Archive of Our Own ^beta

September 3, 8:43pm
Midtown Hilton, Grand Ballroom— Legal Aid Fundraising Gala

It was politely loud in the ballroom. Eames was not a fan of parties, but he wasn’t there for fun. His boss was running for re-election. Somehow, it was Eames’ job to make that happen. He’d get back to it once the bartender finished making his Manhattan.

“God, I hate these things.” Eames turned briefly in the direction of the newcomer’s voice. He accepted his drink from across the makeshift bar and took a sip.

“Arthur,” he greeted, eyes anywhere else.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said. He took a long gulp of his gin and tonic. “I wish they’d just directly ask for my money.”

“They do,” Eames said. His eyes slid almost involuntarily toward the other attorney.

Arthur grimaced. “I wish they only did that.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d run into Arthur at a Bar Association fundraiser, and it was unlikely to be the last. Eames had very distinct memories of the first one they’d met at, five years before. He remembered Arthur’s hair falling loosely around his face, his jaw a little rounder, more youthful. He would never have bought that the man was old enough to be an attorney, let alone old enough to be running a successful solo practice. He’d been handling mostly child support cases back then, and the occasional dependency and neglect. He never took anything serious enough to land on Eames’ desk.

Eames also remembered the way Arthur’s lips felt under his. He’d been a little tipsy that night, but still within the (extraordinary) bounds of what was considered acceptable for his profession. Arthur’s mouth had been soft and yielding, like his hair. It only happened once. Now, they mostly saw each other in passing. They were both older now— Arthur all sharp angles and slicked hair, Eames wearing a beard on his face instead of his feelings. Eames spent his days buried in felony cases, and ordering youngling prosecutors around. Arthur spent his time arguing about dog custody to the tune of $435 an hour.

It was a truly fascinating thing to see, and Eames hated it a little that he tried whenever he could. He’d sat in on parts of multiple hearings over the last year while his coworker divorced her husband. He’d been enamored by the fire in Arthur’s eyes as he argued— by the heat in his voice, and the energy in the line of his shoulders. For his part, Arthur had clearly noticed. On one particularly memorable day, while Eames had debated the merits of ravishing a divorce attorney in the courthouse elevator, Arthur had thrown him a lopsided smirk, and he was caught— a deer in headlights.

His coworker broke his eye line. “Eames,” Crystal sighed, “please don’t bang my husband’s lawyer.”

It was probably best for everyone that it had only ever been one single, drunken kiss.

“Saito pimping you out again tonight?” Arthur asked, stepping away into the ballroom. Eames kept pace.

“As usual. The— investors— like to know what their money buys.” This wasn’t a fundraiser for Saito. Then again, as far as Saito was concerned, any conversation with someone willing to donate money could be a fundraiser if you worked it right.

Arthur smiled, almost imperceptible. It would probably go unnoticed to anyone but Eames, who had been casually watching him for years now. “More bodies in the jails, fewer bodies in the ground,” Arthur teased.

“Yes, well, the police do have to actually catch them first,” Eames groused. Arthur’s phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and frowned. “Your mum?” Eames joked.

“Basically,” Arthur muttered. “Arthur,” he answered the phone. He stood up straighter. “Slow down.” Eames could hear faint panic from the earpiece. “Dom— don’t—“ Arthur spared a glance at Eames, who was trying to not look curious and failing badly. “I’ve got to take this,” he said, excusing himself. Eames watched him dart out into the hallway, shrugged, and headed back to mingle.

AREA WOMAN PLUNGES TO HER DEATH AT THE PLAZA HOTEL

by Ariadne Campbell

It was a chaotic scene last night at the corner of First and Main after a woman fell ten stories to the pavement outside the Westlake Plaza Hotel. Mallorie Cobb, 35, died on impact. A local, she was staying at the hotel with her husband for their anniversary. Mrs. Cobb leaves behind her husband, Dominick Cobb, two children, and her parents, Stephen and Marie Miles.

Police are asking anyone who might have information to call the non-emergency line at 877-433-5555.

September 3, 10:17pm
County Jail

“Cobb,” Arthur said, raising his voice to be heard through the plexiglass. “Dominick Cobb.”

“Now’s the time when he should talk, and you know that,” Robert mused. He was leaning against the wall outside the cell bay door.

“Thank you for your legal advice, Detective,” Arthur said. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

The magnetic lock thunked open, and Robert walked Arthur into the jail. “He pushed his wife out a window, Mr. Cohen. You know how juries feel about domestic violence.”

“He’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“He’s guilty,” Robert purred, “he’s just not convicted yet.”

Arthur stopped, glaring up into Robert’s smirking face. “You know, you’re not exactly convincing me I should let you question him.”

