Legal Affairs

8

Mrs. McAllister rises from her seat, the click of her heels sharp and commanding as they echo across the courtroom. There's a precision in her movements, reminiscent of a well-rehearsed play, where every gesture is calculated to convey dominance and authority. She approaches the podium with a swish of her tailored suit, the fabric whispering secrets of old money and privilege.

"As a mother, an aunt, a sister, a daughter—a legitimate one—I understand the importance of integrity and ethical behavior," she begins, her voice smooth yet edged with a steely sharpness that cuts through the murmured backdrop of the courtroom. Her eyes briefly flicker to me, a glint of malice barely concealed beneath her polished exterior. The air seems to thicken with tension, her words hanging heavily between us.

It's a low blow, the comment about my mother's drug addiction.

It's the way she says it too, with that air of smug condescension. The way her lips curl up, the faintest trace of a sneer visible beneath her carefully crafted facade.

"It is crucial that we examine not only the character of the accused but also the caliber of those who choose to defend such characters." Her smile is tight, almost predatory. "When you have someone as inexperienced and, frankly, as questionable as Mrs. Armstrong handling such serious matters, one has to wonder about the quality of the defense and indeed, the sincerity of their intent."

My jaw clenches.

How dare she.

Her eyes meet mine, her gaze icy and unwavering.

How dare she bring my mother into this.

Judge Green shifts uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing slightly at the personal attack thinly veiled as a legal argument.

She continues, her words slicing through the air.

"And let's be honest, ladies and gentlemen, when you are represented by someone who might sympathize more with the crooked than with the straight, due to personal history, it does raise certain... concerns." Her voice is syrupy sweet, laced with venom.

Before Judge Green can interject, Mrs. McAllister swiftly continues, steering back toward safer waters with a practiced ease. "Of course, Your Honor, I intend only to highlight concerns that any prudent person might consider relevant to the case."

The words hang in the air, the insinuation clear. She knows I have a drug-addicted mother. A family history of criminality. A history of drug abuse. Of homelessness.

Her presentation is a masterclass in manipulation, each sentence carefully crafted to undermine my credibility while bolstering her standing as the voice of reason and morality. As she concludes, she returns to her seat with a smooth stride, her posture unyielding, as if she's already won.

On the other side, Mr. Anwir adjusts in his seat, his demeanor unbothered, almost disinterested. He's not nervous; he just doesn't care. This court appearance is a minor inconvenience, not a defining moment for him. His disinterest is clear as he casually examines his nails, then looks around the courtroom as if wondering how much longer he must endure this inconvenience.

As I rush back into the office, the click of my Red Bottoms on the polished marble floor echoes through the hall. Each step feels like a personal affront to my aching feet. I'm fishing my keys out of my bag, cursing under my breath about my choice of footwear. Damn. Today was not the day to wear these heels, which feel like they're gnawing into the back of my heels with every step.

I'm nearly at my office—a sanctuary of solitude and quiet—when I hear the unmistakable voice of Mr. Wilde. Oh great, I think to myself. Like many of his friends, Mr. Wilde has those lowkey racist undertones that he thinks he masks well. And, like always, he can't seem to stomach using my first name, unlike how he addresses everyone else around here.

"Noah," he calls out as he catches up to me, a little breathless. "Good to see you back. I heard the hearing went... well?"

"It went," I reply noncommittally, not in the mood to delve into the nuances of courtroom battles with him.

"I must say, Mr. Anwir spoke very highly of you. He's quite the golfer, you know? Hit a hole-in-one last summer at the club." His chuckle is as dry as the office air, and I can't help but mentally quip about white men and their golf.

"That's great," I force a smile, my hand finally clutching the cool metal of my keys. I'm just steps away from my office, from peace.

As I speed up, hoping to cut this conversation short, Mr. Wilde keeps pace, blissfully unaware of my urgency. "Speaking of excellence, the yearly gala's coming up. You'll be there, I presume? It's a good chance to mingle, show your face. Not that... well, you know, visibility is everything." His words trail off into a murmur that's probably meant to be encouraging but feels dismissive, especially as he carefully skirts around the topic of promotions—a subtle omission even a keen reader might miss.

I nod, barely listening, my focus on the door just ahead. "Yes, I'll be there," I manage to say as I reach my office, sliding the key into the lock with a sense of relief.

"Well, good, good. We all have roles to play, after all," Mr. Wilde adds, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "Keep up the good work, Noah. It doesn't go unnoticed."

Does this mean, what I think it means? This white man, is he saying that he's taking notice? Or is it a code word for promotion. I know, I know I shouldn't read into it.

With a tight smile, I push the door open and step inside, letting it shut with a satisfying click behind me. Safe at last. I lean back against it for a moment, closing my eyes. I lowkey wish Oliver had been at the hearing to buffer Mr. Wilde's barely-concealed disdain masked as camaraderie.

Then there was my mom. I glance at my phone lying on the desk, the screen displaying several missed calls and unread messages. I haven't answered her in three days. After the incident three years ago, reaching out to her wasn't really a priority. Yes, Doris was right about one thing—I was illegitimate, but out of all the things that define me, that is the least significant.

A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts. "Not taking appointments currently," I call out, my voice sharper than intended.

The door opens anyway, and for a moment, my heart sinks. "Dalton—" I begin, ready to rebuke my intrusive colleague, but it's not him.

"Hey," Oliver says, stepping inside with a sheepish grin. "Guess who couldn't make it today because he locked himself out of his apartment this morning?"

A laugh escapes me despite my mood, the tension easing slightly at his self-deprecating humor. "Really, Oliver? You need to give me a spare key at this rate."

He chuckles, closing the door behind him. "Maybe I do. But hey, I heard about the hearing. Tough crowd today?"

"Tough doesn't begin to cover it," I sigh, moving to my desk and sinking into the chair. The office is bathed in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across the minimalist decor, the clean lines of furniture creating a stark contrast against the chaotic day.

Oliver takes a seat across from me, his expression turning serious. "You did well, though. I heard Wilde talking. Seems like you impressed Mr. Anwir, at least."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Impressing Anwir is the least of my concerns. But thanks, it's good to have you back, even if you are a disaster with keys."

He grins, leaning back. "Glad to be back. And hey, if it helps, I'll always be here to not be in charge, remember that."