Book 1- Counsel for the Wolf: Act I: Chapter 1

Book One- Counsel for the Wolf

Act I- The Body and the Retainer

Chapter 1

Jordan POV

The judge hated me before I even stood up.

I didn’t take it personally. Judge Halprin hated most people, but he saved a special kind of contempt for defense attorneys who wore heels that clicked and spoke in full sentences. I’d learned his tells over the last two years: the way he stared at the seal on the wall like it was the only honest thing in the room, the way he tapped his pen when he’d already decided you were wasting his time, the way he said Counselor like it was a dirty word.

Today, his pen was tapping before I’d even said good morning.

“Ms. Carter,” he drawled, looking down over his glasses. “We’re here on your motion to suppress and to revoke bond. That’s quite the ambition for nine a.m.”

“I’m an optimist, Your Honor,” I said, voice smooth, polite, light. “It’s a character flaw.”

A few people laughed quietly. Not the prosecutor. Not the court clerk. Definitely not the judge.

“Mm.” He made a sound that meant, save it. “Proceed.”

I rose, buttoned my jacket, and walked to the podium like I belonged there. You can be smart, you can be prepared, you can be right—but if you look uncertain, people smell it. Prosecutors and jurors are the same that way.

The hearing room was small, cramped, too bright. The air had that stale courthouse smell—old paper and old coffee and bleach that never quite did its job. My client sat behind me in a wrinkled dress shirt that had been ironed with hate. Twenty-two years old, skinny, scared, trying to look tougher than he felt. He kept tugging at his cuffs like the fabric was choking him.

I’d told him three times, stop fidgeting. He’d nodded every time. He was still fidgeting.

Across the aisle, Assistant District Attorney Janelle Marks flipped through her file like she was doing a magic trick. She wasn’t bad at her job, but she loved theatrics. She also loved the word dangerous. She used it the way some people used salt.

Marks gave me a tight smile. “Good morning, Jordan.”

“Janelle.” I returned it. “Your eyeliner looks sharp.”

Her smile twitched, like she wasn’t sure if I was complimenting her or making fun of her. That was my sweet spot.

“Call your witness,” Judge Halprin said, already bored.

Marks stood. “The State calls Officer Drew Penley.”

Officer Penley walked in like he owned the building. Tall, broad, uniform pressed, belt loaded down with enough gear to make him clink when he moved. He glanced at my client, then at me, then straight ahead as if defense attorneys were part of the furniture.

He was sworn in. He sat. Marks began.

“Officer, were you the arresting officer in this matter?”

“Yes.”

“Describe what happened on the night of April twelfth.”

Penley looked comfortable. That was a problem. People who were too comfortable in court usually had rehearsed it.

“We responded to a call at approximately 11:48 p.m. about a disturbance outside the Crestview Apartments,” he said. “When we arrived, we observed the defendant, Mr. Lyle, arguing with the victim. Mr. Lyle was aggressive and appeared intoxicated. The victim stated the defendant had a firearm.”

My client made a small sound. I didn’t turn around. If I looked at him, he’d melt.

Marks kept her voice calm. “Did you see a firearm?”

“Yes. It was in the defendant’s waistband.”

“And what did you do?”

“I instructed him to put his hands up. He refused. He reached—”

“Reached where?” Marks prompted.

“Toward his waistband.”

Marks let the word hang. Gun. Dangerous. Threat. She lived for that pause.

“And you then—”

“I restrained him and secured the firearm.”

“Was the firearm loaded?”

“Yes.”

Marks nodded gravely at the judge. “Your Honor, the State moves to revoke bond. This is a clear danger to the community.”

Judge Halprin leaned back, pen still tapping. “Ms. Carter?”

I stood slowly. I didn’t rush. Rushing looks like panic. Panic looks like guilt. Judges, even the good ones, are human.

“Your Honor,” I said, “before we take away a twenty-two-year-old’s freedom because an officer says ‘he reached,’ I’d like to ask a few questions.”

Halprin’s eyebrows lifted like I’d asked to bring a pet raccoon into the courtroom. “Briefly.”

“Always.” I turned toward the witness. “Officer Penley.”

He looked at me with polite boredom.

“You testified you arrived at 11:48 p.m.,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And you observed my client arguing with the victim.”

“Yes.”

“And that my client appeared intoxicated.”

“Yes.”

“Officer, do you have any specialized training in identifying intoxication?”

“I’ve been a police officer for eight years.”

“I asked about specialized training,” I said, still pleasant.

He hesitated. “No, ma’am.”

“No certification,” I clarified.

“No.”

“Okay. Now—this firearm. You said you saw it in his waistband.”

“Yes.”