“Oh, I don’t need to question him.” Robert shrugged. “Not that it wouldn’t be interesting. Wait here.” Robert waved to a guard, who stepped forward to open the lock-up door.

“Cobb,” the guard called. “Your lawyer’s here.”

“I don’t have a lawyer,” Cobb’s voice muttered. Robert arched an eyebrow. Cobb’s face poked through the open door. “Oh,” he sighed with relief. “Arthur, get me out of here.”

“That’s not happening,” Robert frowned. Arthur spared him a fast glare.

“Let’s go, Dom,” he urged, waving a hand toward an open interview room. Cobb shuffled across the hall, his hands bound awkwardly in front of his hips. Arthur shut the door behind them and sighed. “What the hell happened?”

“Mal— she killed herself, Arthur,” Cobb choked. “We were at the Plaza. You know we always go, on our anniversary. One moment she was fine, and the next thing I know she starts throwing things at me and yelling about how our life was a nightmare and she needed to wake up.” Cobb shook his head. “She got the window open and she just jumped.”

Arthur closed his eyes and swallowed. “Did you call an ambulance?”

“Of course I— obviously I called 911, Arthur.” Arthur didn’t reply. Cobb stared at the cinder block wall beside him. “I thought hotel windows were supposed to be sealed that high up,” he said, softly. “You’re not supposed to be able to jump.”

“Where are the kids?”

“With her parents. They were watching them for us.”

Arthur tried to find something in Cobb’s face that looked innocent, or something that looked guilty. There was nothing. All he could see was a man whose wife had just died right in front of him, suddenly, and in the prime of her life.

“Why would she do it?” Cobb asked, tears in his eyes, hugging himself, as if that would help.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, honestly.

“It was never that bad,” Cobb insisted. Arthur sat down, breathing in the musty stillness of the interview room.

“Dom,” Arthur said, calmly. “You’ve got to get your shit together here.”

“I know, Arthur,” Cobb sighed, running an exhausted and cuffed hand down his face. “I know.”

September 5, 8:30am
Division B, District Court

“Hi Eames.” Talulah smiled jovially from the clerk’s stand. By the jerk in her jaw, she’d snuck in gum again.

“Morning,” Eames nodded.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Fine enough,” he replied. Nothing said “good weekend” like a Sunday call to review a major homicide report. Some day, Eames had plans to retire. When he did, he was going to find a small town in New England that hadn’t seen a murder in fifty years, and he was going to move there. Preferably, it would be on a beach, and would be swarming with clams and lobster. In the fall, there would be orange leaves tumbling down the street, and rain every afternoon. He’d wear thick sweaters and walk a big black lab over broken sidewalks. If he was very lucky, there’d be a man walking beside him. In his fantasy, the man had dark eyes and a lopsided smirk.

“I had a good weekend too.” Talulah fussed with her hair. “My boyfriend and I had a huge fight, but then he proposed.”

“I have someone I should introduce you too,” Eames mused, darkly.

This was Judge Browning’s division, and Eames regularly practiced in front of him. He was rarely, however, present for arraignment. It took something big for him to show up.

There’s not much bigger than a murder.

In fact, the murder case was the only one on the docket that morning: Mallorie Cobb, a thirty something mother and philosophy professor. She came from a family of academics, and had been married to one when she died. It was unsurprising to see her husband was the defendant.

It was far more surprising to see the attorney who dropped into the first chair at the defense table.

Arthur.

Eames blinked. “Wrong courtroom,” he muttered.

Arthur glanced up. “Oh, hey, Eames.” He was struggling with a heavy file roller that looked like it might be about to collapse, overburdened with boxes of documents strapped to the wire frame. “Fuck,” Arthur hissed as a box went tumbling. Eames crouched down to help, but Arthur waved him off. “I’ve got it, thanks.” He looked up, seemingly startled by his own brusque tone. “Sorry, I’ve got mediation right after this.”

Eames glanced back at his folder. What would make a man like Arthur take on a murder case? Cobb had no criminal history, sure. There was evidence to suggest the Cobbs’ marriage was rocky, but no one had actually filed yet. And then he saw it— the date of the crime.

September third. The night of the gala.

I’ve got to take this.

“Bugger,” Eames muttered. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching and leaned in. “Arthur, are you serious right now?” he whispered, harshly.

“Excuse me?”

“Darling, we both know you’re extremely intelligent and a very competent divorce attorney, but what the hell are you doing here?”

Arthur frowned. “I’m representing my client, Mr. Eames.”

“You’re taking a murder case.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” Eames shrugged. “You can do whatever you like.”

“So?”

