Gen asked Nathan Singh, who was standing with his hands on the rail in the witness box, “You, the other passengers, and the defendant were in the pub that evening?”
Nathan spoke with a middle-class Londoner accent that Gen should probably try to copy. “Yes.”
“How many drinks did the defendant have over the course of the evening?”
Nathan said, “Eight or nine.”
That was what he had said in the deposition. “And then you, the other passengers, and the defendant walked out to the car.”
The witness nodded. “Yes.”
“And the bartender didn’t try to stop you from driving?”
“No.”
“And you gave your keys to the defendant and sat behind the driver’s seat?”
“Basically, I actually gave my keys to Joe over there, and then I basically got in the car and actually sat there for a few minutes while Joe fumbled with the keys a bit.”
“You saw this from inside the car?”
“Basically, when I was inside the car, I was watching, and it looked like Joe was actually fumbling with the keys, basically.”
“And then the other two passengers got into the car, and Joe drove out of the parking lot.”
“Basically, I was in the back of the car, and Joe was actually driving that night.”
Gen walked back to the table with her notes and her laptop. Arthur was sitting back, looking away, his long arms lying across the back of the bench.
A piece of yellow paper was lying on her keyboard. Written in neat, block letters was the note: THE WITNESS IS BEING DECEPTIVE. HIS VERBAL MANNERISMS CHANGED WHEN YOU ASKED HIM ABOUT WHO WAS DRIVING. ASK HIM THIS: HOW WOULD YOU EXPLAIN IT IF THE BARTENDER SAID THAT YOU WERE DRIVING THE CAR?
Yeah, Gen could probably ask that. The bartender’s deposition said nothing of the sort, only that the bartender hadn’t left the building and hadn’t seen who got in the car or who was driving. She couldn’t say that the bartender said this, but this wording was just skirting the edges of what she could say.
Okay, sure.
Gen laid the yellow page on her computer, looked sideways over at the witness fidgeting in the witness box beside the bored judge, and asked, “How would you explain it if the bartender said that you were driving the car?”
The judge raised one eyebrow at her question, and his black brow nearly met the white rolls of the wig on his forehead.
Manic tremors raced through Nathan Singh’s arms as he waved them overhead. “I didn’t even see him out there! How could he have known that I was driving? Where was he? Was it CCTV? Was he spying on us? His testimony can’t be admissible in court if he was spying on us!”
Gen clicked her teeth shut to keep her jaw from dropping.
She glanced back at Arthur, who was still staring at the side wall, but a small smile curved his lips.
Gen turned and walked back toward the witness. “So you admit that you were driving that night? That my client was not driving, did not hit the tree, and did not endanger other people’s lives?”
“I’ve been tagged for drunk driving before! If I was caught, I would have gone to jail! Joe’s never done anything. You should have been able to get him off with nothing more than a slap on the arse.”
Gen turned toward the judge. “Your honor, in light of the witness’s testimony that he was driving the car that hit the tree and that my client was not driving that night—”
The judge was staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach. “Put your client on the stand and see what he has to say. Remind him of the penalties of perjury, even if it is to take the blame for a mate and keep him out of jail. Bailiff, arrest Mr. Singh.”
Gen strode back to her notes while Nathan Singh was hustled off the witness stand and arrested and Joe Popov was released from the dock to testify.
Joe Popov confirmed that Nathan Singh had been driving the car, drunk, and had convinced them all to say that Joe was driving, instead. He stared at his hands in his lap while he testified in a choked voice.
The judge dismissed the charges, and Arthur met Gen at the courthouse door to drive her back to her office for a few minutes before they went out to supper.
“Good job,” he told her as he held the door.
“How did you know?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Considering my lifestyle moving among the upper and noble classes, I encounter liars, cads, and thieves daily. It’s useful to be able to determine when someone is being deceptive.”
DEBRIEFING
“Popov was lying to me,” Gen said to Octavia. They were sitting in a corner at chambers high tea after the drunk driving case. Gen had finished serving, and Octavia had invited her over to chat about her triumph that day. “He was lying to me about being guilty. He actually didn’t do it.”
“That’s an unusual case,” Octavia said, settling back in her deep chair with the scalding cup of tea that Gen had prepared for her. “It’s usually the other way around.”
“I have more of those than I can count,” Gen said. “Everyone says that they didn’t do it.”
“Of course, they do,” Octavia said. “If they said otherwise, we would have to report it to the court.”
“It makes me feel dirty to represent people who are obviously guilty and lying to me about it.”
“Oh, come now. If we only represented the innocent ones whom we thought were telling the truth, we wouldn’t have a job. We’re not Atticus fucking Finch.”
“It feels like it’s misleading the court.”
“But you had the perfect counterpoint to that today. About eighty percent of our criminal cases are guilty, but we don’t know which eighty percent. We can’t determine it even when they tell us that they are innocent or guilty. Every single one of them deserves the best defense possible because some of them are innocent of the crime they’re accused of. That’s our job.”
