Abner Finch had no intention of so much as speaking to me. He swept a sour look over my face and rolled his eyes.
"A guaranteed loss. What's even the point of going to trial? Defending someone like you is an embarrassment to my reputation."
I ignored his snide remarks and settled calmly into the defendant's seat.
Because I knew the truth.
This case?
I was going to win.
What I hadn't expected was that just before the proceedings began, Michael suddenly wheeled in an old man.
The old man had a tube running from his nose, his cheeks gaunt, his expression dazed and vacant.
This had to be the father he kept going on about, the one my grandfather had supposedly hit.
I glanced at him with a flicker of contempt. Michael really was pulling out all the stops to win this case. His father hadn't even left the ICU and he'd already wheeled him into the courtroom.
Once the trial began, Michael struck first, jabbing a finger at me and snarling through clenched teeth:
"My father is old. His legs aren't what they used to be. He was just walking down the street, minding his own business, when that reckless old bastard came barreling out in his car."