Inside, the judge’s chambers felt suddenly too small. A wall of leather-bound books stood silent and accusatory.
Judge Harlan didn’t sit. He was leaning over his heavy mahogany desk, his palms flat against the dark wood. He didn’t look up as they entered.
Reid stopped two feet in front of the desk. He smoothed his tie with a methodical hand, his prosecutor’s mask already in place, but the tight set of his jaw betrayed him. Eleanor stood a half step beside him. The knot in her stomach had become a hard, cold stone.
Judge Harlan drew a long, slow breath that sounded like grinding teeth, then pushed away from the desk. He looked from Reid to Eleanor, his eyes a cold, flinty gray.
“I have tolerated a lot of noise in my courtroom since this case was called,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, deadly register. “I have tolerated podcasters who think theyare detectives and a gallery that thinks it is a reality television audience. And I have done it because I believe the law will settle the score in the end.”
He turned back to the desk. With one slow, deliberate movement, he swept his hand across the center blotter.
“However,” he continued, his voice hardening, “I am having a great deal of trouble tolerating this.”
Glossy, full-color 8x10s were splayed out across the mahogany like a spread of winning cards in a high-stakes game.
Reid’s entire body went rigid. Eleanor went cold.
Harlan didn’t touch the glossies. He used a silver letter opener to slide the photo of the Jaguar toward the edge of the desk, the metal screeching softly against the wood.
“This isn’t a romance, Mr. Calloway,” he said quietly. “It’s the end of any chance this jury believes this trial is fair.”
The first photograph was the one everyone had already seen—the one circulating on social media since the first night at Catch My Draft. Reid had her backed against the cool brick wall near the side entrance, his leg—the strong, solid line of it through his slacks—pressed firmly between her knees, anchoring her to him as they kissed with an intensity that made the memory of it blaze hot in her skin.
Judge Harlan tapped the next photo. It was new. It was sharp. And it was devastating.
Eleanor’s front porch.
The angle was from the street, peering through the dogwood branches. It was night, the porch light spilling a soft, honeyed glow over the steps. Reid was there, his arms wrapped around Eleanor’s waist, spinning her in a burst of shared, private joy.
But it wasn’t the romance that made Eleanor’s heart stop. It was the digital white text burned into the bottom right corner of the image.
MAY 14 — 10:42 PM.
The day after the grand jury had returned the true bill of indictment.
The next photo was worse. High noon. The sun was bright, glinting off the hood of the Jaguar parked in Eleanor’s driveway. The front door was open, and Reid was stepping out, tucking his shirt into his waistband, looking every inch a man who had made himself at home.
MAY 15 — 12:15 PM.
The day Eleanor had filed her first round of discovery motions.
“The alleyway kiss was a spectacle,” Harlan said, his voice rising in a slow, terrifying crescendo. “A lapse in judgment. A public embarrassment. I could have handled that with a reprimand and a stern warning to the jury.”
He slammed his hand down on the photo of the Jaguar.
“But this? These were taken after the indictment was handed down. While you, Mr. Calloway, were preparing a case for the State, and you, Ms. Harper, were supposedly building a defense for a man’s life.”
He leaned over the desk, his face inches from theirs.
“You weren’t just having a weekend fling. You were sharing a bed while the ink was still wet on a murder charge. The appearance of justice is as vital to this community as justice itself. When the people of Jackson County look at that courtroom, they are supposed to see a fair fight. Instead, they see a setup. They see a joke.”
“Your Honor,” Reid began, his voice rough. “The timing of these visits had nothing to do with the case. We did not discuss the Mercer file.”
“Do not split hairs with me, Counselor!” Harlan thundered. “You are the District Attorney. You know exactly how this looks. It looks like the prosecution and the defense are trading secrets over breakfast!”
He gestured violently toward the splayed 8x10s. Then his eyes dropped to the handwritten note clipped to the top photograph.
Lila Grant.
