I got an email from the clerk confirming the sentencing hearing would be held in three days, ten in the morning. Which meant, for the next seventy-two hours, there was nothing dramatic to do. I spent the time organizing documents, showing up to other hearings for clients who, frankly, made a lot more sense than Raymond, and returning home each evening.
Tonight, I was at home, sitting in my living room with a glass of wine in one hand and a stack of case files in the other.
Then, of course, Raymond found his way back into it.
A separate pile of documents slid loose from the stack, spilling slightly across the table. I stared at it for a second before setting my glass down and pulling it closer and his mugshot stared back at me.
Annoyingly calm for someone who had been arrested under those circumstances. I flipped through the pages again, slower this time. I know something about it didn't sit right. Because he was too clean on paper.
For a man who had beaten someone badly enough to leave them permanently disabled, his life record was… empty. No real connections. No family ties listed. No emergency contacts. No documented relationships. Even gis parents' names weren't even in the file, which wasn't just unusual. It was like he had appeared out of nowhere.
No school records. No early employment history. Nothing before he became a central AC technician seven years ago. Just a sudden, fully-formed adult existence dropped neatly into the system.
I leaned back slightly, exhaling as I stared at the pages spread out in front of me.
"Who the hell are you?" I muttered quietly.
I picked up my phone and made a call. It rang once—just once—before the line connected.
"Hey, it's me," I said.
"Yeah?" The voice on the other end was sharp.
"I need your help."
A brief pause. "Go on."
I pushed myself up from the couch, still holding Raymond's mugshot between my fingers, "I need you to dig into someone."
"Name."
"Raymond Gilmore."
Silence.
"Alright," he said finally. "What kind of dig are we talking about?"
"Everything," I replied. "Background, family, school records, financial trails, anything before seven years ago. Because right now, it looks like he didn't exist until he decided to."
A low exhale came through the line, almost amused. "You always bring me the fun ones."
"I'm serious," I said. "His file is too clean. It doesn't make sense."
"Clean is expensive," he muttered. "Or dangerous."
"Probably both."
Another short pause. I could practically hear him thinking, already mapping out where to start.
"Alright," he said. "Consider it done. Same account."
"Of course it is."
The line went dead. I lowered the phone slowly, still standing there in the middle of my living room, the silence settling in again like it had been waiting its turn.
"Let's see how real you are," I murmured.
The next morning, I was already at the courthouse, walking down the familiar hallway toward the private room where they kept Raymond before hearings. In one hand, I carried his suit. In the other, a chocolate bar.
When I stepped inside, he was already there. Sitting still. His head slightly lowered. His hands resting on his knees, then he looked up. And I stopped for half a second. Because I saw that his face was bruised. Darker around the cheekbone, a split near his lip.
"What happened to your face?" I asked, stepping closer.
"Nothing," he said, reaching for the chocolate in my hand before I even offered it.
I let him take it, watching him carefully. "You're starting to worry me, Ray. Seriously."
"Just a small fight," he replied, already unwrapping it. "Not a big deal."
I frowned. "How is that even possible? You're in isolation."
He took a bite, chewing like we weren't talking about prison violence. "Someone got to me in the shower."
I stared at him. "And?"
"I got to him back," he said simply. "You should see his face. Not much better than mine, if that helps."
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. "Jesus Christ, Raymond…"
He just kept eating.
"You say that like it's normal," I muttered.
He glanced at me briefly, then looked away again. "It is."
I shook my head slightly, trying to push past it. "You keep this up, you're not making it to sentencing in one piece."
"I told you," he said, licking a bit of chocolate from his thumb. "I'll be fine."
We were already in the courtroom when everything finally settled into place. Raymond stood beside me as George entered, and like clockwork, the entire room rose. The air felt heavier than usual, thick with anticipation, curiosity, and that particular kind of tension people only bring into rooms where someone's life is about to be measured and decided.
"Be seated," George said.
Chairs scraped softly as everyone sat down again.
I glanced briefly across the room.
The prosecution table was ready. Evelyn looked composed as always, though there was something tighter in her posture today. She's looks focused and controlled. Like she was bracing for something even she didn't fully trust.
And behind her, the victim's family. They sat close together, hands clasped, eyes locked onto Raymond like they were trying to burn him alive. I caught fragments of whispers, low but sharp enough to carry.
"That's him…"
"He doesn't even look sorry…"
"How can he just sit there like that…"
I didn't look at them for long. Because they weren't wrong.
Raymond sat beside me, straight-backed, composed, his face still marked with bruises that hadn't fully settled. If anything, it made him look more dangerous, not less. Like something carved out of stone that had been tested and didn't break.
George adjusted his glasses, glancing down at the file in front of him. "We are here today for the sentencing hearing of Mr. Raymond Gilmore."
His eyes lifted, scanning the room briefly before landing on us.
"Counsel, I understand there has been a negotiated agreement between the defense and the prosecution?"
Evelyn stood first. "Yes, Your Honor."
I followed, straightening my jacket out of habit more than necessity. "That is correct."
George gave a small nod. "Very well. The court will hear the terms."
Evelyn stepped forward slightly, her voice clear. "The defendant agrees to enter a plea of guilty to the reduced charge of voluntary manslaughter, with full cooperation and waiver of trial. In exchange, the prosecution recommends a fixed sentence of fifteen years."
