TRIAL BY FIRE

AN ALEX HAYES PREQUEL

L.T. RYAN

WITH

LAURA CHASE

Copyright © 2025 by L.T. Ryan, Laura Chase & Liquid Mind Media. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. For information contact:

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ONE

“The defendant is sentenced to six months’ probation, restitution of six hundred dollars, and fifty hours of community service. Court is adjourned.” The judge’s gavel struck with a finality that resonated through the courtroom.

I stood, slipping my notes into a neat stack and tucking them into the folder under my arm. The defense attorney gave his client a small, satisfied nod. The defendant, a wiry man in his early twenties, mumbled a quick “Thank you, Your Honor,” before slinking out with his lawyer. It wasn’t a dramatic victory, but it was justice done—or close enough for a Tuesday morning.

The courtroom began to clear, the familiar sounds of shuffling papers and murmured conversations filling the air. I walked briskly toward the doors, already anticipating the reprieve of my desk. As I stepped into the hallway, my phone buzzed in my bag. I reached for it, balancing my case file as I scanned the screen.

Subject: New Case Assignment

From: Tom Matthews

See me in my office.

Straight to the point. That was Tom.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket and headed toward the DA’s office. The courthouse corridors hummed with activity—lawyers arguing over motions, clerks dodging between offices, and the occasional grumble of a defendant shuffling in cuffs. It all blurred into a backdrop of routine chaos.

When I reached the bullpen outside Tom’s office, Janice looked up from her desk, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

“Alex, what are you doing here?” she asked, her tone hovering between curiosity and suspicion.

I held up my phone. “Got an email from Tom. He wants to see me.”

Janice’s brow furrowed. “Did you call first? You know how he gets when people just show up.”

“I figured his email was my invitation,” I said, my voice light, though I could feel the knot of tension building in my stomach.

Before Janice could reply, Tom’s door swung open. He stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and tie slightly askew, a man mid-battle with a mountain of paperwork.

“Alex!” he barked, “what’s taking so long? Get in here.”

Janice shot me a pointed look. I shrugged and stepped past her into Tom’s office, shutting the door behind me. The smell of stale coffee and paper filled the air, the room a haphazard collection of case files, legal pads, and half-empty takeout containers.

“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. He was already rummaging through a stack of folders. “You’ve been doing good work, Hayes. Solid.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, pulling out a file and sliding it across the desk. “This one’s all yours. Start to finish.”

I picked up the folder and opened it. The name at the top of the page caught my attention: Peter Larkin. Fraud charges. The summary outlined a string of scams targeting elderly residents, fake insurance policies sold door-to-door. Victims out thousands of dollars, their savings drained.

“It’s straightforward,” Tom said. “We’ve got a paper trail, solid witnesses, and a recording that infers a confession. Should be a slam dunk.”

I nodded, flipping through the pages. Bank statements, fake policy documents, and handwritten notes from Detective Andrews, who’d worked the case. Everything was tidy.

“If you need background on the case, talk to Andrews,” Tom added. “He’s thorough. Should have everything you need.”

I closed the folder, nodding. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll handle it.”

“I know you will,” he said, already turning back to the stack of files on his desk.

Back at my desk, I barely had time to sit before the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver. “Alex Hayes.”

“Ms. Hayes,” a smooth, self-assured voice drawled. “Michael Donovan. I hear we’ll be working together.”

I straightened in my chair, gripping the phone a little tighter. “Looking forward to it, Mr. Donovan.”

“Let’s schedule a time to meet,” he said. “I’d like to go over a few things before we get started.”

We settled on a time, and I hung up, jotting the appointment into my calendar. Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was Tom.

“Back to my office, Hayes,” he said, his voice gruff.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just found out Donovan’s defense on this case. I’m pulling it back.”

I frowned, leaning back in my chair. “How did you find out so fast?”

“Janice monitors everyone’s calendars,” he replied, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Figures.” I grabbed the file and headed back to his office, finding him waiting with an exasperated expression.

“Tom, I can handle this,” I said, stepping inside. “It shouldn’t matter who the defense attorney is.”

“It does matter,” he shot back, leaning forward. “Donovan has a way of turning slam dunks into missed shots. Two years ago, we had a fraud case—tight as a drum. Financial records, witness testimony, even a written confession. Donovan convinced the jury the confession was coerced and the witnesses had ulterior motives. Defendant walked.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

Tom shook his head. “Last year, assault case. Surveillance footage showed the defendant throwing the first punch. Donovan argued it was self-defense. Twisted it so well the jury bought it. Mistrial. He’s good, Alex. Really good.”

“So what?” I shot back. “We give him the satisfaction of scaring us off? You said this case is solid.”

“You’re good,” Tom said, rubbing his temple, “but Donovan’s in another league. He’s not just defending his client. He’s building a story, spinning a web, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get caught in it.”

I crossed my arms. “I won’t. I’ve handled everything you’ve thrown at me. This case is no different.”

Tom studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp. “Fine,” he said at last, his voice heavy with reluctance. “But you work with Andrews. He’s been through the wringer on this case, and he’ll keep you grounded. And, Alex…” He fixed me with a stern look. “Don’t let Donovan get in your head.”

TWO

The afternoon air was crisp as I made my way to the precinct, the case file tucked under my arm. The walk from the courthouse wasn’t far, but the steady hum of traffic and the occasional blast of a car horn provided a reprieve to the sterile quiet of my cubicle. I used the time to mentally review the details I’d already pieced together from the file.

Peter Larkin’s scams were as brazen as they were cruel. Door-to-door fraud targeting the elderly wasn’t exactly new, but he had taken it to another level. The victims thought they were securing peace of mind for their families, only to find out their "policies" were worthless.

When I arrived at the precinct, the familiar buzz of controlled chaos greeted me. Officers moved briskly through the halls, radios crackling with updates, and the faint smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air. I followed the directions to Detective Andrews’ office, tucked in a quieter corner of the building.

His workspace reflected his no-nonsense reputation. A stack of files teetered on one corner of the desk, and a half-empty coffee cup sat precariously close to a laptop. Andrews himself was leaning back in his chair, typing something one-handed while flipping through a notepad with the other.

“Detective Andrews?” I said, stepping into the doorway.

He glanced up, his expression shifting from focused to mildly annoyed. “Hayes, right? Tom said you’d be coming by.”

I nodded, holding up the case file. “I’m taking over the Larkin case. Tom said you’d walk me through the investigation.”

“Sure thing.” Andrews gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

I sat and opened the file on his desk, flipping to my notes as Andrews leaned forward.

“What’s your read on it so far?” he asked.

“It’s tight,” I said. “Paper trail, victim statements, even an admission. Feels like it should be a slam dunk, but Tom’s already preparing me for the worst.”

Andrews snorted. “Let me guess—Donovan.”

“What’s the deal with this guy? I know his reputation, but is he really as good as everyone says?”

“He’s better. The guy’s a snake, but he’s smart. He’ll pick at anything even slightly out of place and blow it up into reasonable doubt. I’ve seen him get jury nullifications on cases where the defendant’s prints were on the weapon.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Any advice?”

Andrews leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Don’t let him control the conversation. He’ll try. In pretrial meetings, he’s not there to make nice; he’s there to test you, figure out your strategy, and rattle you. The calmer you are, the more it’ll throw him off.”

