Page 34 of Claim

“No.”

“Spoken to him.”

“No.”

She nodded, absorbing it. “If you walk into that prison as counsel, what does he think you are there for?”

“I’ll tell him it’s to advise him. Represent his interests.”

“And if he thinks you’re there because you care?”

“That’s not something I can control. Only how I behave.”

She narrowed her eyes, testing me. “And how will you behave?”

“As junior counsel. Professionally. With boundaries.”

“Spell them out.”

I drew a breath. “No physical contact beyond what’s appropriate. No discussion outside the case. No promises I can’t keep. No reassurance that isn’t legally grounded.”

“And if he tries to blur that?”

“Then I shut it down.”

“And if you want to blur it?”

The question landed clean and brutal.

“Then I remove myself. Or you remove me.”

She studied my face, searching for cracks. For sentiment. For arrogance.

“Do you think you owe him something?”

“No.”

That, at least, was true. I didn’t owe him my love. Nor my care. Nothing. Even if I wanted to give all of it.

Claim all of it.

“The system owes him representation,” I said. “And I think I can assist you in providing it.”

Another pause.

“You will not be alone with him.” She widened her eyes. “At least not at first.”

“I wouldn’t expect to be.”

“You will not act as a conduit for comfort.”

“No.”

“You will not undermine advice I give, even if it costs him.”

“I won’t.”

“And if he asks why you’re really there?”