The defense was not, in fact, ready to put on its case in chief that afternoon. They instead requested a meeting in chambers that afternoon, where they put forth a motion to dismiss the current trial and allow us to refile in separate suits, alleging that there were irreconcilable differences between the defendants at this stage.

“Absolutely not,” Judge Friedman had replied, his voice tight with controlled fury. “You want the plaintiffs to put on their case four times? No. Your clients chose to do business with one another, and all of this is just another cost of doing said business. This trial will finish, the jury will render its verdict, and if they find your clients liable, I expect that the plaintiff’s estate will be paid in full by the end of next month, gentlemen, that her soul may finally rest.”

Suffice to say that the defendants’ cases pretty much fell apart after that. We hadn’t accomplished our primary objective of pointing the finger at whoever had Mrs. Banks killed, no. But at the very least, we’d turned Leslie King’s testimony into quite the golden apple, given the discord it had caused in the defense’s ranks.

The defense’s case lasted almost a week. It was an entire week of just… misery. Backstabbing, betrayal, finger-pointing, passing the buck, every single trick of the trade that could convince an otherwise-undecided jury that one defendant or the other was less liable than the rest.

But that only worked when it was a matter of inches, when everybody was actively fighting for that threshold of fifty percent and a feather. This?

This was the three last-place finishers squabbling for a bronze medal that had long since been claimed.

The jury was so exhausted of it all that I saw visible sighs of relief when I entered the well to give my closing arguments. The date was Thursday, February 4, and if I was reading the jury correctly, we would have our verdict before the sun set.

“Members of the jury,” I greeted, keeping my tone light as I faced them and held the urn that held Destiny Banks’ ashes out for them to see. “I will be frank: I don’t want to overstay my welcome. You’ve spent the last week hearing the defendants rehash the same set of facts three times over, squabbling and kvetching and pointing the finger, and in all of this, they’ve forgotten the single most important party.” I raised the urn higher. “Once your decision is made, Destiny Banks’ soul can finally rest. But what does that decision entail?”

I walked back over to our table and handed the urn back to Julio, who placed it in front of my chair, then returned to standing before the jury.

“So, a normal closing argument in a case like this would usually take… I don’t know, an hour and a half? Two hours, maybe?” I could see the jury cringe at the thought almost immediately after I said those numbers, and let out a sigh, briefly lowering my ears before perking them back up. “And if I did do that, it would be to go in-depth on the witnesses and the evidence, highlight particular facts, help make connections and leaps of logic that might’ve gotten lost in the monotony. But instead, I’m going to keep things short and sweet.”

And just like that, I had the jury’s rapt attention again.

“When you go back to deliberate, you only have to answer one question: could the defendants — all of them, one of them, some combination thereof, whatever — could they have prevented the fire that burned down the Hillside Courtyard and killed Jerome and Elijah Banks by something so simple as actually doing their jobs?”

I let the statement hang for a few seconds, and used that time to turn around and level a fierce glare at the defendants’ representatives, my ears pulled back and low in anger.

“You do not,” I began, turning to the jury as I gathered momentum, “need to ask why they didn’t do their jobs. You do not need the specifics as to the sheer dereliction of duty that happened here. All you need to do is take the facts that have been presented, piece them together, and take the clearest picture you can get from them. This picture will answer a simple question: could they have prevented this? Yes, or no.

“William C. Smith & Company.” I pointed behind me at the first defendant’s representative, because God forbid the actual decision maker actually show up to court. “They owned the building. They were responsible for maintaining the property, repairing things that were broken, paying for everything that needed fixing up. They had the money to spend that would’ve stopped this fire — hell, you saw how much money they were making from just Mrs. Banks’ unit, no? Almost three thousand dollars a month in government cheddar?”

The jury nodded along.

“Multiply that by a hundred and seventy-six.”

