Page 18 of Final Verdict
I stare at her, waiting, and when she finally does, I realize she’s a woman in her early forties. She’s also a court reporter I’ve seen plenty of times.
Shaking my head, I spot another woman on the third row who might be Scarlett, too. It only takes fifteen seconds for Scarlett’s face to disappear into another stranger’s.
What the hell is happening?
“Objection, Your Honor!” The prosecutor interrupts my thoughts. “Can the defense please make his client put on some pants and sit down while I’m cross-examining him?”
“Mr. Tate…” The judge lets out a sigh. “Is there any reason why we need to continue staring at your naked client?”
“My client is therealvictim here,” I say, standing.
“How do you figure that, Mr. Tate?”
“He was accused of sliding his ‘eight-inch penis’ across a window and flexing a six-pack of abs while he did it.”
“The security footage caught him trespassing onto his ex-wife’s property…”
“From afar, and not after he crossed the yard.” I look at him. “Her claim is obviously four inches and fifty pounds off from reality, so I just think it’s fair to show that in this hearing before we have to do this in front of a jury.”
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Tate.” The judge shakes his head. “Let’s take a twenty-minute recess and give the defendant time to put on some pants, okay?”
He bangs his gavel, and my client—a rare, innocent one—joins me behind the table.
He pulls on a pair of khakis and smiles. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Want me to bring you one?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
As he leaves, the prosecutor slams a napkin atop my file before walking away. There’s a note etched in blue ink.
Let’s just SETTLE this one.
$2M with a permanent no-contact order.
Your client pays court costs?
I scribble “SOLD” and toss it to her table.
Heading into the hallway, I stop as a woman in a red dress walks toward me.
Scarlett?
The woman throws her middle finger up at me.
“Nice to see you too, Miss.” I smile.
“You ruined my client’s life two years ago.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you remember?”
I don’t, so I don’t bother answering.
I walk past her and find a place near the steps.
Pulling out my phone, I call Rachel.
“Please tell me this case isn’t going to trial,” she answers.
“We’re going to settle by evening,” I say. “Did you call that other loan company I sent you to?”
“Yeah, hold on…” She hums. “There are three companies with the Ferguson name, and they were all thrilled to be on your radar for potential representation.”
