George stayed quiet for a moment, his gaze shifting between the two of us, weighing not just the words but everything underneath them.
"You're asking the court to consider a reduced charge in a case involving extreme violence," he said finally. "That is not a small request, Mr. Campbell."
"I'm aware," I replied, just as steady. "But we're not working with a clean narrative anymore, Your Honor. You've seen the toxicology report. That alone complicates intent."
Evelyn exhaled sharply through her nose. "Complicates doesn't erase. The victim is still dead. Brutally."
"And dragging this through a full trial won't change that," I said, turning slightly toward her. "What it will do is burn months of court time, resources, expert testimonies, media attention—" I gestured lightly around us, "—all for a defendant who is already willing to plead and cooperate."
George's fingers tapped once against the table again.
I pressed forward. "No prolonged jury selection. No endless witness lists. No appeals built on procedural errors because everything was rushed under pressure. He pleads, you secure the conviction, and we move on."
Evelyn let out a dry laugh. "Move on? That's what you think this is?"
"I think it's efficient," I said bluntly. "And unless the state suddenly enjoys wasting its own budget, this is the cleanest outcome you're going to get."
George's eyes flicked toward Evelyn now. "Evelyn?"
She didn't answer immediately. Just crossed her arms tighter, her jaw set, clearly irritated that the conversation had shifted into something she couldn't easily shut down.
"He confessed to everything," she said after a beat. "You're asking me to downplay a case that, on paper, is as strong as it gets."
"On paper," I echoed. "Until I start tearing into that paper in open court."
Her eyes snapped to mine. "You're threatening me now?"
"I'm reminding you," I said calmly, "that trials are unpredictable. You lose control the moment twelve strangers get involved."
George nodded slightly at that, almost to himself.
"He's offering you certainty. Full cooperation. No resistance. No theatrics. You don't even have to fight for it."
Evelyn looked at George again. This time longer and George didn't break eye contact.
"The court does not encourage unnecessary proceedings," George said slowly. "If both parties can reach an agreement that reflects the circumstances while preserving judicial efficiency… it is worth considering."
Evelyn exhaled, long and controlled, like she was physically forcing herself not to snap.
"Fifteen years is too light," she said.
"Given the drug involvement, it's reasonable," I countered immediately. "You still get incarceration. You still get accountability."
"And what stops every defense attorney after you from waving a lab report and asking for the same deal?"
I gave a small shrug. "Better lawyers, maybe."
She shot me a look that could've killed a lesser man.
George cleared his throat lightly. "Evelyn."
"…Full cooperation," she said finally, her eyes still on me. "No retractions. No surprises. He pleads formally, accepts the record, and waives trial."
"Done." I said without hesitation.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And the report stays within scope. No theatrics in court."
I tilted my head. "I'll behave."
She didn't believe that for a second. Then she looked at George.
"…Fifteen years," she said, like the words tasted bad coming out. "Manslaughter. Conditional on full compliance."
George gave a small, approving nod. "Very well. If both parties are in agreement, the court will accept a negotiated resolution pending formal submission."
I exhaled slowly, tension I hadn't even fully acknowledged easing just a fraction.
Evelyn gathered her files with a sharp motion, clearly done with me for the day. "You better make sure your client doesn't change his mind again."
I allowed myself a faint smile. "Trust me," I said. "That's the one thing I'm not worried about."
Which, considering who we were talking about was probably the most concerning part of all.
"Alright, I'll ask the clerk to expedite the schedule," George said.
"Perfect," I grinned, a little too satisfied for a man standing in the middle of a murder case.
Evelyn muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "Your client is really off."
I let out a quiet chuckle. "You're just figuring that out now?"
"I've seen a lot of defendants," she said, "Desperate, arrogant, scared. But him?" She shook her head once. "He walks in, pleads guilty like he's ordering coffee, and now you're telling me he wants to speedrun his own sentencing?"
"Efficient," I said lightly.
"Disturbing," she corrected.
George didn't look up. "Regardless of personal impressions, the court deals in procedure. If the defendant is competent and the agreement stands, we proceed."
I nodded once. "He'll cooperate."
Evelyn's eyes flicked to mine again, searching for something. A crack, maybe. Or confirmation that I wasn't completely in control of this situation.
She wasn't wrong to look.
"You better hope so," she said. "Because if he pulls anything in court, I'm not revisiting this deal."
"He won't," I replied.
And for once, I meant it. And that seemed to bother her more than reassure her.
George gathered the papers into a neat stack and finally looked up. "You'll be notified once the clerk confirms the new date. Given the circumstances, I expect it to be soon."
"Good," I said, already turning slightly toward the door. "The sooner this is done, the better."
"For you, maybe," Evelyn muttered.
I glanced back at her, offering a small, almost polite smile. "For everyone."
I stepped out into the hallway, the noise of the building rushing back in like nothing had just been decided behind that door.
Fifteen years.
Manslaughter.
Fast-tracked sentencing.
Exactly what Raymond wanted.
I exhaled slowly, adjusting my jacket as I started walking.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let's go tell the man who just threw his life away that I helped him do it faster."
