Chapter 5

Lila stared at Frank Dovey’s invitation on her computer screen—no, not an invitation, a command: Come see me, three words that sucked the marrow from her bones. She thought back to that day in the elevator, the way he stared at her like a mean dog sizing up a meal. It had been two years since the Pruitt trial. For Dovey to fire her now seemed like a fight well below his weight class.

Lila took a few calming breaths and counted down from ten. When she got to one, she stood and walked out of her office. Whatever Dovey planned to do to her, it had already been decided. All she could do was hold her emotions in check as he placed her neck beneath the blade of the guillotine.

Frank Dovey’s office had windows, and shelves, and a wall behind his desk chock-full of diplomas, plaques, and pictures. His door was open, but Lila knocked anyway. Frank didn’t invite her in but simply pointed to a chair. She took a seat.

His face held no expression as he stared at her. If he was trying to unnerve her, it was working. Then he said, “I assume you heard what happened to Ms. Malone?”

“I did. How’s she doing?”

Dovey ignored the question. “I also assume you’re aware that I am in charge of the Adult Prosecution division in her absence.”

Lila figured this question to be rhetorical and didn’t answer.

He continued. “I’ve been looking over your work here, and I don’t think you are living up to our expectations.”

“I don’t understand.”

He picked up a piece of paper—Lila’s résumé—and started reading. “Editor of the law review, Dillard Award with the Jessup Moot Court, teaching assistant for the litigation practice class.”

In her head, Lila added, Second chair of a murder case where we kicked your ass.

“You’ve been here six months and in all this time, you’ve never appeared before a judge.”

“A judge? No.”

“And why is that? Has Mr. Hernandez lost faith in you?”

“Mr. Hernandez prefers that I do research and prepare exhibits.”

“One of the purposes of a clerkship is to see what a person’s made of. Trying a case isn’t like moot court or sitting in an office, drafting memos. It’s pressure. People’s lives and livelihoods will be at stake. Victims need to know that you can handle the case—that you won’t strike out on a curveball.”

“I’ve asked Mr. Hernandez to let me—”

“Don’t interrupt.”

On the wall behind Dovey, Lila noticed a picture of Frank standing next to Colin Nelson, the county attorney, her boss—Dovey’s boss. In the picture the two men stood in a thick wood, bonding over camouflage and dead turkeys.

“Your offer of employment here remains contingent, not only on passing the bar exam but on showing this office that you have the mettle to handle the job, and so far I’ve seen no evidence of that.”

“What have I—?”

Dovey jabbed his hand into the space between them, his fingers clamped in a pinch, the message clear: No talking. “I’m reassigning you to an attorney who will get you in front of a judge. Report to Andrea Fitch. Tell her I sent you.” His lips crept up into the slightest grin. Then he cocked his head as if he couldn’t understand why Lila was still in his office, and said, “That’s all, Ms. Nash.”