Eames looked away. “It’s just that— well. You haven’t got much in the way of imagination, that’s all.” And it was true. As passionate and exciting as Arthur’s work tended to be, he always made the same arguments: equity, imbalance of power in the relationship, imbalance of effort in accruing the marital assets, mental and emotional abuse. Some might argue Arthur just kept tight criteria for his client intake. Eames knew better: Arthur liked to play to his strengths.

Arthur glared. “Oh? Not like you, I guess.”

“Listen,” Eames frowned, “if you’re going to win a case like this, you’re going to need imagination.”

“What I need,” Arthur said, “is for you to mind your own business. You’ve got your job, I’ve got mine.”

“Is your client interested in a deal?” Eames asked. Arthur straightened up and dropped his files on the desk.

“My client hasn’t even been arraigned yet.” He straightened his tie and smoothed down his jacket. “And no. He’s not.”

The sheriff’s deputy escorted Mr. Cobb through the side door, then, and that had been that. It was all business— Eames affirmed the charges. Arthur barked “not guilty” on Cobb’s behalf. It didn’t take long for Browning to remand Cobb into custody and gavel them out. Arthur was gathering his things as Eames walked past.

“See you in a few months, Arthur,” Eames purred.

June 26, 5:07pm
R. W. Jeffries Administrative Building (Parking Garage)

Ariadne was no stranger to chasing a story, no matter how distasteful. She knew the lead prosecutor in the Cobb case had docket, and she knew he’d be taking the back way to the DA’s office after. The trial was just days away, finally. She was ready to ask hard questions— and sleazy ones.

She just went with the story, really.

There was plenty of drama to be had with the Cobb case. She had a photographer chasing down pictures of the Cobb children’s tiny, adorable faces. She had an intern digging up dirt on Dominick Cobb’s past. As for Ariadne, she was chasing the case itself, and she had no qualms about hanging out in a parking garage after hours to catch a man just trying to do his job. If he didn’t want someone questioning him, he shouldn’t have become a prosecutor in a major city.

Eames walked directly into the ambush, but his face betrayed nothing. “Ms. Campbell,” he greeted, walking past. Ariadne scampered to keep up with his long strides.

“Mr. Eames, I’ve got sources reporting there was a history of domestic violence incidents between Dominick and Mallorie Cobb, but charges were never filed. Will you be introducing evidence to suggest Mr. Cobb was a wife beater?”

Eames closed his eyes and blew a long breath out of his nose. “I’ll be introducing whatever evidence my office deems relevant.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

Eames blinked down at her. “Do you really have to ask that?”

“The people want to know,” Ariadne shrugged.

“Yes,” Eames said curtly. “I think he’s guilty.”

“Some people are saying it was suicide.”

“Mallorie Cobb was a healthy woman in the prime of her life. It wasn’t suicide.”

“Your boss is up for reelection this fall. Some people are saying you’re only pursuing this case because Mr. Saito wants a major conviction in the minds of the voters. What’s your response?”

Eames stopped, his badge just inches from the door’s scanner. He frowned. “My job is to prosecute criminals, Ms. Campbell. Maybe it’s good for Mr. Saito to have a major case right before the fall. But it’s not like we can exactly put a timetable on crime, can we?” Eames swiped his badge and pulled open the door. “That’s enough for today, I think.”

Ariadne caught his sleeve. “Wait— What are your thoughts on Arthur Cohen, Mr. Cobb’s defense attorney?” she asked, pushing her cell phone closer to Eames’ face. He smirked.

“If I’m ever unlucky enough to need his type of services, I’ll call him. If I’m ever arrested?” Eames grinned. “I’ll still call him, so he can come watch how it’s done.” Ariadne frowned and let him go. The door locked behind him with a magnetic click.

July 14, 8:30am
Division B, District Court

“Are we ready to proceed to trial?” Browning asked.

“The State is ready, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Cohen?”

“The defense is ready, Your Honor.”

“Very good,” Browning said. “Now then. Are there any motions we need to take care of before we get started?”

“The defense objects to any testimony or reports by Drs. Kowalski, Smith and Herbert.”

“On what grounds?” Browning asked, bored.

“On the grounds of hearsay,” Arthur stated.

“Hearsay?” Eames asked, incredulous.

“Hearsay,” Arthur confirmed.

“Mr. Eames?”

“Your Honor, it is the position of the state that Mallorie Cobb’s statements to her doctors fall squarely under Rule 803. They are admissible because they were statements made to a doctor to obtain medical treatment.”

“Your Honor, I don’t think the jury should be present for this,” Arthur said.

“Bailiff, please escort the jury to the deliberation room.” Browning waited for them to exit. “What’s your response, Mr. Cohen? Rule 803 is clear.”