I nodded, like we were just having a nice chat. “Which side?”

“Right side.”

My eyes flicked to Marks. She didn’t react, but her hand tightened on her pen. Good.

“What hand did he reach with?”

“Right.”

“And you were positioned where, exactly?”

“In front of him.”

“How far?”

“A few feet.”

“A few is a flexible number,” I said. “Three? Four? Six?”

He frowned. “About four.”

“Four feet.” I repeated it, letting the judge hear the distance. “In the dark, outside an apartment building.”

“There were lights,” he snapped.

“Streetlights?”

“And the building lights.”

“Okay.” I took a step, not too close. “Did you activate your body-worn camera, Officer?”

“Yes.”

“And it recorded the interaction?”

“Yes.”

I turned slightly toward the judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the witness with the footage timestamp stills?”

Halprin’s pen stopped tapping for the first time. “You have stills?”

“I came prepared,” I said, and I couldn’t help the small smile. “It’s another character flaw.”

He waved a hand. “Proceed.”

I walked to the witness with a thin folder and placed three still images on the stand in front of him. I’d printed them in color. It wasn’t necessary, but people listened harder when things looked expensive.

“Officer, do you recognize this?” I asked, pointing to the first still.

He looked down. “That’s—yes. That’s the scene.”

“This is from your body cam,” I said. “Timestamp 11:54:09.”

Marks stiffened. She’d said the call was 11:48. Six minutes mattered when you were building a narrative.

“Officer,” I continued, “is the firearm visible in this still?”

He leaned in, then looked up at me. “Not in that frame.”

“Okay.” I flipped to the second still. “Timestamp 11:54:12. Firearm visible?”

He swallowed. “No.”

I didn’t pounce. I let the silence sit.

“And the third still,” I said, “timestamp 11:54:15. Firearm visible?”

His jaw worked. “No.”

“So when you testified you saw a firearm in his waistband before you approached, that is not supported by your own camera footage.”

Marks stood abruptly. “Objection. Argumentative.”

I didn’t look at her. I looked at the judge.

“Overruled,” Halprin said, and his voice sounded mildly interested now, which for him was basically applause.

I turned back to Penley. “Officer, at what point do you claim you saw the firearm?”

He shifted. “After he reached. When his shirt lifted.”

I nodded like that made total sense. “So you didn’t see it before he reached.”

“I—”

“And when you say he reached toward his waistband, what was he actually doing?”

“He was going for the gun.”

“That’s an assumption,” I said gently. “What was he physically doing?”

Penley’s eyes flicked to Marks, then back. “He moved his hand down.”

“Down.” I repeated. “To his waistband.”

“Yes.”

“Officer,” I said, still calm, “isn’t it true that at timestamp 11:54:13—between these two stills—my client is actually pulling up his shirt because you told him to show his hands?”

Marks started to object again, but I was already holding up the transcript from the body cam audio. I didn’t need to play it. I just needed to show I could.

“Your Honor,” I said, “the audio is very clear. Officer Penley says, ‘Lift your shirt.’ My client responds, ‘Like this?’ and lifts it. That motion is what Officer Penley is calling a reach.”

Penley’s face flushed, deep red creeping up his neck.

Judge Halprin leaned forward, peering at the stills. “Ms. Marks?”

Marks’ lips pressed into a line. “Your Honor, the officer—”

“The officer testified he saw a firearm before the defendant reached,” Halprin said. “These stills suggest otherwise.”

Marks opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “The defendant was still armed.”

“He was legally on bond,” I said, voice even. “And as we’ve established, the officer ordered him to lift his shirt. He complied. That is not aggression. That is compliance.”

Marks glared at me like I’d insulted her mother.

I turned back to Penley. “Officer, you also testified my client appeared intoxicated.”

“Yes.”

“Did you administer a breath test?”

“No.”

“Did you request one?”

“No.”

“Did you note slurred speech in your report?”

He hesitated.

I waited. I didn’t fill the space. People filled space when they were nervous.

“No,” he admitted.

“Did you note bloodshot eyes?”

“No.”

“Unsteady gait?”

“No.”

“So intoxication is your opinion based on… what?”

He stared at the still images like they might help him.

“That’s fine,” I said, still polite. “Let’s talk about the victim. You said the victim stated my client had a firearm.”

“Yes.”

“The victim was later arrested that night, correct?”

Marks snapped, “Objection—relevance.”

“Goes to credibility,” I said instantly. “The State is relying on statements made at the scene.”

Halprin’s eyes narrowed at Marks. “Overruled.”

Penley’s shoulders tightened. “Yes. The victim had an outstanding warrant.”

“For assault,” I added, because I’d read the report, the addendum, and the addendum to the addendum.

