Page 33 of Motion to Dismiss

He nods and continues pacing, looking a little less formidable than usual.

Over the past few days, I’ve worked slower than I usually do, and far less than I normally would, because I can’t seem to force myself to give a damn about the work.

My usual “balance the scales for the guilty,” “fuck over the justice system like it fucked me,” and “serves Lady Justice right” mantras aren’t working.

And every time I try to string together Lucas’s defense, an image of Scarlett’s teary eyes crosses my mind. Either that, or her final words to me overpower my best arguments.

“He’s probably done much worse, and only one of us can actually do something about it.”

“Maybe I’m misremembering your speed from my previous cases.” Lucas’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “I just feel like you’d tie things up within hours back then.”

“None of your previous cases had federal charges,” I say. “Not only that, but—” I pause as he puffs a long “O” toward my desk.

“Okay, look.” I shut my laptop. “I’m tired of telling you ‘No Smoking’ in my condo. Put that shit out.”

“I think I’m paying you enough for an exception.” He takes another puff. “But if you ask me nicely, I’ll consider it.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.” I stand and walk toward him, pluck the cigar from his fingers, and toss it into a glass of water.

“Do you understand what ‘no smoking’ in my condo means now?” I ask nicely. “Is that better?”

He rolls his eyes.

“I would’ve paid whatever it costs to clean it up,” he says. “That’s what I always do at hotels.”

“Does this look like a hotel?”

“No, but…” He tilts his head to the side. “You’re the one who said I could stay here for the weekend while your team worked on getting me a hidden place outside the city. If you’re going to be pissy about my habits, why would you ever offer that to me?”

To give Rachel extra time to sneak around your estate.

“You’re right,” I say. “My apologies.”

“So I can smoke now?”

“No.” I walk toward my liquor cabinet. “You should probably look into ways to quit. That shit can kill you.”

“Ahhh.” He smiles. “Let me guess. Someone in your family died of lung cancer?”

“No, but you’re on track to.” I pour two shots of whiskey. “No offense.”

“Alcohol isn’t much better, Jameson,” he counters. “I’ve witnessed you knock back quite a few of these every night. How do those help you?”

They help me stop thinking about your daughter.

“You can smoke,” I say, not needing to think about Scarlett right now. “But can you take it outside to the landing or the fucking roof?”

“Will do.” He nods. “Can I ask you something slightly personal?”

No.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking about what you said the other day,” he says. “How we need to put together a character witness list of people who can say good things about me.”

I arch a brow, unsure where he’s going with this. Outside of the charity heads he’s given to—only to make himself look good—and a few terrified employees, we don’t have many people to consider.

“Well, what if we go with a different approach?”