“It is, Your Honor,” Arthur agreed. “And Mrs. Cobb made no statements to any of these doctors in the pursuit of treatment.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding—“

“It is our position,” Arthur said, speaking over Eames, “that the statements Mrs. Cobb made to these doctors were not for the purpose of treatment or diagnosis. She never actually sought treatment from any of them. Moreover, Dr. Herbert is a child psychologist. He doesn’t even treat adult patients, and in his deposition, he couldn’t provide any adequate reason for why he took Mrs. Cobb’s call in the first place.”

“Your Honor, the victim presented to each of these doctors to obtain a diagnosis. Moreover, even if we want to accept Mr. Cohen’s ludicrous interpretation of the rule, there can be no doubt that the statements she made described her present symptoms, their inception, and their general cause.”

“Mr. Cohen?”

“To accept Mr. Eames argument, Your Honor, you have to assume Mallorie Cobb even had symptoms,” Arthur said, calmly. “Mr. Eames has made it clear in his wildly prejudicial statements to the local press that Mallorie Cobb was too happy and stable a woman to commit suicide. He describes a woman with no mental impairments that would require treatment. In fact, her stated purpose for visiting these psychologists was to obtain a finding that she was not impaired. She didn’t have any symptoms, and she wasn’t there for any kind of diagnosis. She was there to manufacture evidence against Professor Cobb for the custody battle she was planning.”

In the gallery, a voice cried out, despaired. Eames was uncomfortably certain it was Professor Miles.

“Are you out of your mind?” Eames seethed.

“Careful, Mr. Eames,” Browning ordered.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, Mr. Cohen is accusing the prosecution of something he himself is attempting to do. Mr. Cohen would have you believe Mrs. Cobb was both cogent enough to plan a detailed scheme against her husband, and depressed enough to commit suicide.”

“I never said she killed herself on purpose,” Arthur countered, lightly. “And that’s not what I’m accusing you of. I’m accusing you of prosecuting an innocent man who just lost the love of his life in a tragic accident, because the DA is more interested in reelection than the service of justice.”

The rustling and clamoring in the courtroom were almost instantaneous. Eames snapped his head to the defense table. “Maybe they do things differently where you’re from, but here we don’t look kindly on showboating.”

“Where I’m from? Do you even have a real law license?”

“Why you nationalistic piece of—“

“Order!” Browning yelled. “Order!” The yelling dissipated, slowly. “I don’t particularly like the tone either of you are choosing to set with this trial. I’m inclined to let the doctors testify.”

“Your Honor—“

“You, Mr. Cohen,” Browning continued, “will be able to make your argument on cross examination. What you’re asking for with Rule 803 is not a simple call. You can’t just say a patient was scheming. I hope you have actual evidence. This court is in recess.” Browning banged his gavel and stood abruptly.

In the milieu of the courtroom, Arthur sighed heavily. “That could have gone worse,” he said, to no one in particular. Cobb sent him an alarmed squint.

Eames didn’t even spare him a glance. “Stick to divorce, darling,” he seethed, and he stormed out.

July 24, 8:30am
Division B, District Court

“Dominick and Mallorie Cobb got married on September the third, eleven years ago,” Eames began. Beside him, Arthur felt Cobb stiffen. “They celebrated every anniversary the same way: they went out to dinner, they spent the night at the Plaza Hotel, they got brunch the next morning, and then they went home. They did this every year, until last year.” Eames paced in front of the jury box. “The evidence will show that last year was fundamentally the same, to be honest. The primary difference— and it’s a big one— was that Dominick Cobb survived, and Mallorie Cobb did not. Dominick Cobb walked out the front door of the hotel, and Mallorie Cobb left through the window.”

“Jesus,” Cobb whispered, gripping the defense table. Arthur sighed, sympathetic. Eames spared them a withering glance.

“Mr. Cobb would have you believe that his wife —who told him that night that she was divorcing him— simply chose a faster route to ending the misery of her marriage. But at its heart, in its simplest form, the relationship between the Cobbs is key to what happened here. During the course of this trial, you will hear testimony that the Cobb marriage had suffered an irrevocable break down. You will hear that Mrs. Cobb feared for her life, and the safety of her children. You will hear that when she plummeted to the earth from seventeen stories up, Mallorie Cobb fell backwards.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the evidence will show that on September third, Dominick Cobb pushed Mallorie Cobb out a window, to her death. He did this knowingly, with the intent to cause that death. And if Mr. Cohen is able to convince you that Mr. Cobb would never have intentionally hurt his wife, the evidence will still show he pushed her with reckless indifference as to her health and safety. The State is grateful for your time and attention over the next several days. Justice cannot be served without you. Thank you.” Eames glanced at the defense table and moved to sit.

