murmured. "Tell me it's fake. Make my life simple."
A few seconds passed.
"Sir," Daniel came back, voice carefully neutral now, "I can confirm that the account is valid… and the funds are available."
I stopped tapping.
"…I'm sorry," I said slowly. "You said what?"
"The account is active, and the available balance covers the amount of the check."
"You're absolutely sure about that?"
"Yes, sir."
I let out a short, hollow laugh. "Of course you are."
"Is there anything else I can assist you with today?"
"No. You've been very helpful, Daniel. Appreciate it. Thank you."
I ended the call and slowly lowered the phone onto my desk. Then I looked back at the check. I leaned back in my chair again, exhaling through my nose.
"Sixty dollars and eight cents," I murmured. "That's what you told me."
My eyes narrowed slightly.
"Either you lied…" I tapped the check once against the desk. "…or you're not the man I think you are."
And somehow, I was starting to think it was the second one.