“What about the evidence? Anything he’s likely to go after?”

“If I were him?” Andrews said, scratching his chin. “I’d start with the victims. They’re sympathetic, but they’re also elderly, which means he’ll imply they’re unreliable. He might dig into their medical records if he gets a sniff that one of them has memory issues.”

I jotted notes as he spoke, already seeing potential traps Donovan might lay. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Andrews said, his tone serious. “Don’t underestimate how charming he can be. He’ll play the ‘I’m just trying to do my job’ card and lull you into letting something slip. And if he senses you’re green, he’ll push harder. It’s how he works.”

I glanced at my notes. “So, basically, treat him like he’s always two steps ahead.”

“Exactly. And don’t take the bait if he tries to rile you up. He loves to get prosecutors on edge. You’ve got to be the one controlling the tempo.”

“Got it,” I said. “What about the victims? Are they solid?”

Andrews leaned forward again, pulling a separate folder from his desk. “As solid as we can hope for. Three main ones—Margaret Turner, Harold Blake, and Evelyn Connors. Turner and Blake are sharp, sharp enough to spot Larkin as soon as we showed them his photo. Connors is a little more fragile, but her testimony is crucial. She’s the one who let him in. She thought he was a nice young man trying to help.”

I flipped through the folder as Andrews summarized. Photos of the victims stared back at me, each face lined with years of life and now, betrayal.

“We’ve got statements from all of them. Turner’s is airtight. She’s a retired school principal. Blake’s sharp too, but Connors…” He hesitated. “Connors is going to be emotional. Donovan will pick up on that.”

“I’ll make sure she’s prepared,” I said. “What about Larkin? Anything I should know beyond what’s in the file?”

“Not much. Guy’s a con artist through and through. He’s been slippery for years, but this is the first time we’ve had enough to pin him. Just be ready for Donovan to make him look like a misunderstood genius instead of the creep he is.”

I closed the folder, the weight of the case settling onto my shoulders. “Thanks, Detective. This helps.”

Andrews nodded. “One more thing…”

I paused, looking up.

“Don’t let Donovan get too comfortable. Keep it professional but let him know you’re not someone to mess with. He’ll respect that more than trying to play nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, standing and tucking the file under my arm.

“Good luck, Hayes,” Andrews said, turning back to his desk. “You’re going to need it.”

THREE

The law office of Michael Donovan was not at all what I had expected. The building was a single-story brick rancher, squat and unassuming, with a large neon sign out front that read "Donovan & Associates" in garish blue and red letters. Below the sign, a smaller one blinked: "Criminal Defense Specialists." A ramp led up to the front door, which was flanked by two large plate-glass windows. One displayed a poster offering free initial consultations; the other was slightly smudged, giving the whole place a utilitarian feel.

Cars sped by in waves on the busy street behind me as I found a spot near the front ramp. I grabbed the Larkin case file from the passenger seat and stepped out.

I adjusted my bag and stepped up on the ramp, the sound of traffic roaring behind me. The modest building seemed like a calculated move. Donovan could easily afford a sleek office at the top of a high-rise, but this setup made him seem relatable, grounded. It was a clever choice for a defense attorney who needed to connect with a diverse range of clients.

The front door opened into a small waiting area. The carpet was thin and worn in places, and the chairs lining the walls looked like they’d been salvaged from a yard sale. A desk sat against the far wall, behind which a middle-aged receptionist with short, graying hair and glasses perched low on her nose was typing away at a computer. She looked up as I entered, her expression polite but indifferent.

“You must be Ms. Hayes,” she said without preamble. Her voice was as brisk as her demeanor.

“That’s right,” I replied, stepping closer.

“Follow me,” she said, standing with a small sigh and grabbing a clipboard from her desk.

I followed her through a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with framed degrees, certifications, and newspaper articles hailing courtroom victories. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and copier toner.

She stopped in front of a door halfway down the hall, knocked twice, and then opened it. “Mr. Donovan, Ms. Hayes is here.”

“Send her in,” came a smooth, confident voice from within.

I stepped inside, thanking the receptionist before she closed the door behind me. The room was modest but well-kept, with a long wooden conference table at its center. Michael Donovan sat at the far end, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest. He stood as I approached, and for a moment, I was caught off guard.

Based on everything I’d heard about him, I’d pictured an older, seasoned attorney—graying at the temples, maybe a little rumpled, the type who’d been in the game for decades. But Donovan was nothing like that.

He was younger; early thirties, maybe, with dark hair combed back neatly and a clean-shaven jawline that belonged in a cologne ad. His suit was expensive but not flashy, and his tie—a deep burgundy—added a subtle pop of color. He extended a hand as I reached the table.

“Ms. Hayes,” he said warmly. “Michael Donovan. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but not overbearing.

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

I set my bag down and sat, opening the file in front of me as he took his seat again. A legal pad and a slim laptop sat in front of him, along with a bottle of water. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together.

“I’ve been looking over the materials,” he said, his tone conversational. “Quite a case you’ve got here.”

I nodded. “It’s straightforward. Fraud charges with a strong paper trail and corroborating witnesses.”

“Straightforward is good,” he said, smiling. “Though I’m sure we’ll have a few things to discuss as we move forward.”

“Of course,” I replied. “That’s why we’re here.”

He chuckled softly. “Right to business. I like that.”

I didn’t respond, keeping my expression neutral. He was trying to disarm me, that much was clear. Donovan had a reputation for being charming, and it was easy to see why. But I wasn’t about to let him steer the conversation.

“Let’s talk about scheduling. We’ll need to set a hearing with the judge to finalize the order.”

“Agreed,” he said smoothly. “I was thinking next Thursday. Would that work for you?”

“I’ll confirm with the court,” I said, making a note. “Anything else you’d like to address?”

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if in thought. “Just a few clarifications. For instance, I’d like to know how many witnesses you plan to call. Might help streamline things.”

“We’ll be finalizing our list shortly,” I said, sidestepping the question. “You’ll receive it well before the deadline.”

“Of course. And the confession...you’re planning to introduce that, I assume?”

I met his gaze evenly. “It’s admissible. Why wouldn’t we?”

He shrugged, his expression one of practiced nonchalance. “Just curious. You know how these things can be. Procedural issues, Miranda rights. Little details can become big problems.”

“Everything was done by the book. If you’re hoping to argue otherwise, you’ll have an uphill battle.”

He laughed softly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No battles here, Ms. Hayes. Just a friendly conversation.”

‘Friendly’ wasn’t the word I’d use, but I kept that thought to myself. He was probing, testing for weaknesses. It was subtle, but it was there.

His smile didn’t waver when he said, “About the filing deadlines—are you planning to stagger discovery? Or will it all come in one batch?”

I tilted my head, measuring my response. “We’ll comply with the court’s timeline. You’ll get what you need when it’s due.”

“Fair enough. I’m just trying to avoid any surprises—for either of us.”

“Surprises are part of the process.”

Donovan chuckled, tapping his pen against his notepad. “True, true. Though I’ve found that transparency can be a great tool for efficiency."

"And for probing," I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course, just doing my due diligence. You know how these things go.”

"I do."

He leaned back again, feigning a relaxed posture. “I see you’re not one for sharing."

