Page 32 of Dirty Judge

No.

No.

NO.

I immediately stopped walking and pinched myself.

“There’s no pain.” I let out a sigh. “This is a dream. Just a dream.”

“Hold my coffee for a second.” Mara held out her cup, and the sting from the sleeve made my eyes widen.

I wasn’t dreaming at all.

“This is where you’ll be assigned,” she said, opening the door. “Allow me to show you to your desk.”

“Actually, uh...” I looked away. “How binding was that promise I just signed?”

“It was written by some of this city’s top lawyers.”

“Can I write an apology note and back away today without any penalty?”

“I will personally see to it that you’re sued for breach of contract and barred from any city government jobs for at least three years.”

“I might be able to survive that…” I stepped back. “They can’t sue me for money I don’t have, right?”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside.

Inside, towering ceilings with skylights greeted me, forcing me to slowly scan the colossal space they covered.

The entire left wall was a bookshelf, filled with leather-bound legal books. On the right, a golden frame displayed a moving panorama of Manhattan’s skyline that stretched from one end to the other.

As I gazed at the immaculate desks that were tucked into recessed walls and the framed newspaper headlines and degreesthat were on display, the most notable thing wasn’t anything I could see.

It was what I could hear.

Despite the people who were walking around us, there was an intimidating silence here.

I glanced toward the far end of the space. Behind an open door sat a large oak desk with plush red chairs.

My eyes drifted to two small car replicas sitting on the edge of the desk. A McLaren and a Ferrari.

Shit…

“Since you have the highest level of education and journalism experience—” Mara snapped her fingers as we reached a smaller desk. “I made you the top clerk for Judge Ashton. You’re the only one who gets to work directly in his office.”

“Does that ‘breach of contract’ you mentioned come with any prison time?”

She opened a drawer and handed me a thick book.

“I’m just asking a question…” I swallowed. “I was in front of him in court for traffic tickets before, so…”

“Oh!” She laughed, waving her hand. “He doesn’t remember anyone who gets traffic tickets. Trust me.”

“Does he by chance remember—or know—people who may have recently damaged his property?”

“Huh?” She stepped closer. “What did you just say?”

“I said good to know.”