by Shandi Boyes
Their curious gawks I understand—it’s not every day a twenty-five-year-old first-year intern presents as a lead attorney on a case—but their tempting grins are a ball game I’m still familiarizing myself with.
For the first sixteen years of my life, I was the epitome of a nerd. My nose rarely left the inside of a textbook. It was only when I grew into my lanky legs and obtained a set of assets most men notice long before my aquamarine eyes did my social status change.
My newly acquired assets not only crowned me Ms. Spring Fling two years in a row, they secured me an internship at one of the most lucrative law firms in the country.
I'm not saying Mr. Fletcher’s business associate, Mr. Schluter, hired me solely because I fill a bikini top like no other, but the cut-throat cunningness I’ve witnessed from him the past two months has made me hesitant. It seems certain female assets can lure clientele even someone with Mr. Fletcher’s 96% win rate can’t secure.
Although disgruntled I work in a chauvinistic industry stuck in the Stone Age, the fire in my belly to achieve goals I made four years ago ensures my feet remain planted on the ground. I moved to Vegas to be trained by the best. I’m doing precisely that under Mr. Fletcher’s wing.
He trains his interns with a hands-on approach. He brainstorms out loud and includes us in every decision he makes. It’s an invigorating learning curve that holds more value than three years in law school.
Legal defense isn’t for the faint of heart. You dodge grenades thrown by clients all while representing them to the best of your ability. It’s an exhausting and demoralizing position, but one I’m growing to love more than breathing.
When the gleeful glint in the detectives’ eyes shift to disdain, I slide my hand down my fire-engine red skirt. I must have a stain I haven’t noticed, otherwise what would be the cause of their sudden change in demeanor?
The reasoning behind their grim expression comes to light when Mr. Fletcher stops at my side. Criminals love Mr. Fletcher. Detectives. . . not so much. More times than not, he has his client’s conviction thrown out before they step inside a courtroom. He’s shrewd, emasculating, and the first man I'd call if I were ever arrested.
“Justine, this is Bill Hammond and Joe Franco.” Mr. Fletcher waves his hand to the gentlemen gawking at me, their glances now nowhere near as friendly. “Bill and Joe, this is Justine, soon-to-be junior associate at Schluter & Fletcher.”
My heart beats triple time at his mention of career advancement. When interviewed for my position, I was informed my internship would last a maximum of twenty-four months. Although turned off at the idea of moving across the country for a non-permanent role, nothing could sway my decision to accept the position. Months of research couldn’t alter the facts: Schluter & Fletcher is the best criminal defense firm in the country, so this is precisely where I need to be.
Not long after accepting a handshake from Bill and Joe, a young man with a battered face enters the room on the tail of Assistant District Attorney Sasha Sheridan. The extensive injuries to the complainant’s face makes his age hard to identify, but I’d guess he’d be late twenties, early thirties. His crewcut hairstyle barely conceals the gang-related tattoos etched on his skull, and his green eyes are lifeless and hollow.
Even without spotting the Roman numerals tattooed on his right cheek, his gang affiliation is evident. Before they disbanded three years ago, the Petretti crew were well known in my hometown of Hopeton, Florida. I’ve heard rumors they aimed to revive the debunked group, but this is the first solid proof I’ve seen since the death of their leader three years ago. The complainant’s cheek tattoo looks fresh, as if he has only just joined their faction.
After issuing Mr. Fletcher a nasty stink-eye that reveals their numerous battles the past ten years, Sasha directs her client to a glass wall blocked out by a sizeable red curtain. The client we’re aspiring to secure is standing behind that two-way mirror with an additional four or five inmates brought in tonight.
Las Vegas County PD is the most bustling department I've seen in my short law career. You'd think weekends would be their busiest nights. They aren't. Thrill seekers, gamblers, and locals understand that weeknights are the ideal days to create a ruckus. If they want their case brought before the judge prior to a weekend stint in lockup, Thursday afternoon is the absolute cutoff time to be arrested.