Two of my jurors — the white men, the actuary and the accountant — turned to stare at the defendant’s rep, moving ever so slowly as they did so. No doubt they were both running the numbers in their heads, and coming up with a delightfully disturbing number in the process.

“They were the owners,” I continued. “And you would think that’d put them in position to sound the alarms. But no, because they outsourced that!” I pointed behind me once again, and this time my finger fell upon the second defendant’s representative. “Property Management Solutions, Incorporated. Their people were the ones with a direct line to the owner. They were supposed to be there every day, boots on the ground, handling complaints and solving problems. But they weren’t. They were such neglectful custodians that the turnaround time on complaints was measured in months.

“And maybe that’s because they were financially motivated to keep everything looking good, even when it wasn’t? It was…” I shrugged, then sighed. “Ugh… look. In this scenario, the correct metaphor would be giving the fox the keys to the henhouse. But I object to that, members of the jury, because I’m a fox, and even on my worst days, I’m still not stupid enough to do what this defendant did!”

That quip got a few chuckles from the jury, but it also sharpened their focus even more strongly. Similes and metaphors were powerful tools for closing arguments. They took complex concepts and reduced them to simple ideas.

And thankfully for me, you could still get use out of killing the metaphor. Particularly one as fitting as this had been.

“And then we’ve got our third defendant,” I said, pointing back one last time. “Columbia Construction & Contracting. Frankly, this one is pretty obvious. I mean, I could quip about how anything built upon a poor foundation will inevitably crumble — oh, wait, I just did. And pithy the old saying may be,” I continued, catching a couple of grins from my jury, “we know for a fact how weak the foundation was: the external fire escapes falling off of the building; the roof and floors crumbling so badly underfoot that the NMR’s superhero responder was the only person stuck doing the job of a dozen men. And the most damning red flag?” I asked, then proceeded to answer my own question. “The control room holding the fire alarm panel was supposed to be rated for at least three hours of intense burn.

“Members of the jury, the Hillside Courtyard wasn’t even on fire for half that.”

Again, I let the statement hang, and doubled the distance I stood from the jury box to punctuate it.

“Barricade spoke to you about exactly how bad of a condition the building was in when the emergency responders arrived,” I continued, moving onto a brief review of the key points. “Fire Marshal Marks explained that it was an electrical fire, and just how many safeguards had to fail for it to do so much damage so quickly. Master Electrician Scott demonstrated how incredibly, frighteningly easy it is for an electrical fire to start. Mr. Miguel Arroyo explained how he was supposed to do the inspections that would’ve helped prevent an electrical fire, but was stopped — no, threatened into stopping by people who didn’t want to lose their government cheddar. And Mrs. Leslie King, the one who threatened him in the first place, went and gave you a stark look at just how little any of the defendants cared about doing their jobs in the first place.”

I looked between the members of my jury as I spoke. All of them had their eyes locked on me, faces set into masks of grim determination.

“Now that you know what you are charged with deciding, and why you should decide against the defendants, I have one final ask,” I said, drawing their interest. “This whole tragedy? All of it? All of the waste, the misery, the suffering, the corpses… all of them were in the name of getting another dollar.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to NovelBin for the genuine story.

I reached into the inside pocket of my blazer and pulled out a fresh, crisp hundred-dollar bill. Or at least, it looked like a Benjamin. It was actually Hollywood imitation money — one of many different props and demonstratives we kept well-stocked at the firm.

I held the prop money out to the jury, spreading it between both hands so that they could clearly see the denomination before transferring it to my left hand.

“This is the only language they understand,” I said, waving the movie money as I spoke. “Dollars and cents. Red and black. Profit and loss. Because do not forget, members of the jury: those people sitting there?” I waved at the defense’s table. “Those aren’t actually the defendants. The defendants are companies. They’re not people. They’re just words on a page, written on a piece of paper that’s long since been buried in a filing cabinet somewhere. They don’t care about the same things you do! All they care about is this

!”

I shook the fake bill in my hand again, then tapped it against my other hand while I paced before the jury.

