Paragon

⊰❉⊱ 71 ⊰❉⊱

"People should either be caressed or crushed. If you do them minor damage they will get their revenge; but if you cripple them there is nothing they can do. Do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance."
― Niccolo Machiavelli

I tucked in my winter coat as I took a seat in the back row of benches.

Then I watched the show begin before me.

Expensive suits. Rows of them. Some heartbeats raced underneath their tailored collars. Others had the smog of alcohol lingering around expensive cologne. The judge looked irritable and lost hours of sleep lingered under his eyes. They were so imperfectly perfect in contrast to the timeless pieces of stone I had stood before moments ago. The room was alive again.

Then she walked in.

Heartbeat steady, suit pressed to within an inch of its life, hair tied up neatly and a single leather folder tucked underneath one of her arms. I smirked in my seat. They had no chance.

I knew Quinn had an important day ahead of her because she had not responded to her phone all day and because she was dedicated to delivering on what she promised–in this case it was winning.

No one gave me a second look behind the rows of family counterparts or concerned partners–some just looked to be here for their respective clients. The courtroom was a classic masterpiece of traditional design with sculpted wooden finishes and ancient paintings leering over the room. Its marble floor let know who walked down its aisle in echoing intimidation. Perhaps that's why Quinn wore those heels.

She had caught almost every eye in the room. Her beauty was an obvious weapon but it didn't make one doubt her credibility when she was dressed as lethally as the fire in her eyes. 

This was her world, her domain, and I was glad to be in it.

Once the jury was seated and the room was calmed into silence, the vows were read and her opposition mirrored them. I caught on pretty quickly. A defamation case that would cost her client an eye-watering sum... for mortals anyway.

Quinn listened to all of their claims. To their callous attempts to make her rise into anger to draw out amateur mistakes. But she was no such woman and she duelled her emotions as lethally as someone with decades more of experience would. When their lawyer finally finished his triad of accusations and borderline insults, Quinn pressed her skirt down and took a long sip of water. This made the opposition scoff in disbelief.

She didn't even bother to go for the leather folder, a clear backup plan she decided she didn't even need anymore.

She simply stood and smiled and every member of their table before she faced the judge. Every single one of them smelt of adrenaline. I crossed my arms and leant back in the bench.

Then I listened to her speak articulately and measured. There wasn't an inch of self-doubt in every sentence. She spoke like she spoke of her passion or her experiences whilst travelling–with the assurance that left no room for doubt. I cast my eyes about the jury members, they were equally as captivated. It could have all been lies, all deceit and none would know. But the judge remained professionally passive as expected. The only read I had to say otherwise was the slowed rate of his heartbeat and the lack of suspicion in the air.

She didn't speak for anywhere near as long as the opposition, but they had already visibly sunk into their seats after the fifth minute of Quinn beginning. By the seventh she had a sheet of paper she identified to the room and then to the judge himself.