Arthur blew out a long breath. He braced his hands on the table. “Mr. Eames has been good at telling stories for as long as I’ve known him,” Arthur said, standing up. He buttoned his charcoal suit jacket. He didn’t miss Eames’ eyes on him, cold and sharp. He ignored them. “But that’s all this is. It’s a story. Mr. Eames wants to plant an idea in your head. He wants you to believe that there’s more here than meets the eye. He wants you to believe that despite a total lack of physical evidence, there’s reason to suspect Dominick Cobb of murdering Mallorie Cobb. There isn’t.

“The evidence will show that Mallorie Cobb’s behavior was growing increasingly erratic. She wanted to divorce her husband, and she wanted full custody of the children. There’s nothing wrong with that— a mother should be devoted to her children. What is wrong is when one party in a divorce slanders the other party in order to hurt them. The evidence will show you that Mrs. Cobb intended to frame her husband for an attempted murder, and she did a good enough job that we’re here today.

“Something happened that night at the Plaza. Something made Mallorie Cobb jump or fall out of that window, but we don’t know what. I’m not trying to convince you Mr. Cobb is innocent. I could say that all day, but it would just be me saying it. It would be meaningless. My job is to ask you to pay attention. Listen to what you see and hear around you. Keep your focus on reality. Don’t let Mr. Eames put ideas in your head. Look at the truth with your own eyes. When you do that, you will find that the evidence of my client’s guilt —and there is none— cannot reasonably outweigh your doubt of it. Thank you.”

Arthur nodded to the jury, taking care to make eye contact with each member. As he returned to his seat, he paused at the feeling of fingers encircling his wrist. Eames stood still beside him, still facing the other direction. “You don’t really believe Mallorie Cobb killed herself,” he muttered, more statement than question.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replied. “It’s the jury that counts.”

12:37pm

Eames stretched his arms across his chest as he walked. The jury would be taking an hour long lunch break. He would just be taking a walk to the vending machine, and hoping for something with enough protein and sugar to get him through the afternoon. Almost certainly, he’d be living off peanut M&Ms for the remainder of the trial. Other needs also required his attention, so he headed towards the men’s room. He could hear voices from halfway down the hall, and he frowned as he approached. He paused outside the door as the shouting grew more clear.

“How could you?” A voice asked, anguished. Eames was fairly certain it was Mr. Miles.

“He didn’t do it, Professor.” And that was Arthur. Shit. Eames wavered— he could enter the bathroom and disrupt the highly inappropriate tableau, or he could go back and get the bailiff. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands as Miles shoved his way out of the bathroom and stormed down the hall.

Eames stepped in quietly. Arthur was standing at the mirrors, his hands gripping the marble sink. His knuckles were white. His posture was rigid. Eames couldn’t bring himself to mind Arthur’s discomfort. “You knew Mallorie Cobb,” he accused.

“I did,” Arthur acknowledged, moving to turn on the water and wash his hands.

“And yet you can stand there and defend the man who murdered her.” Arthur was silent for a few moments. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t move to have you kicked from this case. You’re compromised.” Arthur turned the water off and pulled down two paper towels. He didn’t look at Eames.

“Where I grew up, there was a little girl who was murdered in her bed. She was only seven. She was in my older brother’s class at school. When the police investigated, they found a ton of evidence. None of it led anywhere.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Arthur turned now, meeting Eames’ gaze with a steely one of his own. “What’s unfortunate, Mr. Eames, is the father fabricated all of that evidence. A few years later, the little girl’s sister committed suicide. The note she left said, ‘If it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive.’”

Eames frowned, unsure of Arthur’s point. “The father protected his child.”

“When the cops asked him why he did it, he said, ‘I’d already lost one daughter. I couldn’t stand to lose two.’” Arthur stepped into Eames space.

“What does that have to do with this case?” Eames asked, bewildered.

“You’re in my way, Mr. Eames. Kindly step aside.” Baffled, Eames did.

July 26th, 9:17am
Maintenance Closet, East Hallway

Arthur didn’t have a good reason for being in a literal broom closet, but it felt right at the time. He knocked his head against a shelf full of solvents and sighed. He had always lived life in the grip of the kind of extravagant anxiety that led to sudden bursts of panic— overwhelming waves of certainty that he was wholly and utterly inadequate. Today’s episode was neither new nor noteworthy.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he whispered to a bottle of oil based soap. Traditionally, Arthur liked to have this kind of breakdown in a bathroom, somewhere he could splash water on his face and psych himself up in the mirror... but hanging out in the bathroom hadn’t been going that well for him during this case. Arthur sighed, reaching up to grip the shelf.