“The point of a wrongful death case like this isn’t to try and pay the plaintiff enough money to bury their grief. No amount of these,” I raised the bill, “is ever, ever going to match the value of a single human life. Actually, no, I need to correct that.

“No amount of money is ever going to match how much the value that we humans attribute to even one human life. And that’s the difference between you and the defendants,” I said, pointing from the defense table back to the jury box. “They do not understand the value of a human life. They only see salaries, performance metrics, cost-saving measures, profit margins. The only thing they understand is the almighty dollar.

“And there’s only one way they learn this lesson. Only one way that they finally understand, that it finally trickles past the spreadsheets and ledgers and other little inhumanities. If the only thing they understand is profit good, loss bad? Well.”

I reached into my blazer pocket and pulled out four more of the fake hundred-dollar bills.

“Five people are dead because of this whole debacle,” I said, counting off as I spoke each of their names. “Jerome Banks. A child. Elijah Banks. A child. Fire inspector Micky Henricks. Miguel Arroyo’s sister, Sofia Arroyo-Nunez. And the plaintiff herself, Destiny Irene Banks.” I waved the five bills at the jury, fanning them slightly. “If the defendants want to value profits over people?”

Purple flame licked at my fingertips, and hungrily leapt onto the papers in my hand, consuming all five of the hundred-dollar bills. I stood there in silence, looking my jurors in the eye as the fake bills burned in my hands.

Only once they had burned out entirely did I continue speaking.

“If they want to value profits over people,” I said into the dead silence that followed my burning of the bills, “then let those profits burn to ash.”

And with that, I’d said my piece. I offered the jury a quick curtsy, then went back to my table and sat down. We’d spent the last week and a half making our case as best we could.

Now, all we had left to do… was wait.

I’d finished up with my closing arguments at 10:24 am. The defendants’ three closing arguments took us until noon, whereupon Judge Friedman sent the jury to lunch, and only read off the jury instructions to them afterwards. He finished up with that at 1:37 pm, and sent the jury off to deliberate.

And then, as the winter sun began to set, the clerk sent word: the jury was back with a verdict.

We all crowded back into the courtroom at 4:17 pm. Three new people had arrived to stand in for the defendants; either the original three had been called back, or they’d all demanded somebody else be there to face the music so they didn’t have to be the bearers of bad news. Regardless, it wouldn’t change the result.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Friedman asked.

“We have, your Honor.” The jury foreperson, the actuary, stood and handed the jury’s verdict sheet to the bailiff. Bailiff Mike then handed it over to the clerk of court.

“The defendants will stand and face the jury,” Judge Friedman commanded.

The three new representatives all looked at their bosses’ attorneys with concern and worry, but did stand after only minor prompting.

“In the case of Estate of Destiny Irene Banks v. William C. Smith & Co., et al.,” the clerk of court read out, “we, the jury, find all three defendants… liable. The j—”

Cheers rang out in the gallery at the verdict, interrupting what the clerk was going to read off next. Judge Friedman banged his gavel a few times, and thankfully that was enough to quiet the peanut gallery down.

“The jury holds the defendants liable for the following amounts: compensatory damages in the amount of one million, eight hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars; and punitive damages in the amount of three hundred and thirty-three million, six hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars, and thirty cents.”

… holy shit.

The gallery erupted

at the amounts, and this time, Judge Friedman did nothing to calm them down. I looked to my left at Julio and Fatima, and smiled slightly at the utterly dumbstruck expressions on their faces, then glanced down at my phone, which Casey was currently blowing up with excited texts. Which, well.

Three hundred thirty-five million, five hundred forty-one thousand dollars. And thirty cents.

The amount was probably more money than any of them had ever considered at once, let alone receiving a piece of, given that our firm’s thirty-percent contingency fee meant we would get… I pulled up my calculator app and mathed it out… oh, oh that was… just over a hundred million dollars for the firm. Huh. Neat.

