Page 8 of Dirty Judge

I’d watched dozens of women get called out of the room, witnessed one fight, and wondered why they chose to make the suicide smock an ugly vomit green.

Bright yellow would be so much better…

“Okay, next call for defendants!” a man shouted from the far left side of the room. “Line up exactly as you’re called.”

I refused to get my hopes up.

“Lisa Stern,” he said. “Harriet Jones. Dahlia Hunter. Freya Montana. Olivia Spencer.”

I immediately jumped up and took my place in line.

My heart thudded against my chest as he led us through a winding hallway, and I was certain that everyone could hear it.

He stopped when we approached two large oak doors.

“Alright, ladies,” he said, opening it. “Sit in the back row and wait until the judge summons you. If you have a lawyer or public defender, they will join you when it’s time.”

As I was settling into my seat, the bailiff cleared his throat from the front of the courtroom.

“All arise for the honorable Judge Ashton!” he bellowed.

I stood up, waiting to see the usual gray-haired man or woman.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” I vowed to go with a sympathy defense. “It’ll never happen again…”

The judge stepped into the room and settled behind the bench.

He looked up, and my jaw dropped to the floor.

His deep ocean-blue eyes held mine for a fleeting second, and I found myself wondering whether judges could sentence people for thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts about them.

If they could, I'd probably be held in contempt for imagining what it would feel like to run my fingers through his short, ink-black hair.

His chiseled jawline and full, defined lips were downright lethal, and with every passing second, it became harder to believe this was the man who was about to decide my fate.

This man was sexy as fuck...

“Let’s do a bit of reshuffling, Mara,” he said to the woman to his right. “Start with the last case in this set.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood up. “Case 50768. The State of New York versus Miss Olivia Spencer.”

“Is Miss Spencer here today?” Judge Ashton flipped open a folder. “Or, do I need to send out another warrant?”

“I’m here.” I spoke out and moved toward the front. “Right here.”

His eyes met mine again as I took my place, and he set down his pen.

“Where’s your lawyer, Miss Spencer?” he asked.

“Do I really need one of those for traffic tickets?”

“You shouldalwayshave a lawyer.” He arched a brow. “Would you like me to appoint you one?”

“I…” I stuttered. “I would like everyone to stop acting like I’m a murderer.”

“Answer my question.” His voice was terse. “Would you like me to appoint a lawyer for you?”

“Only if it’s free…”