He has no business taking on a murder trial when he barely ever took criminal cases. He’d never even handled a felony. Cobb had begged— pleaded for Arthur to help him, since he couldn’t afford one of the hot shots in town and he was terrified of losing his kids.

“I can’t go to jail, Arthur.”

Ok. But Arthur wasn’t sure he could do anything about that. He was trying; God knew he was trying, but Arthur was comfortable with bank statements and visitation schedules, not evidence logs and police reports. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and tried to breathe.

Never mind Eames. That was the worst fucking part: Eames with his shoulders about to rip his tailored suit jacket, and his beard practically begging for Arthur to run his fingers into it. He hadn’t had the beard when Arthur had kissed him in the coat check of the Radiance five years prior. There’d never been a shot after that. It was just a kiss, and nothing more. And while Arthur knew there never would have been more anyway, there certainly wouldn’t be now.

The closet door swung open. There was Eames, staring at him like he was gum under his shoe. “What the fuck are you doing, Arthur?”

“Just give me a minute,” Arthur huffed, slamming the door.

9:52am

“State your name for the record.”

“Robert Fischer,” the man answered, crossing his legs and leaning toward the microphone.

“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Fischer?” Eames asked.

“I’m a homicide detective.” Fischer’s icy blue eyes snapped briefly to the defense table. Arthur tried not to squirm.

“Where were you on the night of September third, last year?”

“I spent most of my evening at the Plaza Hotel, after I was called out.”

Robert Fischer was good at his job. He had multiple awards to prove it, but he mostly gauged his self-worth in convictions. He’d solved more cold cases than anyone else in the history of his department, and the DA’s office drooled with happiness when Robert was the detective on the pager for their case. It didn’t mean he’d ever gotten used to seeing a bloody crime scene.

Robert winced as he ducked beneath the scene line. A woman was laid out on the ground, dressed in formal wear, skin flashing red and blue in the squad car lighting. The pool of blood around her had stopped growing by the time Robert arrived, but the body was still warm. It was 9:05pm on September 3.

“Were you the first on the scene?”

“No,” Robert answered. “The medical examiner’s office was already there.”

“Why were they called?”

“Dead body,” Robert shrugged. “It was all very routine.”

Yusuf Singh was squatting beside the body, bootied feet splayed just out of reach of the puddling blood. “What do we have?” Robert asked.

Yusuf used his pen to move a piece of wet hair away from her face. “Could be a homicide,” he hummed.

“Objection,” Arthur interjected. “Hearsay.”

“Mr. Singh is on the witness list and will be available to testify to this, Your Honor,” Eames replied.

“Then you can ask Mr. Singh about it then,” Browning said.

Robert looked around above him. “Where did you fall from?” he muttered. “Up there,” he said, pointing upwards and nodding to a beat cop. “Seventeenth floor. There’s a window open.” The cop jogged in to the building.

“And did you go up?”

“The officer I sent in to the hotel came back with information that there had been a report of a disturbance in Mr. Cobb’s hotel room just a few minutes before the call about Mrs. Cobb’s death,” Robert testified. “He gave me the room number, and I asked the concierge to take us there.”

“What did you find?” Eames asked.

“We found the defendant sitting in the hallway, sobbing.” Beside Arthur, Cobb stared at his feet. Robert’s gaze snapped to him. “And then Mr. Cohen showed up.” Eames eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He turned slowly to glance at Arthur. Arthur met his gaze, firmly.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Cobb said. “She jumped out the fucking window. What else do you want from me?”

Arthur laid a hand on Cobb’s shoulder. “Dom, calm down.” Cobb rounded on him.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! My wife just fucking killed herself!” he yelled, breaking into tears.

Fischer frowned. “The room’s a little messy,” he said, calmly. “Can you tell us why?”

“Ask the goddamn maid service,” Cobb growled.

“I don’t think now is the time, Detective,” Arthur said.

“Are you saying he’s refusing to answer my questions?”

Arthur blinked. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, he’s not answering any questions.”

“And then I arrested him,” Fischer shrugged.

“Why?” Eames asked.

“Because the room was an absolute disaster,” Fischer answered. “You have to understand— this wasn’t just an unmade bed. There were overturned chairs. Broken dishes just laying in the floor. A lamp with a bent shade. Something happened in that room.”

“What caused the mess?”

“I wasn’t there,” Fischer sighed. “But the people in the next room had called in a noise complaint to the front desk. They heard a man and a woman yelling in Room 1786, and they heard glass breaking. The only man registered to stay in that room was Dominick Cobb, and the only woman was Mallorie.”

“What time did the hotel receive the noise complaint?”

“8:35 pm.”

“And what time did the emergency call come through about Mrs. Cobb?”

“Mr. Cobb called 911 at 8:48pm.”