Anyway, as for the point I’d wanted to make? Neither Julio, nor Fatima, nor Casey had caught the big thing that the jury put in their verdict, the one detail about the exact number chosen that told me how strongly they all felt about this case: the symbolism.

“Order! Order!” Judge Friedman yelled into the microphone on the bench, slamming his gavel as he did. The peanut gallery finally settled down after the seventh slam of the judge’s gavel, and he cleared his throat into the microphone as he gave the onlookers a disappointed stare. “At this time, the court thanks the jurors for their service, and dismisses them. Ladies and gentlemen, you are free to go. Bailiff Mike will escort you out.”

The jurors gave relieved nods, and I caught a few of them casting glances at the urn holding my client’s ashes as they stepped down from the jury box.

“As to the verdict,” Judge Friedman began, drawing our attention. “All three defendants are jointly and severally liable for the full amount. Given the financial disclosures handed over during discovery, I know that the parties are good for the full amount with little issue. To that end, I expect the full amount to be deposited into the escrow account provided by plaintiff’s counsel by the end of the month.”

“Your Honor—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Judge Friedman interrupted, glaring at Larry until the man sat back down. “Just hope that I’m not the judge presiding over the inevitable squabble between the three of you over who has to pay more. Now, it’s getting late. Post-trial and housekeeping matters can come at a later date. Court adjourned!” The judge banged his gavel, and we all rose as he exited, then took the opportunity to slip out of the courtroom before anybody could stop us. The press would probably want a quote after that verdict, but I wasn’t about to give them one so quickly. I wanted this story to stew for as long as possible. A bad judgment, after all, was a one-time fee. But bad PR?

Bad PR was forever.

“Holy shit,” Julio muttered as we finally walked out of the Superior Court building proper. “Hundreds of millions?”

“Yup,” I said, popping the ‘p’. “Welcome to the big leagues, you two. Don’t get too used to your share of the profits, though; verdicts like this are still rare. And Casey?”

“Y-yeah?” our adorable little 3L student attorney stammered. I’d caught him wilting when I mentioned profit sharing, and he probably remembered his ethics course: because he wasn’t a barred attorney, he wasn’t eligible for any of the profits that should rightfully be going to him for all his help. And make no mistake, his help had been instrumental in keeping any of us from succumbing to tunnel vision.

And that deserved to be rewarded.

“Make sure to let me know once you’ve passed the bar,” I told him. “I’ll hold onto some of the mandatory housekeeping busywork. Just submit a piece of paper under your name once you’ve earned your ‘Esquire’. Your share will be waiting.”

I didn’t get a response, and frowned, my ears flicking to angle behind me at where Casey’s footsteps should have been following. I turned to check on him, and saw that he’d gone stock still, eyes wide, hands shaking, lip quivering.

“W-what?”

“Mhmm,” I hummed. What I’d proposed wasn’t totally kosher, but… well. Share of the profits, holiday bonus, same thing by two names.

“I… t-that—”

“Question.”

Fatima’s interjection seemed to snap Casey out of his shock, and he joined me in looking at her.

“Yeah?” I prompted.

“What happens to the rest of the money? The other two hundred thirty million?” Fatima asked, pointing at the urn held in Julio’s hands. “It’s not like our client is here to take possession of it anymore.”

“Oh, that’s easy. You read the will, right?” I asked.

“I did, but — oh. Oh!”

“Mhmm. Case isn’t over when the verdict comes in, people!” I said with a laugh. “The fun part’s over, so now it’s time for everybody’s favorite time sink: dotting i’s, crossing t’s, and filing paperwork!”

My proclamation was met with a trio of groans. I could only cackle, tail wagging happily as we made our way to the car. I’d wait to make a reservation for tonight’s celebratory dinner until we all got in the car. On the firm’s dime, of course. We’d just brought in a hundred million dollars.

The two-grand tab we racked up wasn’t even a drop in that bucket.