COMPUTER LADS
Arthur sat at his computer desk, the six screens glowing around him. Video-chat windows were open on two of the screens, a total of six windows. In the windows, four men and two women wearing headphone and microphone sets were talking to each other and to him.
Headphones pinched Arthur’s ears, but it was the best and most secure way to hear what the others were saying. A microphone hovered near his chin, a black protrusion that distracted him.
Blocky text and punctuation filled two other computer monitors, meaningless to anyone who couldn’t read computer code. Arthur was reading through it, editing, while he was chatting with the other people. They were all doing the same thing.
“Blackjack, man, what is this with wanting to meet IRL?” Luftwaffe asked Arthur.
“It’s been a few weeks,” Arthur said. “It’s nice to see that you guys still exist and you’re not some Russian simulacra.”
“Oh, that Blackjack,” Vlogger1 said, tying her long, blue hair back in a ponytail again. “He likes meatspace.”
“I don’t know,” CallousBitch said. “I might have to put on pants. I hate putting on pants.”
“We could meet in Rolle,” Arthur said. “Switzerland is beautiful this time of year.”
They all groaned. None of them had any nostalgia for Switzerland. They had all lived there too long at boarding school.
“I heard of a new dive bar in downtown Paris,” Racehorse said. His chat window was almost entirely black because there were no lights in the room behind him. His ebony skin blended with the darkness. He believed that the dark reduced the chances of video surveillance recognition picking him up. He held a small controller in his huge hands and was tilting it and clicking like mad, obviously playing a computer game in his dark room rather than working. “I hear it’s less than two euros for their stout.”
“That sounds great,” Arthur said. “I’ll bring the thing that I’ve been working on. You guys are gonna love it.”
“Hello! Blackjack’s been working on a new thing!” Racehorse crowed. “Is this like the last thing you were working on? The one that
threw that election in Slovenia just by manipulating what news was on top of people’s newsfeeds?”
No one died in that operation, and that government had remained a free democracy.
Arthur smiled. “I think you’ll like it. How’s work, VLogger One?”
“Same old, same old,” she said. “The NSA never sleeps, and they never let me goddamn sleep. I’m still working on cracking the Ukraine’s satellite office. That sucker is practically encapsulated in black ice.”
Arthur chuckled at the science fiction reference. “Don’t stroke out.”
“If I don’t get off my butt and get some exercise, it’s a real concern. Racehorse, how’s it hanging?”
“Keeps whacking my knees, and work is fine, too.” He lifted his gaming controller, holding it above his head, and in the light from the screen, his thumbs blurred. “Anybody know anything about the targeting systems the Russians are using in Syria?”
“I heard they were the standard ones,” Arthur said.
“They’re not. The encryption is different. Otherwise, we would just let Black Rock do it. Anyway, now we’re involved.”
Vlogger1 asked Racehorse, “You wanna liaise?”
“Yeah, we’re going to have to.”
Arthur would never admit in his report that the CIA and the NSA would liaise on the Russian-Syrian missile targeting systems, just as the other people in the chat windows would not divulge this in their reports to their own intelligence services. They were a small cadre who helped each other, all within friendly services, and they were all anciens roséens, alumni of Le Rosey boarding school. With each other, they were all at the tops of their fields.
Arthur looked at the clock on the top of his computer. “Damn. I have to meet a lady for lunch.”
He was meeting Gen for lunch, so he was allowing an hour to clean up and make himself presentable. Maybe he would watch her in court again that afternoon. Maybe they would dance at the charity event tonight, and he could feel her lush body swaying in his arms again.
Touching her was exquisite torture because there was no chance of Arthur fucking her. Beyond the fact that she was his barrister and thus off-limits—which might not have stopped him in other situations—the fear in her eyes whenever a man neared her was painful to watch. He couldn’t imagine a situation where he could steer her into bed.
Ah, forbidden fruit. He would just have to imagine her sweet, ripe flesh because he would never devour it.
Hoots emanated through Arthur’s earphones.
“Ew,” Luftwaffe said, his German accent rising in his voice. “Blackjack has a social life. Aren’t we getting fancy? See you tomorrow, and we should plan to visit Racehorse’s dive bar in Paris soon. Meatspace can be interesting, even if one does have to wear pants.”
TROLLOP CARD
Gen was sitting in her office, grinding through piles of evidence that had arrived by courier for a hearing in two days, when her boss, Octavia Hawkes, stuck her head through the doorway.
Octavia said, “I need you in court with me this afternoon.” She looked up and down what she could see of Gen’s torso. “Are your nails done?”
“Just had them done this morning,” Gen said, confused.
“Excellent. Is that what you’re wearing?”
Gen glanced at herself. The black pantsuit that she was wearing was one of her better ones, a designer set found secondhand at a thrift shop. “Um, yes?”
“I have something else for you to wear.”
“But you’re three sizes smaller than I am, and about six inches shorter. Anything of yours would be, well,” Gen grimaced, “too tight and too short.”
Octavia’s grin widened and turned devious. “Exactly.”
Gen followed Octavia back to her office, where Octavia indeed had a skirt suit laid out for her.
