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‘You think only the innocent deserve a fair defence?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes spark with mine and she lifts a hand to silence me. ‘Hear me out.’
Her determination throws me. I am her professional superior in every way, but she holds me utterly spellbound with that one simple gesture. I wait.
‘In an ideal world, I think only the innocent deserve a fair defence. Why defend someone who’s guilty? Why argue on their behalf?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘You use the law to their advantage. And you’re good at it. Really, really good.’
My lips curl—she’s so beautifully naïve. I was never like that. Losing your parents as I did gives you a different perspective on this world and the people within it, their capabilities, their demons—their all. Learning to forgive is not the same as being blind to a person’s faults. And humanity is inherently faulty, in my experience. ‘Our legal system is predicated on this. Everyone gets to plead their case.’
Her nostrils flare.
Now it’s my turn to silence her. I don’t lift a hand, but I continue speaking before she can interrupt. ‘How do we know if someone’s innocent or guilty? How can we decide? Are you okay with sending innocent people to prison? Just because they didn’t get an adequate defence?’
‘No. I said, In an ideal world.’
My smile is grim. ‘You’re a little old to believe in fairy tales, aren’t you?’
Her eyes hold mine and I feel a mutual sadness creep into the room. A wistfulness. This world isn’t what either of us would want it to be. It’s a fanciful thought—something I’m not prone to.
‘You can’t study law without respecting its mechanism.’
‘I do respect its mechanism.’ Her skin is goose bumped. Is she cold?
‘Yet you challenge its wisdom. You question the verdict.’
‘The whole country questions the verdict.’
‘That’s not how it works.’ My words are gruff. ‘The system decides who is innocent and guilty. Our job is to advocate for our clients and accept the ruling once all appeals are exhausted.’
‘Your clients are all guilty,’ she points out quickly.
‘The not guilty verdicts would seem to contradict that.’
‘That’s a load of crap,’ she says with a shake of her head, and I hear the passion in her voice and know that this is as deeply personal for her as it is for me.
‘One of the hallmarks of our legal system, one of the requirements that makes it unstintingly robust, is that anyone can have someone like me advocating for them.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ she says, shaking her head and tilting her face so that her profile is angled towards me. ‘Not everyone can afford the freedom you seem able to guarantee.’
More idealism. Of course.
‘There are hundreds—thousands—of men and women who were wrongly accused, who didn’t have the luxury of a Connor Hughes or Michael Brophy advocating on their behalf. Men and women who are rotting in prison because the system failed them.’
‘And you want to fix that, too,’ I surmise.
‘Yes.’
‘You want to form your own little Innocence Project?’ I am genuinely interested but the words come out as sneering and I’m too angry to take them back. Not angry with her. Angry with her arguments, which are predicated on lines of logic I instinctively seek to avoid.
‘Don’t mock my intentions!’ Her eyes spark like wildfire. I’m intrigued by the passion and outrage in their depths. Her anger matches my own.
‘I’m not.’ There is a gentle apology in the admission. ‘I’m interested in what your end-game is with law.’
She stares at me for a moment, and then nods crisply. ‘I want to put the Donovans of this world away. For good. I want to work for victims.’ Hearing his name on her lips makes me want to curl my hand into a fist and strike the wall. Heat flushes my face. The thought of Donovan ever knowing Olivia Amorelli disgusts me on a cellular level. My focus is lost; I home in on her statement, ignoring the visceral reaction I had to her use of my latest client’s name.
‘And the wrongly accused?’
‘They’re victims, too,’ she mutters.