Funny thing was, I had a feeling he'd thank me for it.
I drove straight to the detention center and was escorted into a private visitation room by a guard.
Honestly, I had a long list of questions for Raymond. A very long one. The kind you don't casually ask unless you want your entire worldview rearranged. But after knowing him for less than two weeks, it was already obvious he was the kind of man who treated missing information like a personal lifestyle choice.
And I swear, I would dig it out myself if he didn't feel like cooperating.
But not today. Today, my job was simpler. Give him what he wanted. If he really did kill Elena, then fifteen years was practically a discounted rate for what he was accused of.
Justice, but on sale.
Raymond walked in and sat down. I slid a chocolate bar across the table like this was some kind of routine ritual.
"I keep stock in my bag, by the way," I said.
He picked it up without hesitation.
"How's life inside?" I asked.
"I get twenty minutes outside alone," he said. "And they bring me food."
"Princess treatment," I muttered.
He gave a small grunt, already chewing.
"So?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied. "You got it. The clerk's expediting your sentencing. It'll be scheduled as soon as possible."
"Cool."
I staring at him and studied him quietly. Raymond, physically speaking, looked like someone custom-designed for a different world. If you placed him anywhere near a camera, he could pass as a model, an actor, or some inconveniently attractive royal who forgot to declare his existence.
Honestly, with that dark slightly overgrown mullet, sharp features, and that calm, unreadable face, I wouldn't be surprised if he had some forgotten British aristocrat bloodline buried somewhere in his DNA. And if you really squinted at him long enough, you could start convincing yourself he was the type of person who could commit murder in ten different states and still walk out of each one with perfect posture and no fingerprints. The kind of man who would make serial killers like Ted Bundy look underdressed. Which, professionally speaking, was not a comforting thought.
I blinked, dragging myself back into reality before my imagination filed a defamation lawsuit.
Raymond was still sitting there, unbothered, finishing the chocolate like this was just another Tuesday in his life.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Go ahead," Raymond replied, already looking half bored again.
"It's about the cheque."
He paused just slightly. "Out of everything you could ask me, you chose money?"
"Yeah, Raymond," I said flatly. "Because last time you told me you had, what, sixty dollars to your name? And then suddenly you hand me a 350k cheque like it's pocket change. I'm mildly concerned about who you actually are. Last I checked, you were a central AC technician, not a walking offshore account."
He leaned back in his chair a little, chewing slowly, his eyes on me now.
"You're overthinking it," he said.
"That's literally my job."
A faint pause. Then he tilted his head.
"You don't need to ask questions about money," he added, calm as ever. "If you're short, you ask. That's it. Simple."
I blinked once. "That's not how normal people handle financial transparency, just so you know."
"I didn't hire a normal person," he said.
Fair.
Except nothing about the way he said it sounded like a joke.
I exhaled, rubbing a hand across my mouth. "Raymond, I'm not your accountant. I'm your lawyer. When someone who claims to have sixty dollars suddenly funds a five-figure legal defense like it's nothing, people tend to get curious."
His expression didn't change much, but something behind his eyes shifted.
"You don't need curiosity," he said. "You need results."
I leaned back slightly, forcing my tone lighter than I felt. "Right. So no questions about the mysterious funding pipeline. Got it."
"Good," he said.
Then, after a beat, almost casually he said, "Don't make it complicated, Harold."
Sounds like warning polite to me.
"And about you in prison," I said. "You know you're most likely heading to Rikers Island or something equivalent in New York for high-risk offenders. You could die in there, Ray. Are you sure you want this? I can push harder, get you in front of a jury, I can still make things go your way."
He unwrapped another piece of chocolate, chewing slowly, then casually licked the sugar off his fingertips.
"Listen, Harold," he said eventually. "I'll be fine in there. You don't need to worry."
"There are dangerous people in there, Ray."
"And now there's one more," he replied without missing a beat.
He smiled.
I watched him closely. "I remember your eyes the first time we met. You were adamant you didn't do it. You swore you didn't kill Elena. Where did that go?"
"I didn't kill Elena," he said again.
"Then why are you doing this?" I pressed. "Just tell me the truth. I'm not judging you."
That earned a faint exhale from him, almost amused.
"Simple answer," he said. "You were right about one thing. Someone framed me."
My spine straightened slightly.
"And I know who it is," he continued. "I just don't need to deal with it out there."
"That doesn't make sense," I said. "You're choosing prison over clearing your name?"
"I'm choosing control," he corrected.
His eyes lifted slightly, meeting mine more directly now.
"There are things I need to protect," he said. "And this is the safest place for that."
"Prison is the safest place for you?" I echoed.
He nodded once.
"I'll be fine inside. And I'll manage everything from there. You just do what I ask."
The way he said it wasn't like a request. It was like he was already assuming compliance. Like I was one of the moving parts in something larger he'd already assembled.
"You sound like a dangerous man, Raymond," I said quietly.
A small smile returned to his face, sharper this time.
"I know you already know that," he said. "You read my record, didn't you?"
He smirked.
He...just...fucking smirked.