Chapter 4

The courtroom was a theater, and I was its director. The air buzzed with the low hum of anticipation. Mr. Russo sat at our table, looking confident, flanked by me and a very, very nervous Molly Johns.

"Molly," I had said earlier in the robing room, "standard procedure for training new associates. I want you wearing a live lavalier microphone. It connects directly to the court's recording system. It helps me give you feedback later, and it ensures a crystal-clear record of everything said at the counsel table."

She had balked, of course. "Is that really necessary?"

"Professional development is always necessary," I' d replied, clipping the small black mic to her lapel myself. "Don't worry, it only picks up sound in close proximity. Just speak clearly when you're addressing the court."

She had no choice but to agree.

Now, we were deep into the trial. I had handled the opening statements and the initial witnesses with my usual precision. Then came the moment of truth.

"Your Honor," I said, rising. "The prosecution calls Molly Johns to the stand to introduce and verify the defendant's financial records, entered as Prosecution's Exhibit C."

This was highly unorthodox. The lead attorney would almost always handle such a crucial piece of evidence. The opposing counsel looked surprised, the judge raised an eyebrow, but neither objected.

Molly walked to the witness stand on shaky legs. She was sworn in. I handed her the "clean" binder Andrew had provided.

"Ms. Johns," I began, "can you please identify these documents for the court?"

"They... they are the financial records for Mr. Russo's corporate and personal accounts for the fiscal year in question," she stammered.

As she began to present the records, document by document, her voice faltered. She fumbled with the pages, her hands visibly shaking. She was a terrible liar under pressure.

Just as I knew they would, the defense team pounced.

"Objection!" their lead attorney shouted, rising to his feet. "These documents are forgeries!"

The courtroom erupted in murmurs.

The judge banged his gavel. "Order! On what grounds do you make such a serious accusation, counsel?"

"We have a forensic accountant on standby, Your Honor," the defense lawyer said. "He reviewed the initial discovery and found significant discrepancies. We believe the documents Ms. Johns is presenting have been fabricated to conceal the defendant's guilt."

The judge' s face hardened. "This court will take a thirty-minute recess. I want both sets of documents and both forensic accountants in my chambers. Immediately."

He banged the gavel again, and chaos ensued. As the jury was led out, I walked back to the counsel table where Molly was having a full-blown panic attack. She was gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

She leaned toward me, her voice a frantic, desperate whisper, forgetting completely about the live microphone clipped to her suit.

"I don't get it," she hissed, her eyes wide with terror. "I told Russo to create a clean fake! I checked it myself! Why did the other side find out? How could they know?"

Her panicked whisper, intended only for me, was captured by the lavalier mic. And as the judge, having returned to the bench early, turned on the courtroom's audio system to call for order, Molly's damning admission boomed from every speaker in the room.

"...told Russo to create a clean fake! ...Why did the other side find out?"

A collective gasp swept through the gallery. The defense table stared, mouths agape. The court reporter' s fingers froze over her keys.

The judge's face was a mask of cold fury. He stared directly at our table.

"Bailiff," he roared. "Take Mr. Russo into custody for contempt of court and evidence tampering. Ms. Johns, you are under arrest for perjury. Counselors, in my chambers. Now!"

The trap had sprung.