Our client’s participation in an all-out brawl late on a Friday afternoon has me curious about his motive. His criminal file reveals he is a born and raised Nevada resident, so he must be aware his brush with the law this afternoon will see him spending the 72 hours of July fourth weekend in a 4x4 concrete cell with a lidless toilet and 24/7 surveillance. I’m stumped why he’d take the risk. Is he hoping his unlawful ways will excuse him from weekend festivities? Or is he so confident in his legal team he has no cause for worry?
Mr. Fletcher’s deep timbre drags my thoughts back to the present. “Justine?”
When I peer at him with a quirked brow, he nudges his head to the glass petition expanding the entire left side of the room, soundlessly requesting I follow him.
Within seconds, our position mimics one I’ve witnessed numerous times the past several months. The defensive team stands on the left while the ADA, her client, and the lead investigators on the case stand to our right.
Usually, a judge would have prime position in the middle of the congregation, but since this is a lineup and not an arraignment, that space remains empty.
I breathe out slowly, easing the nerves fluttering in my stomach. Although conscious the defendants can’t see me, a peculiar sensation is overwhelming me. I’ve never understood feared excitement, but I’m certain that’s what I’m experiencing now. It's an enthralling feeling that could grow as addictive as a jury siding with the defense on a seemingly unwinnable case.
I jump out of my skin when Mr. Fletcher leans into my side and whispers, “Number 5.” He keeps his voice low, ensuring the complainant doesn’t hear his disclosure of our client’s identification. “Nikolai: Russian Mafia Prince.”
While licking my dry lips, my eyes drift down the line of defendants, only stopping when I reach suspect Number 5. My heart rate turns calamitous when my gaze connects with a pair of icy blue eyes staring straight at me. Nikolai’s stare is so direct, I glance over my shoulder, certain he’s staring at someone behind me.
He isn’t.
Other than Mr. Fletcher on my left, our half of the room is void of another soul.
After soothing a scratch impinging my throat with a quick swallow, I scan Nikolai’s body, uncertain which god-crafted feature to categorize first. He has the glare of the devil, the sneer of a murderer, and the body of an Adonis.
Hold on, what?
Even if my assessment is accurate, it's an inappropriate thing to say about a prospective client. Integrity is my strongest asset, so I’m not only appalled by my judgment, I’m confused why I blurted it without consideration. I don’t look at men like that. Well, I do, just not during a lineup. My perving is generally reserved for men not facing attempted murder charges.
Excusing my peculiar behavior as a repercussion of a long week, I return my eyes to Nikolai. No matter how many ways I look at it, the ache of my pulse is warranted. Nikolai is wearing nothing but ripped jeans and an unforgiving smirk. His bare feet are planted shoulder-width apart, and the sheet of cardboard he’s holding in front of his tattooed chest barely covers the thick line of dark hair flowing from his belly button to the waistband of his designer briefs. His body is divine, its only letdown the faint bruises mottling his sun-kissed skin.
Even if I weren’t aware of his extensive criminal history, his persona screams bad boy. His demeanor is so compelling, I’m certain women sense it from a mile away. He’s the reason fathers buy guns and women buy sex toys. He is the ultimate representation of sex, intrigue, and mystery, while also displaying he’ll be your worst nightmare.
Although his face shows signs of a fight, his is nowhere near as battered as the
man accusing him of assault. His left brow has a gash similar to one a beer bottle would make when struck across a temple, and his right cheek has two puncture wounds approximately the width of a dime. His hands are bloody and bruised, although I'm confident not all the blood is his. His teeth are straight and white, and his three-day-old stubble-covered jawline is ruggedly handsome. He has the perfect body for gracing the pages of Men’s Fitness magazine—he just needs to dull down his mafia sneer.
Even with his criminal activities more comprehensive than Mr. Fletcher’s clients combined, I’m sure he has no trouble attracting the ladies. I’m certain they vie for his attention just as intensely as every defense attorney in this county would fight to secure him as their client.
It shames me to admit, but we're only in this room because Mr. Fletcher’s schmoozing is as fierce as his astuteness. If it wasn’t, we’d be camped out in the foyer with the other fifteen-plus defense attorneys we passed on our way to the concealed entrance of this building.