Guess it was lucky that Gen had shaved her legs last night and kept a pair of pantyhose in her desk drawer for emergencies. She ran back and grabbed them.
In her boss’s office, Octavia tucked and stuffed Gen into the too-small skirt, muttering, “Good thing you’re wasp-waisted. It barely buttons.”
Gen didn’t answer because she was holding her breath. The skirt’s waistband was nearly cutting her in half like a thousand rubber bands around a watermelon. The shirt’s buttonholes strained over her boobs, gaping a bit between the buttons.
She looked up in absolute horror. “I can’t wear this to court.”
“Of course, you can,” Octavia said. “It’s for Judge Roberts. I’m not Atticus fucking Finch, here. We use what methods we have to ensure a win. ‘Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions. He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called a heaven-born captain.’”
“You memorized all that?” Gen asked.
“I have memorized Sun Tzu’s The Art of War in its entirety. ‘The art of war is of vital importance. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.’”
Gen shrugged. “Okay, then.”
Judge George Roberts was a notorious lech and ogled all the women lawyers, but women also generally won a disproportionate number of their cases, especially if they, ahem, dressed for success.
Gen clarified, “So we’re playing the Trollop Card.”
“Quite.” Octavia adjusted the lapels of the too-small suit jacket and started pulling the pins out of Gen’s hair.
Gen grabbed the heavy bun on the back of her head. “What are you doing?”
Octavia said, “Letting your hair down, at least in the literal sense. I suspect that you’re a lost cause, metaphorically.”
Gen’s hair tumbled around her shoulders. “Are you sure this is ethical?”
“Of course not. That’s why it works every damn time, and our client will thank us for it, later. Is that really the bra you’re wearing?”
“Yes, it really is the bra I’m wearing,” Gen said.
“It’s just beige.” Octavia scowled. “And blah. And unnoticeable.”
“That was rather its appeal.”
“It won’t appeal to Judge Roberts, and then we’ll lose this appeal.”
“I see what you did there,” Gen said.
“A-peel that one off, and we’ll see what I have in stock. I always have an extra Myla or two, just in case.”
Gen crossed her arms over her chest and didn’t take her shirt off. “He’s not going to be able to see it, anyway. My court robes are going to cover my clothes down to my knees.”
“Nope. It’s just a civil case. We won’t need to wear the robes and wigs.”
Then the judge would be able to see everything.
Maybe absolutely everything unless the blouse’s buttons were sewn on with steel thread.
Octavia rummaged in her file cabinet by the wall. “And are those the shoes you’re wearing?”
“Must we go through this again?” Gen’s shoes were sensible black pumps with short, chunky heels, excellent for trotting to see a client in the cells or standing to address the court for long periods of time.
“Don’t you have some Christian Louboutins?”
Those hideously over-priced high heels with the scarlet soles? No. Just no. Even if Gen had found some secondhand in a thrift store, she did not wear slutty shoes to work or at all, ever. “Haven’t gotten some yet.”
“Too bad. Judge Roberts does love the fuck-me shoes.” Octavia rummaged in the file cabinet drawer, dropping lingerie over the sides.
“Besides,” Gen said, “I’d be six-feet-four in those things. And I doubt they even make them in my size.”
“Oh, you can special-order anything, if you know
whom to call. Here’s something.” Octavia turned around. A scrap of lace dangled from one finger. “Try this on under that blouse.”
The sheer lace bra tied up with ribbons. “I’m a double-D cup, Octavia. That little thing would explode.”
Octavia frowned. “That utilitarian rag that you’re wearing just won’t do. The evidence in this case is flimsy—”
“No, that bra is flimsy,” Gen muttered.
“—and yet I need to win it. Quite honestly, the client was not on his cell phone when he crashed the car. He hadn’t been drinking. Another car’s mirror glared at him when he hit that damned, overbred rosebush, but just try to tell that to the horticulturist. I can’t believe that she is suing the poor sod for thousands of pounds because she might have won a prize with her roses. Try on the bra.”
A knock rattled Octavia’s office door.
Octavia yelled, “Just a minute,” while Gen called, “Come in,” trying to get out of stuffing her boobs in that inadequate bit of chiffon.
Arthur leaned through the doorway. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m here to take my girlfriend to lunch.” He glanced at the two of them, and then his pale eyes settled on Gen. “Good Lord. It’s like the naughty librarian, come to life.”
“Ah, yes,” Octavia said. “Your ‘girlfriend.’ How is that working out for you two?”
“Splendidly,” Arthur said.
Gen piped up, “I’ve been keeping an eye on him as best as I can.”
Octavia glared at Arthur. “I hope you’ve been a gentleman.”
“I am the very definition of a gentleman,” he said.
Octavia’s lips compressed until they were an angry, red dot on her face. “I don’t mean it that way. I mean that Genevieve is taking quite a risk for you, even though I’ve let it be known around the upper levels of the office that this is a ploy.”
So Octavia had kept her word, which was probably why Gen hadn’t had any blowback from the senior barristers about ostensibly dating a client. The other pupils were giving her the side-eye quite a lot, but their opinion didn’t matter.
Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1 Page 14