“No further questions.” Eames spared Arthur a passing glance as he moved back to his seat. Arthur rose, buttoning his jacket.

“Were you there when Mrs. Cobb fell?” he asked, approaching the stand.

Fischer rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Did you find any witnesses who watched it happen?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

5:15pm

Three cops later, Arthur was ready to go. He wanted to leave the courthouse and just be home. He wanted to watch terrible television under a blanket, with pizza and a beer. He wanted to be alone.

Of course, Eames thrust his hand into the elevator right before it closed. He glared as he stepped in, silent until the doors shut behind him. “I’ve got about a dozen reasons to seek your removal, and discipline.” He slammed his fist into the elevator wall.

“It’s not a crime to represent someone you know, Eames.”

“No, but it’s bloody stupid, and unethical. You don’t even do criminal, Arthur. What’s your plan here, hmm?” Eames stepped closer into Arthur’s space. “Lose the case, Cobb goes to jail, next attorney files a slam dunk 35(C)?”

“You need to back off, Eames,” Arthur growled. “I know how to do my job.”

“Then act like it. Tell your client to get a new attorney, one who isn’t tangled in a fucking spiderweb of professional responsibility issues. Your life is a goddamn question on the MPRE.”

And then the elevator stopped, and the lights shut off.

“Shit,” Eames hissed. He dropped his files to the ground and yanked his cellphone out of his jacket pocket. Arthur casually pushed the elevator distress alarm. Nothing happened.

“Fuck,” Arthur muttered. Eames typed furiously on his phone. Arthur stared at him, echoes of his features dimly illuminated by the phone’s soft light. “I suppose this is also my fault, somehow.”

“Piss off, Arthur.”

“No, you ‘piss off,’ asshole. Lawyers represent their friends all the time. I’m helping a friend I know is wrongly accused. And yeah, I don’t do much criminal work, but I’m not stupid, and I’m spending every night knee deep on Westlaw making sure I know what I’m doing. What have I actually screwed up, huh? Name one thing.” Eames stared at him, blankly. “You can’t. Because I’m fucking competent, Eames.” Arthur grabbed Eames by the tie and yanked himself forward, pressing the larger man into the wall. “And I’m not misappropriating client funds, because my client doesn’t have any fucking funds. And I’m not fucking him, and I’m not fucking someone on the jury, and I’m not fucking you, you piece of shit,” and then Eames was surging forward, capturing Arthur’s lips with his own. Arthur’s breath hitched sharply as he pressed back. Eames dropped his phone and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist, hands dragging softly up his spine. He nuzzled his face into Arthur’s and flicked the tip of his tongue against his lips. Arthur let him in with a barely restrained moan, gripping Eames’ shoulder for stability. His grip flexed tightly on Eames’ tie, still trapped between their bodies.

The elevator groaned back to life. Arthur vaguely heard the hiss of the circulating air, the buzz of the fluorescent lights. He staggered backwards. Eames panted in front of him. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. He refused to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“I think you’re trying to distract me, darling,” Eames breathed. He bent down to gather his things.

The elevator dinged, and Arthur backed out through the door, heedless of the floor.

July 28, 7:34am
Division B, District Court

Eames was at the courthouse early. The division was empty when he entered. He liked it this way— he liked the silence, the anticipation. He liked the calm in a room that usually housed only anxiety. He liked rehearsing the day in his head, and he’d play all the parts— “What did you find when you ran the blood sample?” “The defendant’s blood type.” “Objection! Lack of foundation!” “Your Honor, if you’ll allow me, counsel is being a right prick about all of this. I skipped all of one question. You know his client’s guilty, and so do I.” It settled him. It centered his mind, and focused his thoughts. It let him think about forensics, or Miranda rights, or whatever he needed to talk about that day.

It let him stop thinking about the taste of Arthur on his lips, at least for a moment.

Eames carefully laid out his scripts for the day, and opened his notes. He heard someone drop into the seat next to him and glanced up.

Miles.

“Professor,” Eames greeted. He lifted his phone from his desk and quickly typed— Get a VA over here NOW.

“He’s going to get away with it,” Miles said, his lip trembling. His eyes were hard. “He murdered my daughter, and he’s going to get away with it.”

Eames frowned. “He’s not.”

“He is,” Miles insisted. “She was unhappy for so long. She said she was trapped. She thought he’d try to have her declared unfit if she left with the kids. That’s why she went to all those doctors, Mr. Eames.”

“I know,” Eames said, gently. “That’s why I’m having you testify to that tomorrow.”

“He killed her, and you’re not going to do anything about it.”