" I'm all for sharing, Mr. Donovan," I said, leaning back myself. "I'll happily listen to you share the details of your entire case strategy. Did you want to start with your witnesses? Or should we move on to how you're going to handle the confession?"

Donovan almost looked chipper at my response. "Seems I may have underestimated you, Ms. Hayes."

"A mistake I'm sure you won't repeat."

He shook his head. "No, I don't think I will."

By the time we stood to shake hands, I felt like I’d just sparred through a polite interrogation.

“This has been productive,” Donovan said, his smile never faltering. “I’ll see you in court, Ms. Hayes.”

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, meeting his handshake with equal firmness. His charm didn’t fool me—not entirely, at least.

FOUR

I sat at my desk, the case file sprawled open before me. My laptop was in the center of the table, surrounded by legal pads filled with notes and printouts of the procedural steps the police had taken to wiretap Peter Larkin’s phone calls. Donovan’s offhand comments during our meeting wouldn't leave my mind. I had to figure out where he was going to strike.

The knock on the cubicle wall was quick, almost impatient. I glanced up to see Detective Andrews leaning casually against the partition, a coffee cup in one hand and a folder in the other.

“You look busy,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

"Yeah," I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I met with Donovan yesterday."

"How'd that go?" Andrews asked, moving a pile of papers off the only other chair and sitting down.

“Fine. He’s charming, I’ll give him that. But the whole time, he was probing.”

“That’s Donovan for you,” Andrews said, then gestured to the stacks of notes in front of me. “What's all this about?"

"The wiretap. Donovan brought it up during our meeting, and now it’s stuck in my head. I’m trying to figure out how he’s going to attack it.”

Andrews raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about the wiretap? That’s the strongest part of the case.”

"I'm not worried," I lied.

Andrews deadpanned. "Right. Because none of this screams worry. What did he say to get you so riled up?"

“He didn’t say much,” I admitted. “Just enough to make me think he’s planning to go after it. Now I’m worried he’ll attack it before trial.” I paused. "I’m not worried. Just mildly concerned."

Andrews leaned forward, his expression serious. “Hayes, I was part of that interrogation. I can tell you right now, the recording's solid. You’re wasting energy second-guessing it.”

“Exactly,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “It’s almost too strong. He’s going to argue that something’s wrong with it. Miranda violations, coercion, improper protocol, something. If he can throw it out, we lose our biggest piece of evidence.”

“Have you listened to it yet?”

“Not since I got the file,” I admitted. “I’ve been going through the procedural notes first.”

He set his coffee cup down and nodded toward my computer. “Let’s hear it. Might as well get a fresh set of ears on it.”

I clicked on the file embedded in the case notes, and the computer’s speakers came alive with the scratchy recording of a phone call. Larkin’s voice was casual, almost smug, as he spoke to someone on the other end.

“Yeah, it’s all set. The old lady bought the whole thing—hook, line, and sinker. She thinks her family’s getting a premium policy. Joke’s on her, huh?”

A muffled voice responded, too quiet to make out the words. Larkin laughed in response, sharp and grating. “Of course it’s legit, on paper. That’s the beauty of it. They don’t know the difference until it’s too late. Easy money, man. Easy money.”

He paused before adding, “Margaret Turner? Easiest mark yet. Didn’t even hesitate to write the check. Over ten grand this month alone. Suckers, all of them.”

The call ended abruptly, the recording cutting out with a faint click. The silence that followed felt heavy, as though the room itself was digesting what we’d just heard.

Andrews leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “That’s not exactly a confession, but it’s pretty damn close. Guy practically gift-wrapped his conviction.”

“I agree,” I said, flipping through my notes. “But Donovan doesn’t take cases he doesn’t think he can win. There must be something he’s planning to challenge.”

“What about the procedure? Have you gone through how we got the tap?”

I nodded, pulling out a page from the file. “The police got a warrant after one of the victims came forward with bank records showing fraudulent withdrawals. The judge signed off, and the tap was placed on Larkin’s phone. Everything was done by the book—at least on paper.”

“Then Donovan’s probably just fishing. He’ll throw anything at the wall and see what sticks.”

I sighed, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk. “It’s frustrating. I feel like I’m missing something, but I can’t figure out what.”

Andrews gave me a pointed look. “Don’t let him get in your head, Hayes. That’s what he wants. The recording's solid. The procedure’s clean. You’ve got this.”

“Easier said than done.”

He stood, grabbing his coffee cup. “Take a break. Go for a walk, grab food, do something that doesn’t involve staring at this file. You’ve got a few days before the pretrial hearing. Don’t burn yourself out before you even get to court.”

I nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. I’ll step away for a bit.”

“Good,” he said, heading for the door. “And if you need a fresh perspective, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Andrews.”

Left alone in the quiet of my cubicle, I stared at the case file. Andrews was right—everything looked airtight. But the nagging feeling that I was missing something wouldn’t go away. Donovan was too good to rely on vague arguments. He had to have a plan. And I needed to figure out what it was before Thursday.

FIVE

By the time Thursday rolled around, I was ready. More than ready. I’d spent the last few days combing through every procedural detail surrounding the wiretap, rehearsing counterarguments to anything Donovan might throw at me. If he wanted to challenge the admissibility of the evidence, I’d meet him head-on.

Walking into the courtroom, I felt a rare sense of confidence. Donovan was already seated at the defense table, his papers spread out in neat piles. He glanced up as I entered, his expression shifting into an easy smile.

“Ms. Hayes,” he said warmly, as though we were old friends meeting for coffee instead of adversaries in a criminal case. “Good morning.”

“Mr. Donovan,” I replied, keeping my tone curt as I set my briefcase down. I forced myself to focus on my notes instead of the disarming charm he wore like a second skin.

The clerk stood and called the courtroom to order. The judge, a no-nonsense woman with graying hair and sharp eyes, entered and took her seat.

“Let’s get started,” she said. “We’re here for a pretrial scheduling hearing in the matter of the People v. Larkin. Appearances for the record?”

I stood briefly. “Alex Hayes for the People, Your Honor.”

Donovan rose with a slight nod. “Michael Donovan for the defense, Your Honor.”

The judge gestured toward the clerk. “All right. Let’s go over the trial schedule.”

The clerk cleared her throat, a stack of forms in front of her. “Jury selection is set to begin two weeks from Monday, Your Honor. Both parties have agreed to the standard discovery timeline, with any motions in limine to be filed no later than one week prior to trial.”

“Any issues with those dates?” the judge asked, glancing between Donovan and me.

“None from the People, Your Honor.”

Donovan shook his head. “No issues, Your Honor.”

The judge made a few notes on her docket. “Good. Let’s set the next pretrial conference for next Thursday at ten a.m. to address any pending matters. Anything else from the prosecution?”

I opened my notebook, ready to bring up my prepared notes on the wiretap, but Donovan’s voice cut through the air before I could speak.

“Actually, Your Honor, there is one matter from the defense.”

My stomach tightened. This was it. The wiretap. I shifted in my seat, preparing for the argument I’d rehearsed.

“I’d like to address the prosecution’s witness lineup.”

I blinked, caught off guard. The witness lineup? I hadn’t prepared for this.