A murmur rippled through the room. From the gallery, I heard it again—l, disbelief this time.
"Fifteen?"
"That's it?"
"For what he did—?"
George lifted a hand slightly, not even looking up. The room quieted almost immediately.
He turned his attention to me. "Defense, do you confirm these terms?"
"I do, Your Honor," I said. "The defendant has been informed, understands the agreement, and enters it voluntarily."
George nodded once, then shifted his gaze to Raymond.
"Mr. Gilmore," he said, "Please stand."
Raymond rose beside me without hesitation.
George studied him for a moment. "Do you understand the nature of the charges against you and the consequences of your plea?"
"Yes," Raymond answered.
"Has anyone coerced or forced you into accepting this agreement?"
"No."
"Are you entering this plea of your own free will?"
"Yes."
George gave a small nod, satisfied on the surface, though I could tell he was still observing closely. "Very well. The court will proceed."
George adjusted the papers in front of him, then looked up, his gaze sweeping across the room with quiet authority. "The court will now hear from the prosecution, the defense, and the victim's family before sentencing."
Evelyn stood first.
She stepped forward, "Your Honor," she began, "on December 31st, the defendant, Raymond Gilmore, entered the victim's residence. Evidence places him at the scene, including surveillance footage and physical evidence recovered both from the apartment and his vehicle."
"The victim, Elena Vance, was found deceased, having suffered extreme physical violence, including decapitation. A weapon consistent with the injuries was later recovered from beneath the driver's seat of the defendant's car. Additionally, forensic evidence connects the defendant directly to the crime scene."
Evelyn continued, glancing briefly at her notes before finishing, "While the prosecution has agreed to a reduced charge in light of mitigating factors, including the presence of a central nervous system depressant in the defendant's system, the severity of the crime remains undeniable. The state asks that the court impose the agreed sentence of fifteen years."
She stepped back.
George gave a small nod, then turned his attention to me. "Defense."
I stood, straightening my jacket out of habit, even though it didn't matter.
"Your Honor," I began, "this is not a case where the outcome reflects the absence of harm. A life was lost, and nothing said here will change that."
I paused briefly, letting the weight of that settle before continuing.
"However, this is a case shaped by circumstance. The defendant was found to have a significant amount of gamma-hydroxybutyrate in his system, a substance known to induce disorientation, loss of control, and memory blackout. This is not speculation. It is supported by toxicology."
I glanced briefly toward Raymond before looking back at George.
"My client has cooperated fully. He has accepted responsibility within the scope of what he understands, and he has chosen not to prolong these proceedings."
I let out a small breath. "We ask the court to accept the agreement as it stands."
George nodded once, then shifted his gaze toward the gallery. "The court will now hear from the victim's family."
There was a brief hesitation before an old woman stood. Her eyes red, but steady. She stepped forward slowly.
"That man," she said, pointing directly at Raymond, her voice shaking despite her effort to control it, "took my daughter away from me."
The room went completely still.
"She was twenty-four," the woman continued, her voice breaking now. "She made mistakes, yes, but she was trying to change. She had a future. She had people who loved her."
Her eyes didn't leave Raymond.
"And you sit there," she said, her voice rising slightly, "like it meant nothing."
A quiet sob came from somewhere behind her.
"You don't get to decide that fifteen years is enough," she added. "You don't get to walk out one day like this never happened."
She stepped back, unable to continue. I glanced at Raymond, but he hadn't moved.
George cleared his throat softly, pulling the room back. "Mr. Gilmore," he said, "before the court proceeds, you have the right to make a statement."
All eyes turned to Raymond. But he didn't move immediately when George gave him the chance to speak. He just sat there for a second, like he was deciding whether the moment was worth his time. Then, slowly, he stood.
"I don't have much to say," he began,"I understand what happened. I understand the consequences."
A pause.
"I accept the outcome."
That was it.
A ripple of disbelief moved through the gallery. I heard it again—those quiet, broken whispers.
"That's all?"
"He's not even sorry…"
George watched him closely, then gave a small nod. "Very well."
Raymond sat back down. Like nothing had just happened.
George adjusted his glasses, glancing once more at the documents in front of him before speaking again. "The court has reviewed the agreement between the prosecution and the defense, as well as the statements presented."
The room went still.
"This court acknowledges the severity of the crime, the loss suffered by the victim's family, and the circumstances surrounding the defendant's condition at the time of the offense."
A brief pause.
"Taking into account the negotiated plea, the cooperation of the defendant, and the mitigating factors presented, the court hereby accepts the plea agreement."
"Mr. Raymond Gilmore," George continued, "you are hereby sentenced to fifteen years of incarceration under the custody of the State of New York."
A quiet sob broke somewhere in the gallery.
"You will be remanded immediately and transferred to Rikers Island Correctional Facility to begin serving your sentence. Credit will be given for time already served."
George lifted the gavel slightly.
"This court is adjourned."
Then two officers moved in almost immediately, stepping to either side of Raymond. He didn't resist, didn't argue. He stood up when they told him to, calm as ever, like he had been expecting this exact moment down to the second.
As they turned him toward the exit, he glanced back at me. And then, he winked. And that made my stomach tightened.
Before I could even process that, his gaze shifted again. This time toward the victim's family and there it was...he smirk.
Then he turned away and just like that, Raymond Gilmore walked out of the courtroom exactly where he wanted to be.