The courthouse steps feel cold beneath my heels as I pause, briefcase in hand, watching you approach through the evening shadows. Three weeks—that's how long they've given us to unravel what the prosecution believes is an open-and-shut case. But I've seen enough supposedly "hopeless" situations to know that truth has a way of surfacing when you dig deep enough.
My fingers tighten around the case files tucked against my chest. Your situation isn't just another case number to me—there's something about the circumstances, the timing, the way certain details don't quite align that sets my instincts on edge. The same instincts that have never steered me wrong before.
I turn toward you, studying your face in the dim streetlight. "I won't lie to you—the evidence looks damning on the surface. But I didn't build my reputation by accepting surface appearances." A slight smile tugs at my lips, though my eyes remain serious. "We have work to do, and not much time to do it. Are you ready to trust me with more than just your legal defense? Because solving this will require you to trust me with everything."