“Specifically, the inclusion of Ms. Evelyn Connors. Based on the information available, I have concerns about her competence to testify. It’s my understanding that she’s on medications that could impair her memory and cognition. I believe this raises serious questions about the reliability of her testimony.”

The judge turned to me. “Ms. Hayes?”

I fumbled with my notes, flipping pages that suddenly felt useless. “Your Honor, the defense’s concerns are premature. Competency issues are something that can be addressed during trial through cross-examination. This is a scheduling hearing, not the appropriate forum for this type of challenge.”

Donovan didn’t miss a beat. “Respectfully, Your Honor, it’s the prosecution’s responsibility to ensure their witnesses are competent before bringing them to trial. Ms. Connors’ condition raises questions that could undermine the fairness of these proceedings.”

The judge’s sharp gaze lingered on Donovan for a moment before turning back to me. “Ms. Hayes, do you have any response to the specific concerns raised by the defense?”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand. “Your Honor, the People have reviewed all witness statements and medical records available to us, and we are confident in Ms. Connors’ ability to testify. As I said, this is a matter better suited for trial.”

The judge nodded slowly. “I’ll deny the defense’s motion at this time. However, I expect both sides to be prepared to address this issue thoroughly should it arise during trial.”

“Understood, Your Honor.” Donovan sat down with a satisfied air, which made me question whether his entire tactic was just to rile me up.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I took my own seat again. My hands felt clammy against my notebook.

The judge wrapped up the rest of the administrative matters quickly, and the hearing adjourned. As I gathered my papers, Donovan approached me, his smile as polished as ever.

“Well argued, Ms. Hayes,” he said, his tone warm. “I’m looking forward to seeing how this unfolds.”

I forced a tight smile. “I’m sure it will be an interesting trial.”

As I slipped past him and out of the courtroom, a realization hit me like a sucker punch. That motion wasn’t just a challenge—it was a test. Donovan had been watching me, gauging how I thought on my feet, how I responded under pressure. And I’d given him exactly what he wanted: a glimpse of my inexperience.

Back at the office, I dropped into my chair, the case file still clutched in my hands. My mind raced, replaying the hearing over and over. Donovan’s move wasn’t just about Ms. Connors. It was about learning how I’d handle being blindsided. He’d gained valuable insight into my weaknesses.

SIX

The courtroom buzzed with quiet energy as I adjusted my papers at the prosecution table. The polished oak benches gleamed under the harsh overhead lights, and the faint scent of lemon cleaner lingered in the air. Spectators—mostly journalists and curious members of the public—filled the back rows, their murmurs blending into a low hum of anticipation. The jury box sat empty for now, but the weight of what was to come made the space feel alive, as though the walls themselves were waiting for the trial to begin.

Peter Larkin, the defendant, sat at the defense table next to Donovan. Larkin was in his mid-thirties but looked older, his face pale and gaunt under the courtroom lights. His suit, an ill-fitting navy number, hung off his frame like it belonged to someone else. He kept his head down, occasionally whispering to Donovan, who nodded reassuringly. Despite his meek appearance, there was a tension in his posture—a sense that he was always on edge, ready to bolt if given the chance.

Donovan, on the other hand, was the picture of calm confidence. He leaned back in his chair, his arms resting casually on the armrests as though this was just another day at the office. His suit was sharp, his tie perfectly knotted, and his expression unreadable.

“Good morning, Ms. Hayes,” Donovan said, his voice smooth as ever. “Ready for the show?”

“Good morning, Mr. Donovan.” I glanced up from my notes, keeping my face neutral. “I’m ready to present the truth.”

His smile widened slightly. “Truth is a funny thing. It’s all about perspective.”

“We’ll see what the jury thinks.”

Before he could respond, the bailiff entered, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. “All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Meredith Fulton presiding.”

Everyone stood as Judge Fulton entered, her black robe flowing as she took her seat behind the bench. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, settling briefly on me, then Donovan, before moving on.

“Please be seated,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.

We all sat as the clerk called the case. “This is the matter of the People v. Peter Larkin, case number 23-4765. Counsel, please state your appearances for the record.”

“Alex Hayes for the People, Your Honor.”

“Michael Donovan for the defense, Your Honor.”

Judge Fulton nodded. “Thank you. Bring in the jury.”

The side door opened, and the jurors filed in one by one, their expressions a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Twelve faces and two alternates settled into the jury box, their gazes darting between me, Donovan, and Larkin. Some looked eager, others wary, but all of them were here to decide one thing: Larkin’s guilt.

Judge Fulton addressed the jury, her tone measured. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. You have been selected to serve as jurors in this case, and it is your duty to listen to the evidence presented and render a verdict based solely on the facts and the law as I instruct you. Keep an open mind, and do not form any opinions until you have heard all the evidence and my instructions. Are we clear?”

The jurors nodded in unison.

“Good,” Fulton said. “The prosecution may proceed with opening statements.”

I stood, smoothing the front of my blazer as I stepped toward the jury. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to channel the energy into my words.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I began, my voice steady, “today, you will hear a story about trust, betrayal, and the devastating impact of greed. Peter Larkin didn’t just steal money from his victims—he stole their sense of security, their belief that they could trust the people who came to their door.”

I glanced at Larkin, who kept his head down, then back at the jury. “Mr. Larkin targeted some of the most vulnerable members of our community: the elderly. People who worked their entire lives to save something for their families. People who believed him when he said he was offering them peace of mind. But what he offered was a lie, and he profited handsomely from it.”

I walked slowly toward the jury box, meeting the eyes of each juror as I continued. “You will hear from Margaret Turner, a retired school principal who believed she was buying a legitimate insurance policy to protect her grandchildren. Instead, she lost thousands of dollars to a scam. You will see the financial records that show how Mr. Larkin drained the bank accounts of his victims, leaving them with nothing but broken promises. And you will hear the wiretap recording in which Mr. Larkin himself describes his actions in his own words—actions he now seeks to deny.”

I paused, letting the weight of my words settle. “At the end of this trial, the evidence will show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Peter Larkin is guilty of the charges against him. And when that time comes, I will ask you to hold him accountable for the harm he has caused. Thank you.”

I returned to my seat, my pulse still racing as I glanced at Donovan. His expression was unreadable, but I could feel his eyes on me, calculating his next move. The judge nodded toward him.

“Mr. Donovan, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

SEVEN

Donovan stood with the kind of confidence that came from years of owning the room. He adjusted his jacket and walked toward the jury with an easy smile, his movements deliberate but not theatrical. He didn’t carry notes, and that alone sent a small pang of apprehension through me.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice smooth and warm, as though he were welcoming the jury into his home for coffee. “First of all, let me thank you for being here today. I know serving on a jury can sometimes feel like an inconvenience. But it’s also one of the most important roles in our justice system, and we’re lucky to have you here.”

A few jurors nodded, some smiling faintly. Donovan had their attention.

He paused, gesturing toward Peter Larkin at the defense table. “Now, let’s talk about this man. Peter Larkin. You’ve heard the prosecution say a lot of things about him already. That he’s a liar, a cheat, a scam artist. But what I’m asking you to do is to reserve judgment. Because the truth is rarely as simple as the prosecution would have you believe.”

