Lines of Defense

Ch. 6

ETHAN COLE

I lean back in my office chair, absently flipping through the documents in front of me as I wait for Mark Freeman to arrive. The case has already been making headlines, and Freeman's name has become synonymous with scandal. A rich CEO embroiled in his wife's murder—it's the kind of high-profile case defense attorneys like me salivate over. It's also the kind of case that can make or break a career.

My office door creaks open, and Freya steps in with that familiar look—polite but on edge. Behind her, Mark Freeman strides in like he owns the place, his tailored suit crisp, his expression sharp, and his eyes carrying that subtle arrogance only men like him seem to wear like a second skin.

"Mr. Freeman, good to see you," I say, rising to offer my hand. His grip is firm but cold, just as I expected.

"Cole," he replies curtly, taking a seat across from me. No small talk, no niceties—just straight to business.

I respect that.

I flip open the folder in front of me, glancing at the charges, the evidence—or lack thereof—and the initial police reports. "So," I begin, "you're being charged with the murder of your wife, Stacie Freeman. The charges are severe, of course—first-degree murder carries heavy consequences if convicted. Life without parole, possibly worse."

Freeman leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't kill her."

"I'm sure you didn't," I reply smoothly, meeting his gaze without blinking. "But as far as the police are concerned, you're the prime suspect. With cases like this, the spouse is always the first to be scrutinized. The media loves it, the public loves it, and frankly, so does the prosecution. They want to believe the husband did it. It's clean, it's easy, and it makes a good headline."

He snorts, but his expression remains tense. "They have no evidence."

I offer a tight smile, leaning back in my chair. "As of right now, no. But evidence isn't always necessary when you're wealthy and your wife ends up dead. You know how these things go. All they need is a jury to feel like you could have done it, and they'll convict you just to feel better about themselves."

He glares at me, his jaw tightening. "I didn't kill my wife, and I'm not going to prison for something I didn't do."

"Which is why I'm here." I shift, crossing my arms. "The lack of evidence is in your favor, yes. And from what I've seen so far, there's no forensic connection to you—no fingerprints on the scene, no DNA, nothing that can be directly traced back to you as the killer. The CCTV footage they've been combing through doesn't even have you in the villa at the time of the murder."

I pause, watching him closely, gauging his reaction. He stays silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

I continue, "But just because the evidence isn't there doesn't mean we're out of the woods. Perception is key. The prosecution will focus on motive—your wealth, your strained marriage, whatever they can twist to paint you as a man who had everything to gain from your wife's death."

He shifts in his seat, his expression darkening. "Our marriage wasn't strained. That's bullshit."

I raise an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. "Then I suggest you start painting a picture of domestic bliss, Mr. Freeman. Because if they find any cracks, anything that hints at discord, they'll exploit it."

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. "What are you getting at, Cole?"

"I'm getting at the fact that you need to be prepared for this to get ugly," I say, my tone sharpening. "They'll come for your reputation, your wealth, everything you've built. If you want to avoid that, you'll need the best defense money can buy. And I don't come cheap."