My eyes stray from Nikolai’s unruly spiked hair to the ADA when she questions, "Can you identify the man who assaulted you today?" She peers at the complainant, whose face has grown gaunter since he entered the room.
Sensing the direction of our proceedings, Nikolai’s steel blue gaze drifts to the right. His extensive criminal history guarantees he’s well-informed on how these proceedings unfold, but I’m still surprised by the accuracy of his stare. Just like when he peered at me, his gaze is locked directly on the complainant. He stares down his accuser, his eyes more threatening than the veins bulging in his biceps.
I crank my neck to the side when the battered man answers, “No.” His chin quivers as he shakes his head.
Sasha balks, shocked by his reply. I can understand her bewilderment. From the information disclosed during our commute, I was certain this case was a slam dunk for the prosecution. Nikolai was arrested on scene; his fingerprints are on the weapon used during the assault, and there are more than thirty eye witnesses. Unless there was a major kerfuffle with the paperwork, the complainant is either mistaken or lying.
Sasha double-checks, certain she misheard her client. “Are you sure?”
The complainant nods without pause. "Yep. I don’t see him.” His nerves are uncontained even with his short reply.
Joe rises from his seat and moseys toward the accused. “You don’t recognize the man who assaulted you?” His voice is as swaggered as his stride. “The guy I dragged off you not even an hour ago isn't in that lineup?" He points his index finger to the glass partition behind which a grinning Nikolai is standing, not the least bit concerned his freedom is dangling on a very thin thread.
The complainant’s throat works hard to swallow. “Nope. Don’t see him. I swear.”
Mr. Fletcher groans, recognizing our hope of securing Nikolai as a client is slim if he isn’t positively ID’d in a lineup. Without being identified, he’ll be scot-free before the ink on his fingers dries.
I shuffle on my feet so it appears as if I’m facing Nikolai, but I project my voice in the direction of Mr. Fletcher. “Do you speak Italian?”
“What?” he replies, my words too low for him to hear.
“Do you speak Italian?” I repeat, louder this time.
His brows stitch. “Some. I’m bilingual, just not as extensively as you.”
A grin stretches across my face, pleased he perused my application before accepting me as his intern. Other than stating my multi-lingual talents on my resume, I keep my fluency in languages on the down-low, often finding my love of languages more valuable when people are unaware I can decipher what they're saying.
“Ask the complainant if he’s prepared for the repercussions he’ll suffer when his crew discovers he fears a rival.”
Mr. Fletcher stares at me in confusion. I don’t know if his perplexity stems from my request or how I’m aware of the complainant’s gang affiliation.
I quote the infamous saying he utilizes anytime he is losing a disagreement. “Trust me.”
After a roll of his eyes that looks more sophisticated than it should, Mr. Fletcher asks, “Cosa dirà il tuo equipaggio quando scoprirà che temi un rivale?” His words are slow, cautious his Italian may not be as fluent as it once was.
The accuser’s eyes snap to Mr. Fletcher, the anger in them doubling from the accusation he’s a coward. Although Mr. Fletcher didn’t say that, the insinuation warrants his angered response.
The battered man words fire off his tongue like venom. “I fear no one.”
I take a step back when he spits at Mr. Fletcher’s feet. I inwardly sigh when his vile body product misses my exposed-toe pumps. Mr. Fletcher’s pricy shoes aren’t as lucky.
When the complainant grins a blood-smeared smirk, thinking he has Mr. Fletcher panicked, Mr. Fletcher straightens his spine and rolls his shoulders. He has four older brothers; nothing intimidates him.
“If you have nothing to fear, you’ll be honest.” He steps over the spit not coating his shoes. “You know the man who trampled your face is standing behind that glass. You’re just too scared to admit it.” His tone is drenched with a haughty superiority you’d expect a man of his stature to hold. “If you want to return to your crew as a hero, take down a rival instead of cowardly covering for one.”