He paced slowly, keeping his eyes on the jurors, his tone conversational. “You see, Mr. Larkin’s story isn’t just about what’s written in the prosecution’s neatly organized file folders. It’s about real life—and real life, as we all know, is messy. People make mistakes. Misunderstandings happen. And sometimes, people are accused of things they didn’t do simply because they’re an easy target.”

Donovan stopped in front of the jury box, his smile widening. “Now, I’m not going to stand here and tell you that Peter Larkin is perfect. He’s human, just like the rest of us. And like all humans, he’s made mistakes. But what I will prove to you, beyond any doubt, is that the prosecution’s story doesn’t add up. Their evidence isn’t as solid as they’d like you to think. And their conclusions?” He shrugged lightly, his hands outstretched. “Let’s just say they’re built on shaky ground.”

A couple of jurors exchanged glances, and my pulse quickened. Donovan’s delivery was seamless, calculated. He wasn’t just talking to the jury. He was engaging them, drawing them into his narrative.

“Take the witnesses, for example,” Donovan continued, his tone lightening. “You’ll hear from people who believe they were wronged. And I’m not here to suggest otherwise. But belief, ladies and gentlemen, is not the same as fact. Memories can be unreliable. Details can get fuzzy. And when someone is convinced that a wrong has been done, they sometimes fill in the blanks themselves.”

He leaned slightly on the jury box railing, as if sharing a secret. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen anyone get every detail of a story right on the first try. Have you?”

A soft chuckle rippled through the jury. Donovan’s smile widened, and I clenched my fists under the table. He was charming them effortlessly, turning the sterile courtroom into his personal stage.

“And then there’s the wiretap,” he said, his tone growing serious. “A recording of Mr. Larkin, which the prosecution will argue is a smoking gun. But recordings can be misleading. Context matters. Who was he talking to? What was the tone? The intent? These are questions you’ll have to wrestle with, because the prosecution won’t offer you the full story. They’ll offer you snippets, carefully curated to fit their narrative.”

Donovan straightened, his expression softening as he addressed the jury again. “At the end of this trial, my job is not to ask you to like Peter Larkin. It’s not even to convince you that he’s a saint. My job is to show you that the evidence doesn’t prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he’s guilty of these charges. And when I do that, I trust you will see the truth for what it is.”

He walked back to the defense table, his voice lowering slightly. “Because, ladies and gentlemen, doubt isn’t just a part of the system. Doubt is the system. Without it, there’s no fairness, no balance. And I have every confidence that you will approach this case with that principle in mind.”

Donovan returned to his seat, his movements unhurried. The courtroom was quiet, the jurors visibly absorbed in his performance.

The judge cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Donovan. The prosecution may call its first witness.”

EIGHT

The courtroom felt colder when I stood to call my first witness. Donovan’s opening statement had done its job, leaving the jury primed to scrutinize every word that came out of my witnesses’ mouths. I glanced at the jury box as I adjusted my blazer, noting the way a few jurors already seemed skeptical, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“The People call Mrs. Margaret Turner to the stand,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

Mrs. Turner was frail but dignified as she made her way to the witness stand. Her white hair was pinned back neatly, and her hands trembled as she was sworn in. She looked at me with watery eyes, and I felt the weight of her trust settle heavily on my shoulders. This wasn’t just a case to her. This was her life.

“Mrs. Turner, could you please state your name for the record?”

“Margaret Turner,” she said, her voice soft but clear.

I stepped closer, keeping my tone gentle. “Mrs. Turner, can you tell the court why you’re here today?”

She swallowed hard, clutching the edges of the witness stand. “Because that man”—she pointed a shaky finger toward Peter Larkin—“took everything I had. He told me he was selling me an insurance policy that would help my grandchildren if something happened to me. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.”

“What did Mr. Larkin tell you when he came to your door?”

“He said he worked for a reputable insurance company,” she replied. “He showed me papers… contracts, brochures. Everything looked real. He said if I gave him a check that day, he’d waive the sign-up fees.”

“And did you give him a check?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “I gave him everything in my savings account. Ten thousand dollars. I thought I was doing the right thing for my family.”

“What happened when you tried to contact the insurance company?”

Her lips trembled. “I found out they didn’t exist. When I called the number he gave me, it was disconnected. I tried to get my money back, but it was gone. All of it.”

“And how did that make you feel, Mrs. Turner?”

She wiped at her eyes with a tissue. “It made me feel stupid. Like I should have known better. But he was so convincing. I trusted him, and he betrayed me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Turner,” I said, stepping back toward the prosecution table. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I sat down, feeling a flicker of relief. Mrs. Turner had done well. Her story was heartbreaking, her pain palpable. But when the judge turned to Donovan, my stomach sank.

“Mr. Donovan, your cross.”

Donovan stood, buttoning his jacket with a casual confidence that sent a ripple of unease through me. He approached the stand slowly, giving the jury a quick smile before turning his attention to Mrs. Turner.

“Good morning, Mrs. Turner,” he said warmly. “Thank you for being here today. I know this must be difficult for you.”

She nodded hesitantly.

“Mrs. Turner, you mentioned earlier that Mr. Larkin showed you some documents when he visited your home. Do you recall what those documents looked like?”

“Yes,” she said. “They were… papers. Contracts with his company’s logo on them.”

“And did you keep any of those documents?”

She hesitated. “No. He took them with him after I signed.”

Donovan tilted his head, his voice softening. “So, you didn’t have anything to show your family or anyone else after he left?”

“No,” she admitted.

He nodded sympathetically. “That must have been upsetting for you.”

“It was.”

“Mrs. Turner, do you recall what Mr. Larkin was wearing that day?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I… I think he was wearing a suit.”

“A suit?” Donovan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Was it gray? Blue? Black?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I said, standing quickly. “Relevance.”

Donovan turned to the judge with a practiced smile. “Your Honor, the witness’s ability to recall key details is directly relevant to her credibility.”

The judge glanced at me, then back at Donovan. “Overruled. But get to the point, Mr. Donovan.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” Donovan said smoothly before turning back to Mrs. Turner. “Mrs. Turner, was it gray? Blue? Black?”

She frowned, her hands trembling slightly. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“That’s understandable. It’s been a while. These details can be hard to keep straight. Do you remember what time of day he came by?”

“It was in the afternoon,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Are you sure? Not the morning? Or maybe early evening?”

She hesitated, her brow furrowing. “I think it was afternoon.”

“But you’re not certain?”

“No,” she admitted.

Donovan stepped back slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Mrs. Turner, would you say your memory of that day is perfectly clear, or are some of the details a little fuzzy?”

No, don’t say it, I silently pleaded. I gripped my pen, willing her to hold her ground. She’d been through enough—she deserved to feel confident in her truth. But as her shoulders sagged and her gaze dropped to her hands, I knew what was coming.

“Some of the details are fuzzy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

My stomach sank, frustration flaring behind my calm exterior. Donovan had gotten exactly what he wanted, and the jury’s attention shifted with quiet skepticism.

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Donovan turned back to his seat with a small, satisfied smile.

I clenched my fists under the table, my mind racing. He hadn’t discredited her story outright, but he’d planted seeds of doubt. Doubt about her memory, her reliability. And the jury had been watching every moment, their expressions hard to read.

