Elena Vance, Chief Judge.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and absolute. The tick of the cheap wall clock above the principal’s desk suddenly sounded like a countdown timer.
Richard’s gaze flicked from the badge to my face, his eyebrows knitting together as his brain desperately tried to process the information. The smug, untouchable billionaire was momentarily paralyzed by the sheer weight of reality crashing down on him.
The principal, Mr. Harrison, was the first to break. He stood up so fast his chair screeched violently against the linoleum floor. His face had turned a sickly shade of gray, all the color draining from his lips.
“J-Judge Vance,” Mr. Harrison stammered, his voice cracking. “I… I had no idea. Your daughter’s enrollment files listed her under her stepfather’s surname, and—”
“And if she were the daughter of a janitor, would her broken arm matter less to you, Mr. Harrison?” I cut him off, my voice dangerously calm, vibrating with the quiet fury of a mother who had just watched her child suffer.
Mr. Harrison opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, utterly defenseless.
Richard finally found his voice, though the booming arrogance from moments ago was noticeably frayed. He forced a harsh, nervous laugh, adjusting the collar of his tailored suit. “Chief Judge? You? Come on, Elena. You were a struggling public defender when I left you. You expect me to believe you climbed to the top of the state judiciary?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Richard,” I said, my eyes locking onto his. “But the law doesn’t require your belief to function. It only requires facts. And the fact is, your son just confessed to a felony assault in front of witnesses.”
Max, sensing the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere, looked up from his video game. The smirk on his eleven-year-old face finally began to waver. “Dad? What’s happening? She’s lying, right? You said we own this place.”
“Quiet, Max,” Richard snapped, his tone sharp enough to make the boy flinch. Richard turned back to me, his jaw clenching. The check he had tossed onto the desk suddenly looked pathetic, a cheap insult resting between us. “So you wore a fancy robe and got a title. Congratulations. But let’s be realistic, Elena. Max is a minor. And as I mentioned, Chief Constable Briggs and I are very close friends. A phone call from me, and any ‘confession’ heard in this room is tied up in bureaucratic red tape until we’re both gray and old.”
“You always did think the world revolved around your country club roster,” I said softly.
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