Page 100 of Dirty Judge

“My old firm sends pictures of the staff every year.” I lied. “Photographic memory, I guess.”

“Oh, cool.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Well, I apologize for not making an appointment for this, but…I heard you’re the best for review and even if you can’t be impartial about this, I’d appreciate any advice.”

“What makes you think I can’t be impartial for a simple reading, Mr. Lennox?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “It’s just that every time I reach out to a judge right before midnight, they’re usually harsher.”

“Have you tried holding off for six or so hours until they’ve had breakfast?”

“That only works when my clients aren’t super wealthy and demanding,” he said. “They’re paying triple my retainer and calling me every hour…”

“Say less.” I sighed and held out my hand for the summary.

Opening it, I skimmed the events—drunk driving without a license, three passengers in critical condition, two totaled cars, and property damage.

I clicked my pen, ready to write a few questions, but then I made it down to the “not guilty” reasoning.

“You’re going with the affluenza defense?” I looked up at him. “Seriously?”

“I’ve seen it work before.” He shrugged. “Multiple times.”

“So, just because a kid grows up filthy rich, he should be held to a different standard than the rest of us?”

“Well, no. I don’t believe that at all,” he said. “But sometimes juries do... As a matter of fact, uh, that’s the defense for the Grant Jenkins trial that’s coming up.”

Of course it is…

“I see.” I folded his file and returned it to him. “I can’t be unbiased on this at all.”

“You didn’t even read past the first page.”

“Because I can’t.” A pang hit my chest. “But I know someone who can help you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. And he owes me a favor.”

“Sir, with all due respect—I’m just asking you to read it and give an opinion on my work. Not what my client did.”

I ignored his comment and opened my drawer. Then I pulled out a business card and handed it to him.

“Call him and tell him I sent you,” I said. “You’re welcome.”

“Jameson Tate?” He arched a brow. “He only defends the most diabolical people.”

“Which means your case is right up his alley, Mr. Lennox.” I took a long look at him, amazed that he was still doing well in thelegal profession, that he’d turned out so well despite his tragic start in life. “If you ever have a different type of case, I’ll happily read it.”

“Okay…” He glanced at the card and sighed. “Thank you for your time, Judge.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turned to walk away, but then he looked over his shoulder.

“I practice asBryanLennox,” he said. “Not Ryan. Only my friends and family call me that—and even then, it’s only six of them who knew me from when I was like four years old…How didyouknow that?”

Flames burned in my chest at that question, but I knew better than to answer it.

“I meant to say ‘Bryan’ to you, Mr. Lennox.” I swallowed. “My apologies.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe me, as if he could tell that I was blatantly lying to his face, but he didn’t push me any further.

Even if he’d tried, I wouldn’t have let him drag us back to the past.