As I prepared for the next witness, a gnawing thought settled in my mind. Donovan wasn’t just attacking my case. He was attacking me, testing whether I had the skill to hold this together. And for the first time, I wondered if I did too.

NINE

The trial had taken on a rhythm, one that I hated. Witness after witness stepped up to the stand, recounting their experiences with Peter Larkin. Margaret Turner, Harold Blake, even a former neighbor who’d seen him coming and going from the victims’ homes. Each told their story, and each time Donovan took his turn, he didn’t attack outright. Instead, he chipped away at their credibility with subtle, pointed questions. Did they remember the exact dates? Were they sure it was Larkin they’d seen? Had they spoken to each other before reporting him? By the time I called Detective Andrews to the stand, I felt the weight of the jury’s wavering trust pressing on my shoulders.

“The People call Detective Daniel Andrews to the stand,” I said, rising from my chair. Andrews strode to the witness box, his presence a welcome change from the vulnerable victims. He was steady, confident, and methodical. He was who I needed to turn this around.

After the formalities, I began. “Detective Andrews, can you tell the jury about your role in this investigation?”

Andrews leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped on the railing. “I was the lead detective. I oversaw the interviews with the victims, collected evidence, and coordinated the wiretap that ultimately captured Mr. Larkin incriminating himself.”

I nodded, keeping my tone professional but engaging. “Let’s talk about that wiretap. Can you explain how it was obtained?”

“We received a tip from one of the victims about suspicious withdrawals,” Andrews said. “That gave us enough probable cause to request a wiretap from the judge, who signed off on it after reviewing our evidence.”

“And did the wiretap produce any results?”

“It did. We intercepted a phone call between Mr. Larkin and an associate where he explicitly discussed his scam and how much money he was making.”

I turned to the evidence table, lifting the labeled USB drive. “Your Honor, the People move to introduce Exhibit 12, the wiretap recording, into evidence.”

Donovan stood, his movements deliberate. “Objection, Your Honor.”

My chest tightened as I glanced toward him.

“On what grounds?” the judge asked.

Donovan adjusted his tie, his voice calm and measured. “The defense contends that the wiretap was obtained illegally due to a procedural oversight. Specifically, the authorization granted by the judge may have exceeded jurisdictional limits as defined by a recent Supreme Court ruling.”

The judge frowned, her gaze sharpening. “Counsel, approach the bench.”

Before I could process what was happening, the judge added, “Actually, both of you, my chambers. Now.”

The judge’s chambers were cramped, the air thick with tension. She sat behind her desk, leaning forward, her eyes darting between us as Donovan began to speak.

“Your Honor,” Donovan said smoothly, “in the case of United States v. Darrah, the Supreme Court held that wiretap authorizations must be narrowly tailored to the judge’s jurisdiction. Upon reviewing the magistrate’s order in this case, it’s clear the language could be interpreted to permit wiretapping beyond the issuing judge’s jurisdiction. That makes the evidence inadmissible.”

The judge’s brow furrowed, and she turned to me. “Ms. Hayes?”

I gripped my notes, my mind scrambling. I’d reviewed the wiretap a dozen times, but this wasn’t an angle I’d considered. “Your Honor, while the defense’s interpretation may be one way to read the language, the People argue that the scope of the authorization was appropriate for this case. The judge’s intent was clear, and there’s no indication the wiretap exceeded its intended jurisdiction.”

Donovan cut in, his tone polite but firm. “Intent is irrelevant, Your Honor. The law is clear: if there’s ambiguity, the evidence must be excluded.”

The judge held up a hand, silencing him. “Ms. Hayes, is there any precedent you can cite to counter the defense’s argument?”

My throat went dry. “I...I wasn’t aware of the Darrah ruling until now, Your Honor. I would need time to⁠—”

“Time is something we don’t have.” The judge’s expression softened, but her tone remained firm. “Let me confer with my clerk.”

She stepped out, leaving Donovan and me in an unbearable silence. He didn’t smirk right away, but his confidence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. After a beat, he glanced over at me, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

“Tough break, Hayes,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “But hey, you’ll get the next one, right?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to take the bait. “It’s not over yet.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the wall as if we were discussing the weather. “That’s the spirit. But you know, it’s these little details that matter. A procedural oversight here, a jurisdictional hiccup there. They have a way of unraveling things.”

“You got lucky,” I said, sharper than I intended.

“Luck? Oh no, Ms. Hayes. This”—he gestured toward the empty judge’s chair—“is preparation. You should try it sometime.”

My fingers curled into fists at my sides, but I forced myself to remain still. The judge’s return interrupted the tension, and Donovan’s smirk faded just enough to make him look professional again.

As the judge sat down, she sighed, her decision already written on her face. “I’m sustaining the objection. The recording is excluded.”

I swallowed hard.

The judge returned to the bench swiftly, her gavel cracking once to call the room to order. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will be taking a short recess. Please remember not to discuss the case with anyone.”

As the jury filed out, I stayed rooted to my seat, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. The wiretap had been my ace, and now it was gone.

Donovan leaned over as he gathered his papers, his voice low. “Good try, Ms. Hayes. But you’ll need more than that to win.”

I didn’t respond, my jaw tight as I watched him leave the courtroom. For the first time since the trial had begun, the sting of defeat settled in my chest. Without the recording, the case would unravel, and I had to figure out how to hold it together before it was too late.

TEN

Andrews leaned over, his voice low. “Come on, let’s get some air.”

I nodded, grabbing my jacket as I followed him out of the courtroom. My head was buzzing with static, and every step toward the courthouse doors felt heavier. Outside, the sun was bright and sharp, the air cool against my skin. Andrews led me to a bench on the steps, plopping down heavily as he pulled a pack of gum from his pocket.

“Want one?” he asked, holding it out.

I shook my head, sitting beside him. “No, thanks.”

He popped a piece in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Trying to quit smoking,” he said, giving me a sideways glance. “Figured gum’s better than coughing my lungs out. It’s not the same, though. Hard to shake the real thing once you’re hooked.”

The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. The case felt the same—like something I couldn’t shake, no matter how hard I tried.

After a moment, he said, “You looked like you wanted to strangle someone in there.”

“I did,” I admitted, rubbing my temples. “That wiretap was our strongest piece of evidence, and Donovan knew exactly how to rip it away. Without it, I don’t know if we have enough to convict.”

Andrews exhaled, leaning back against the bench. “We still have the victims. Their stories are powerful.”

I scoffed. “He’s poked holes in every witness we’ve called so far. They don’t even have to believe he’s innocent. They just have to have reasonable doubt.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Andrews said, but his tone was hesitant.

Before I could respond, Tom’s voice cut through the noise of passing cars and murmuring pedestrians. “There you are.”

I glanced up to see him striding toward us, his tie loosened and his expression grim. “What’s going on?”

Tom didn’t bother sitting. He crossed his arms, towering over us. “I think we need to approach Donovan about a plea deal.”

My stomach dropped. “Tom, it’s too early for that.”

“It’s not,” he said sharply. “Without the recording, this case is a coin toss at best. A plea deal guarantees some accountability. A not-guilty verdict leaves us with nothing.”

I stood, facing him. “If we push for a plea now, we’re admitting weakness. Donovan will smell blood in the water, and the deal he’ll offer won’t be worth it.”