Sasha attempts to cite an objection to Mr. Fletcher goading her client, but she’s so stumped by him aiding her case, her mouth remains tight-lipped, leaving only her eyes to express her condemnation.
“What do you have to fear? By the time he’s out on bail, you’ll be with your brothers, talking up how you took down a member of the Popov crew.”
The complainant’s eyes flare with disbelief. “I won’t have to testify?”
Although his words are strong, the quiver in his jaw gives away his true defense. He’s petrified. I can’t blame him. I’ve only been subjected to our client’s aura through bulletproof glass, and my insides haven't stop shaking. He gives the impression of a man not to be messed with. . . unless you’re planning to eat via a straw the remainder of your life.
The plaintiff glares at Mr. Fletcher without remorse. “If this goes to trial, I won’t testify. I’m not a snitch.”
Sasha attempts to reply to her client, but Mr. Fletcher beats her to the task. “You’ll only testify if this case goes to trial. I guarantee that will not happen. This case is cut and dry. It won’t reach preliminary stages.”
To an outsider, his guarantee may seem fraudulent, but I believe every word he spoke. He’d rather lick the shoes of the detectives glaring at him than have Nikolai sit before a jury of his peers. He'd even sacrifice his firstborn child. That’s how influential a client like Nikolai is for a firm like Schluter & Fletcher. He’s a defense attorney’s equivalent of finding the pot of gold under the rainbow. He and his criminal tendencies are an endless money pit.
“Alright.” The complainant gingerly nods. “I’ll admit, I see the accused behind the partition.”
Sasha’s shoulders loosen as her eyes drift to the detectives stationed on her right. She issues them a smile that reveals her every wish has just been granted. I also smile, pleased we coerced the complainant into submission, while praying our win will smother the worry brewing in my gut.
Tonight, we had a victory.
My intuition is warning me I can’t make the same guarantee for the rest of the weekend.
Chapter Two
I stop splashing cool water onto my cheeks when a tap sounds through my ears. “Nikolai has been charged and processed for departure to Clark County Detention Center. He is in a holding room waiting for his legal team to be brought in. Jasmine has secured us five minutes with him. The team is ready to move in.”
“Okay. Just a minute,” I reply to Mr. Fletcher.
While patting my face dry with a paper towel, I raise my eyes to the vanity mirror. Although I'm running on less than three hours of sleep, my eyes are surprisingly bright, enhanced by a set of thick lashes I was gifted from my Italian grandmother. My cheek
s are rosy, compliments of the numerous dashes I make between the courthouse and Schluter & Fletcher every day, and my hair is a vibrant red. I look well put-together and professional. . . if only I could hide my overly dilated eyes.
Even spending the past hour pacing the halls hasn’t eased the knot in my stomach. It's so tight, I feel ill. Although coercing a client is nothing new for a defense attorney, something about this feels wrong. Aren’t we suppose to protect our client under the presumption of innocence until proven otherwise? Not throw him to the wolves while we watch from the sidelines?
The turbulent storm in my stomach doubles when my eyes soak in two red scars on my right shoulder. My marks have faded with the years, but they're a clear reminder of why I sit across from men like Nikolai every day when all I wanted to be was an architect when I grew up.
This isn’t about me.
It's about him.
After breathing out my nerves, I adjust my hair to sit in front of my shoulders before exiting the washroom. My quick strides down the hall falter when I feel the heat of a gaze. Mr. Fletcher is scanning my body—not once, but twice.
The spark of attraction regularly fires between us, but my aspiration to keep our relationship professional means I’ve never acted on it. Don’t misconstrue my confession; my days are filled with flirty comments, brief touches, and enough electricity to light up the billboards on the strip, but it's nothing more than a playful banter associated with a flirtatious work environment. Isn’t it?
My desire to keep our relationship professional is the reason I call him Mr. Fletcher. His formal title reminds me that he is my supervisor—not a prospective bed companion.
Although the way he is eyeing me now with fascination brimming in his heavy-hooded gaze, I’m beginning to wish my work ethic wasn’t so strong. I can’t remember the last time I had a fun-filled, no-strings-attached exchange with a member of the opposite sex.