He looked at me sharply. “Yes.”

“And the victim’s statement about my client having a firearm came after my client refused to give him money, correct?”

Penley’s nostrils flared. “That’s not what—”

“It’s in your report,” I said, softly, like I was offering him a lifeline he didn’t deserve. “Page two. ‘Victim stated defendant refused to pay him.’”

Marks’ face had gone stiff. She hadn’t read that far. Or she had, and she’d decided the judge wouldn’t.

I stepped back, hands clasped loosely. “Officer, would you agree that a person with an outstanding warrant has a motive to point law enforcement at someone else?”

Marks objected again. “Argumentative.”

“Overruled,” Halprin said.

Penley’s mouth tightened. “It’s possible.”

“Thank you.” I let that land, then turned toward the judge.

“Your Honor,” I said, “this isn’t a situation where the defendant refused commands and reached for a weapon. This is a situation where an officer issued a command, the defendant complied, and the officer interpreted compliance as threat. Add in a complaining witness with an assault warrant who was trying to shake my client down, and you have a shaky foundation for revoking bond.”

Marks stood, trying to salvage. “Your Honor, the defendant still had a loaded firearm on his person. That alone—”

“Is not illegal under the terms of his bond,” I said, still calm. “And the State has not met its burden to show willful violation or danger based on credible evidence.”

Judge Halprin stared at me for a long moment, pen resting, silent. Then he looked at Marks.

“Ms. Marks,” he said, “your witness’s testimony was… sloppy.”

Marks’ cheeks flushed. “Your Honor—”

“I’m not revoking bond based on this.” He flicked his gaze to me. “Motion to revoke is denied.”

My client exhaled so hard I felt it in my shoulder blades.

“And your motion to suppress,” Halprin added, as if it pained him to continue, “will be taken under advisement. I want the full body cam footage submitted by end of day. Both sides.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Marks said, clipped.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I echoed.

Halprin banged his gavel like it annoyed him. “Next.”

The hearing moved on without me. I gathered my folder, slid the stills back into place, and leaned toward my client.

“Stop fidgeting,” I whispered.

He gave me a shaky grin. “I thought I was gonna go back in.”

“You’re not,” I said. “You’re going home. And you’re not touching a drop of alcohol. Not because I think you were drunk, but because the State would love it if you were.”

He nodded too fast. “Got it.”

I stood and shouldered my bag, already mentally rearranging my afternoon. I’d need to email the clerk, upload the exhibits, call my PI about a different case, swing by my office, maybe eat something that wasn’t court vending machine pretzels.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I ignored it at first. Unknown numbers were either scammers, collectors, or people who waited until the last second to have a crisis. Sometimes all three.

It buzzed again.

Then a third time.

I sighed, because apparently I enjoyed suffering, and stepped into the hallway outside the courtroom where the noise dropped into a dull murmur. Lawyers in suits. Defendants in wrinkled shirts. Family members with tired eyes. Someone crying quietly by the vending machines like it was a normal part of their Tuesday.

I answered. “Jordan Carter.”

A pause. Then a man’s voice—calm, professional, not overly friendly.

“Ms. Carter. I’m calling on behalf of Mercer Holdings.”

I froze just enough to notice it.

Not fear. Not exactly. More like the way your brain goes alert when a room changes temperature.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Who is this?”

“My name is Grant. I handle sensitive matters for the Mercer family.” Another small pause, as if he was gauging whether I understood what sensitive meant. “We were told you’re discreet. And effective.”

“Flattery is welcome,” I said. “So is context.”

He let out something that might’ve been a quiet laugh. “Mr. Mercer is looking to retain counsel immediately.”

“Mr. Mercer,” I repeated, already walking without realizing it, down the hallway and away from the courtroom doors. “For what?”

“I can’t discuss specifics over the phone,” Grant said. “But it’s urgent.”

I stopped by a window overlooking the parking lot. The sky was the color of old paper. Cars crawled by like everyone had somewhere better to be.

“I’m in court all day,” I said. “If you want me, you can send an email like a normal person.”

“We were told you don’t like surprises,” he said.

“I hate them,” I corrected.

“Then I’ll be direct,” Grant replied, voice lowering. “Mercer wants you. Today.”

My grip tightened on my phone.

“Tell Mercer,” I said carefully, “that I don’t take clients like I’m being drafted.”

Another pause. Then, “Understood. We can meet at noon. Downtown. Private conference room. The retainer is substantial.”

I should’ve asked how substantial.

I should’ve asked why me.

Instead, what slipped out was, “What kind of case is it?”

Grant didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was still calm. Still polished. But there was something sharp underneath it.

“A case,” he said, “where losing isn’t an option.”