Tom shook his head. “Unless you have another plan, this is the best option we have.”

“Give me until the end of the day,” I said, my voice firm. “Let me figure something out.”

Tom folded his arms tighter, his frown deepening. “Why should I? You got the recording tossed out. What exactly have you done so far to inspire confidence?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Andrews cut in, his tone sharp. “She didn’t get it tossed. Donovan did. She can’t fight established case law, Tom. You know that as well as anyone.”

Tom turned to Andrews, his eyes narrowing. “This is attorney business. Maybe stick to detective work.”

Andrews crossed his arms to mirror Tom’s posture. “I’ve been in the trenches on this case since day one. I know how hard Hayes is working to keep the case from falling apart. Maybe instead of throwing her under the bus, you let her do her job.”

“Enough.” Tom turned back to me, frustration radiating off him. “Unless you have a plan—and I mean a real plan—this case is headed for a plea deal.”

I held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Give me the rest of the day, and I will have something. I promise.”

Tom stared at me for a long moment before throwing up his hands. “Fine. End of the day. That’s it.” He stormed off, heading back toward the courthouse, his footsteps heavy on the concrete.

Andrews let out a low whistle. “You sure know how to pick your battles.”

I exhaled, the tension finally starting to ease. “Thanks for backing me up.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just figure something out, Hayes. You’re not the only one counting on this.” With that, he headed back inside, leaving me alone on the bench to piece together a strategy from what little I had left.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I stared at the courthouse steps. My mind raced, replaying every move Donovan had made, every twist he’d thrown at me. He’d turned the strongest piece of evidence into a liability. How could I twist it back on him?

The faint sound of a conversation caught my ear as I sat there, lost in thought. Two lawyers stood near the courthouse entrance, their voices low but distinct.

“We’ll have him testify to the document’s contents,” one said, gesturing with his folder. “Even if we can’t find the original, he’s reviewed it enough to make it credible.”

I frowned, my head tilting slightly as I honed in on their words. The gears in my mind started turning. Could that work? My pulse quickened as the idea began to form.

The wiretap recording was gone. But Andrews had listened to it, reviewed it extensively, and knew every word spoken in that damning phone call. If he testified to what he heard, it might still land. I frowned, knowing Donovan would probably object, arguing hearsay or invoking the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine. It wasn’t a guaranteed win. But if I could frame it just right—make it clear the jury deserved to hear the contents of that call, highlight Donovan’s attempt to suppress it—it could make him look like he was trying to hide something. That might be enough to turn the jury in my favor. Sure, it wasn’t the slam-dunk evidence I’d wanted, but it was something. And right now, I needed anything.

The recess ended too soon, and before I knew it, we were back in the courtroom. The judge returned to the bench, her expression as unreadable as ever. She rapped her gavel lightly. “Court is back in session. Ms. Hayes, are you ready to proceed?”

I stood, smoothing my blazer. “Yes, Your Honor. The People would like to call Detective Andrews back to the stand.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Donovan’s face, but he quickly masked it. The judge nodded. “Detective Andrews, please take the stand.”

As Andrews made his way back to the witness box, determination surged through me. This wasn’t the plan I’d started with, but it was the best move I had left.

ELEVEN

I stood, smoothing my blazer and walking to the center of the courtroom, trying to exude a confidence I wasn’t entirely feeling.

“Detective Andrews,” I began, turning to face him. “We previously discussed your involvement in this investigation, including your review of the wiretap recording. Can you describe the contents of that recording for the court?”

Before Andrews could answer, Donovan was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This matter has already been decided. The wiretap has been excluded from evidence.”

“Your Honor, I’m not attempting to admit the recording itself. I’m asking Detective Andrews to testify to its contents. The wiretap was excluded on procedural grounds, not because the information it contained was invalid.”

Donovan took a step toward the bench, his tone dripping with feigned incredulity. “This is clearly fruit of the poisonous tree. If the recording was obtained illegally, then anything derived from it must also be excluded.”

“Your Honor, the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine applies to evidence obtained through illegal police conduct. This was an administrative oversight regarding the jurisdiction of the judge’s authorization. It wasn’t improper police work.”

The judge raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Ms. Hayes, are you suggesting this falls outside the doctrine entirely?”

I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. The issue here isn’t police misconduct; it’s a technicality in the wording of the authorization. Detective Andrews’ testimony about the recording’s contents is still admissible because it’s not the physical recording being introduced—just his recollection.”

I turned toward Donovan briefly, sensing his frustration building. Then I pivoted back to the judge, softening my tone. “Your Honor, this isn’t about undermining rules. It’s about ensuring that the jury has a full understanding of the facts. Detective Andrews’ testimony provides context without violating the procedural ruling.”

The judge glanced between us, her gaze lingering on Donovan, who was now gripping the back of his chair. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll allow it. Mr. Donovan, unless you have another objection, I’d like Ms. Hayes to proceed.”

Donovan straightened, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a hint of annoyance. “Your Honor, this is still hearsay. Detective Andrews is testifying to the defendant’s words without the actual recording being entered as evidence.”

“Your Honor, I’m not asking Detective Andrews to testify to the truth of what was said on the recording. His testimony goes to the intent of the defendant—what Peter Larkin was thinking at the time he made the call. Intent is a key element of this case, and it’s not excluded under the hearsay rule.”

The judge’s lips twitched, almost as if she was enjoying the back-and-forth. She turned to Donovan. “Anything further, Mr. Donovan?”

He hesitated, clearly unhappy but without a strong rebuttal. “No, Your Honor.”

“Then the objection is overruled,” she said, her tone final. “Ms. Hayes, you may proceed.”

I allowed myself a small breath of relief before turning back to Andrews. “Detective, can you tell the jury what you heard on the recording?”

Andrews nodded. “Yes. During the call, Peter Larkin was speaking with another individual about his operation. He referred to his activities as ‘easy money’ and laughed about how he’d convinced his victims to sign fake insurance policies.”

I stepped closer to the jury box, making sure to engage them. “Detective, did Mr. Larkin specifically mention any of his victims during this call?”

“He did,” Andrews replied. “He referred to one victim—Margaret Turner—and said she had been his ‘easiest mark yet.’ He bragged about how she didn’t even hesitate to write the check.”

I glanced at the jury, noting their reactions. Some looked shocked; others leaned forward, clearly engaged.

“Did Mr. Larkin discuss the amount of money he had taken?” I asked.

“Yes,” Andrews said. “He mentioned specific amounts. He said he had collected over fifty thousand dollars from his victims that month alone.”

I nodded, letting the weight of Andrews’ words settle in the room before continuing. “Detective, based on your review of this recording, what was your impression of Mr. Larkin’s attitude toward his victims?”

Andrews’ expression hardened. “He showed no remorse. To him, it was all a joke. He laughed about it and referred to his victims as ‘suckers.’”

I turned back to the jury. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I returned to my seat, watching as Donovan rose for his cross-examination. But for the first time during this trial, I’d landed a solid hit. The jury had heard Larkin’s own words, even if indirectly, and the disgust on their faces was unmistakable.

