Too late.
"Dr. North, you've studied perpetrator psychology extensively. In yourprofessionalopinion, can abusers truly change their behavior?"
I don’t miss the word he chooses to emphasize. Still, the question lands like a gift.
"Not without breaking. Not without consequence." The words carry the weight of absolute conviction. "Abusers don't change because they see the light—they adapt because they face genuine repercussions. They confess in private while hiding in public. The truth usually bleeds out only under force."
I catch the prosecutor's almost imperceptible nod. He knows that line will stick with the jury, burrow into their minds during deliberation. I've given him exactly what he needs.
The defense attorney asks a few more desperate questions, but he's already lost. I answer each one with the same measured precision, never breaking character, never showing my hand. When he finally sits down, defeated, I can taste victory in the air.
"Thank you, Dr. North," the judge says. "You may step down."
I rise gracefully, smoothing my skirt as I descend from the witness stand. I don't look back at the defendant—that would be unprofessional. I am many things, but never that.
Instead, my final glance sweeps across the jury one last time. Their faces tell me everything I need to know. I've planted seeds of doubt that will bloom into certainty by verdict time.
As I walk toward the courtroom doors, my heels marking measured beats against marble floors, one thought crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity:Some truths only matter when someone believes them. Or else, they may as well be damned six feet under.
***
The courthouse hallway stretches before me like a marble canyon, voices bouncing off high ceilings in an echo chamber of legal warfare. Lawyers cluster in small groups, their urgent whispers creating a soundtrack of ambition and desperation. I'm halfway to the elevator when footsteps quicken behind me.
"Dr. North?" The voice belongs to Graham Porter, one of the junior DAs I've worked with before.
I turn, already composing a pageant smile.
Porter is obnoxiously tall and handsomely lean. Even at a standstill, he is the image of the restless energy of someone who runs on caffeine and conviction. His suit is expensive but lived-in, the tie already loosened from his neck like he's been holding his breath all morning and can finally exhale. Should I be honored by that or not?
"Graham." I extend my hand, noting how his turquoise eyes hold mine a beat longer than strictly professional. He squeezes my hand gently before shaking, then letting it drop. "Why don’t you walk with me and tell me how you think it went." It isn’t a question.
"Like watching a masterclass," says Graham. He falls into step beside me as we head toward the exit, his voice carrying that particular brand of exhaustion that comes from high-stakeslitigation. "The way you handled Morrison's cross-examination? Brutal. In the best possible way, of course."
"Morrison's predictable," I scoff, pressing the elevator button. "Men like him think intellectual women can be intimidated with volume and aggression. They never learn."
Graham laughs, a sharp sound that echoes off the marble walls. "No, they don't. And thank God for that—makes our jobs easier." He runs a hand over his buzzed head, a gesture I've noticed he makes when he's processing something. "I have to ask: where did that line about truth bleeding out under force come from? The jury ate it up."
I tilt my head slightly, studying his face. Graham comes from…well, not old money. The kind of middle-class stability that breeds ambition without desperation. He's worked for everything he has. He carries that chip on his shoulder like armor when he faces entitled defendants who think their trust funds can buy justice.
"Experience," I say simply. "You spend enough time studying predators, you learn how they operate. They hoard their secrets until someone forces their hand."
The elevator arrives with a dull ding.
As we step inside, Graham loosens his tie completely, letting it hang around his neck like a noose he's temporarily escaped.
"This case has been eating at me for months," he admits, leaning against the elevator wall. "Rodriguez's husband—classic narcissistic abuser. Rich enough to hire Morrison, connected enough to think he's untouchable." His jaw tightens. "Men like him make me want to burn the whole system down and start over."
Interesting. I file away the way his voice drops when he talks about burning things down, the slight tremor of genuine rage beneath his professional composure.
"What drives you, Graham?" I ask, letting curiosity color my tone. "Beyond justice, I mean. What keeps you coming back to cases like this?"
He's quiet for a moment, watching the floor numbers tick by. I’m not sure he’ll answer until he begins to.
When he speaks, his voice carries a weight I haven't heard before: "I grew up watching my mother make excuses for my father's drinking. Not—he never laid a hand on her. But the emotional warfare was fucking relentless. She died believing she wasn't worth better, never getting out. Which is such a cliché, and somehow no less painful for it." His light, maudlin eyes meet mine in the elevator's reflective surface. "I guess I'm trying to save women like her. One guilty verdict at a time."
The elevator opens on the ground floor, but neither of us moves immediately. There's something raw in his confession, something that makes him more interesting than the ambitious DA I thought I knew.
"That's admirable," I say, stepping out into the lobby's chaos of clicking heels and urgent phone calls. "And dangerous."