TWELVE

The rest of Donovan’s case played out faster than I expected. For all his charm and strategy, his side wasn’t as strong as I’d feared. He presented a few character witnesses—a former neighbor, an old coworker—each trying to paint Peter Larkin as an upstanding, misunderstood man. But the cracks were obvious. Their testimony came across as rehearsed, and none of it addressed the mountain of evidence we’d already laid out.

It became clear to me that Donovan had been banking on the wiretap being excluded. Without that as the centerpiece of our case, he likely assumed we’d falter, leaving the door open for reasonable doubt. But with Andrews’ testimony about the recording’s contents, I could feel the jury’s disgust building. They didn’t need to hear Larkin’s voice to know exactly what kind of man he was.

When Donovan rested his case, the judge looked at the clock, then at the courtroom. “We’ll take a short recess before closing arguments. Please be back in the courtroom in thirty minutes. Court is adjourned.” Her gavel struck, and the room emptied quickly.

I stepped outside, the crisp air a welcome relief after the tension of the courtroom. Andrews was already there, leaning against one of the stone columns with his arms crossed.

“So, what do you think?” he asked as I approached.

I sighed, crossing my arms to mirror his stance. “I think Donovan’s case wasn’t as strong as it could’ve been. He was counting on us falling apart after the wiretap ruling.”

Andrews nodded. “You handled that well, though. The way you flipped it back with my testimony? That was smart. The jury was eating it up.”

“I hope so. But it’s still up to them. All Donovan has to do is plant enough doubt, and that’s it.”

Before Andrews could respond, Tom appeared at the top of the courthouse steps, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“You did good in there,” he said finally. “You handled that much better than I expected.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was as close to one as I’d get. I nodded, swallowing back the mix of relief and surprise. “Thank you.”

Tom glanced at Andrews, then back at me. “Whatever happens now, it’s in the jury’s hands. But you did what you were supposed to do. Just remember that.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed back inside.

I watched him go, still processing his words when Andrews let out a low whistle. “That’s about the highest praise you’re ever gonna get from him.”

I couldn’t help but smile faintly. “I’ll take it.”

Andrews pushed off the column, his tone turning reflective. “You know, the first big case I worked on as a detective, I thought I had it all figured out. Evidence lined up perfectly, suspect caught red-handed. But when it got to court, everything fell apart. The defense tore through my case like it was paper. I thought I’d failed completely.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The jury came back guilty anyway,” he said, shrugging. “Turns out, they cared more about the overall story than the technicalities. Made me realize, sometimes it’s not about having every piece of evidence in place. It’s about showing them the truth in a way they can’t ignore. You did that today.”

I nodded, letting his words settle over me. “Thanks, Andrews.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said with a smirk. “Let’s get back inside.”

As we walked inside, I glanced at my watch. The recess was nearly over, and closing arguments loomed ahead. Whatever happened next, I knew I’d done everything I could to make the jury see Peter Larkin for what he truly was.

THIRTEEN

The courtroom was silent, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your pulse sound like thunder. The jury filed back into the box, their faces blank and unreadable. My heart hammered in my chest as I tried to focus on the judge, who was shuffling through her papers with the same calm precision she always had.

“Madam Foreperson,” the judge said, looking up, “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The foreperson, a middle-aged woman with short gray hair, stood. She held a folded piece of paper in her hands, and when she spoke, her voice was steady. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

The bailiff stepped forward to collect the paper, bringing it to the judge. I watched her eyes scan the verdict, her expression neutral. Then she nodded and handed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreperson.

“Please read the verdict,” the judge instructed.

The foreperson unfolded the paper, her hands trembling slightly. “In the matter of the People v. Peter Larkin, on the charge of fraud, we find the defendant...guilty.”

A wave of relief washed over me, but I kept my expression controlled. Across the courtroom, Donovan’s face remained impassive, though his fingers tapped once against the defense table before stilling.

The judge looked to Donovan. “Does the defense wish to have the jury polled?”

Donovan shook his head, standing smoothly. “No, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. You are dismissed with the court’s gratitude.” The judge rapped her gavel lightly, signaling the end of the trial. She glanced between Donovan and me. “Sentencing will be scheduled for a later date. Counsel, see the clerk for the schedule.”

Donovan whispered something to Larkin before he was led away by the bailiff. Then he turned to me as I gathered my things. “Nicely done, Ms. Hayes,” he said, his tone measured but not unkind. “I suppose I’ll see you at sentencing.”

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, matching his tone.

He gave me a slight nod, then walked out of the courtroom.

Andrews waited for me just outside the courtroom doors. He gave me a mock salute as I approached. “Not bad, Hayes. Not bad at all.”

I smirked, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. “Thanks, Andrews. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Damn right,” he said with a grin. “But seriously, you held your ground in there. You should be proud.”

Before I could respond, Tom appeared at the top of the stairs. He stopped in front of me, his expression unreadable.

“Good work, Hayes,” he said finally. “You proved you can handle these kinds of cases on your own. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m assigning workloads.”

It wasn’t effusive praise, but it was more than I’d expected. I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded back, his lips twitching into what might have been the start of a smile before he turned and headed down the stairs.

"What about you?" I looked back at Andrews. "Think we’ll be working together again soon?”

“Count on it. But next time, let’s aim for a case that doesn’t give me ulcers.”

“Deal,” I said, smiling as we walked down the steps together.

Later that afternoon, I found myself in a quiet corner of my favorite coffee shop. The trial felt like a storm that had finally passed, leaving me both exhausted and weightless. I ordered the most indulgent drink on the menu—a caramel mocha with extra whipped cream—and settled into a chair by the window with a book I’d been meaning to read for months.

Just as I was about to dig into the first chapter, my phone vibrated on the table. I sighed, half-tempted to ignore it, but habit won out. Picking it up, I glanced at the screen. It was an email from Tom. See me in my office. Got a new case for you.

I stared at the message for a moment. The trial had barely ended, and already, the next challenge was waiting. Shaking my head, I closed the book and slipped it into my bag.

The coffee could stay. I’d need the energy.

Ready for more Alex Hayes? Click the link below to continue:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DNDNVKSK

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

L.T. RYAN is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author, renowned for crafting pulse-pounding thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats. Known for creating gripping, character-driven stories, Ryan is the author of the Jack Noble series, the Rachel Hatch series, and more. With a knack for blending action, intrigue, and emotional depth, Ryan's books have captivated millions of fans worldwide.

Whether it's the shadowy world of covert operatives or the relentless pursuit of justice, Ryan's stories feature unforgettable characters and high-stakes plots that resonate with fans of Lee Child, Robert Ludlum, and Michael Connelly.

When not writing, Ryan enjoys crafting new ideas with coauthors, running a thriving publishing company, and connecting with readers. Discover the next story that will keep you turning pages late into the night.

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LAURA CHASE is a corporate attorney-turned-author who brings her courtroom experience to the page in her gripping legal and psychological thrillers. Chase draws on her real-life experience to draw readers into the high-stakes world of courtroom drama and moral ambiguity.

After earning her JD, Chase clerked for a federal judge and thereafter transitioned to big law, where she honed her skills in high-pressure legal environments. Her passion for exploring the darker side of human nature and the gray areas of justice fuels her writing.

Chase lives with her husband, their two sons, a dog and a cat in Northern Florida. When she’s not writing or working, she enjoys spending time with her family, traveling, and bingeing true crime shows.

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