Eames swallowed down the anger that rose in his throat. He reminded himself of his job, and his audience. A harried looking woman with dark eyes and dark hair rushed into the courtroom, her heels clacking on the old wooden floor. “I’m doing everything I can to make sure he goes to prison,” Eames assured.

The woman reached them. “Mr. Miles, is there anything I can help you with?” she asked, resting a calming hand on his shoulder.

“No thank you, miss,” he replied, pure politeness. There was nothing polite about the glare he leveled at Eames. “What I want, Mr. Eames, is justice for my daughter. I want you to get up there, stop making bedroom eyes at the defense attorney, and start doing your goddamn job.”

8:47am

“Please state your name for the record,” Eames snapped, not even bothering to look at the witness stand.

“Yusuf Singh,” the man answered, slightly baffled at Eames’ tone. Judge Browning frowned.

“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Singh?” Eames sighed.

“I work for the county medical examiner’s office,” Yusuf said.

“And what are your qualifications?”

“I received my doctorate of medicine from Cambridge University in 2003. I did a fellowship at Johns Hopkins University in medical pathology in 2004. I’ve worked for the county since 2014.”

Eames didn’t want to be shaken by Miles’ criticism, but it was inevitable. He was in the entirely wrong mood to be examining Yusuf Singh, the medical examiner who’d appeared on scene to attend to Mallorie Cobb. Yusuf was a friendly sort, and entirely undeserving of the intensity Eames leveled at him. Arthur just looked startled by the whole thing. His eyes followed Eames with hawk-like focus.

“Your Honor, I move to enter Dr. Singh as an expert in pathology.”

“Any objections?” Browning asked.

Arthur sat still for a moment. He took in Browning’s twitching brow and Yusuf’s nervous frown. Eames was leafing through paperwork, not even paying attention. The line of his shoulders was tight— angry and tired.

“Sure,” Arthur said.

“I’m sorry?” Browning started.

“Sure,” Arthur shrugged. “We object.”

“You what?“ Eames blinked.

“We’d like additional voir dire of Dr. Singh under rule 702.”

“It’s the goddamn coroner,” Eames hissed under his breath. And yet, he was almost impressed. There Arthur was— flexing his imagination, and taking advantage of Eames’ rustled state of mind.

“Mr. Eames?”

Eames started. “Yes, Your Honor. Right. Dr. Singh, how often are you asked to investigate the cause and manner of an individual’s death?” Eames asked. His voice felt tight in his throat.

“At least a few times a week,” Yusuf shrugged.

“And do you generally complete those cases using standard and agreed upon methods?” Eames asked, quickly.

“Yes,” Yusuf confirmed.

“Are you familiar with this case?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?” Eames was pacing, his hands clenching and unclenching are his sides. Arthur watched with rapt attention.

“I investigated it.”

“Did you visit the scene of the incident?”

“I did, yes.”

“And did you write a report?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honor?” Eames asked.

“Dr. Singh will be admitted as an expert, and his report will be admitted as evidence,” Judge Browning sighed, scratching notes onto the pad in front of him.

Eames turned back to Yusuf. “When you arrived at the Plaza, what was your initial impression?”

“It was clear that Mallorie Cobb had fallen from a great height, traveling backwards to land facing up. I thought it could have been homicide,” Yusuf said. He paused. “Or it could have been suicide.” Eames ignored the murmuring behind him. “At that point, we’re primarily looking at a dead body on the pavement. You don’t have the kind of information you need to make a call like that.”

Eames sighed. Fuck everything. “No further questions,” he muttered.

“So you don’t actually determine legal cause of death,” Arthur began. “Is that right?”

“That’s correct,” Yusuf replied. He seemed a little less tense, a little more relaxed now that he wasn’t getting yelled at.

“You determine how somebody died, but that’s as far as it goes?”

“Right. Cause and manner. We don’t decide fault.”

“So from what you saw that night, could Mallorie Cobb have accidentally fallen out that window?”

“Yes.”

“Could she have jumped?” Arthur pressed.

“Yes,” Yusuf agreed.

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Arthur sat down, feeling more confident than he had in months.

“Redirect, Mr. Eames?” Judge Browning offered.

“Yes, Your Honor, one question.” Eames stood up. “Dr. Singh, you just testified that the findings you made the night of September 3rd were consistent with Mallorie Cobb accidentally falling to her death, or with her jumping out of the window voluntarily.”

“That’s right,” Yusuf said.

“Were your findings also consistent with her being pushed from that window?”

Yusuf glanced at Arthur, almost apologetically. “Yes,” he said, softly.

Arthur felt like a balloon with the air let out.

Seriously, fuck everything.

6:03pm

When he left the courthouse, all Arthur wanted to do was grab a drink. He wanted to drown himself in a sea of whisky. He wanted to distract himself from thoughts of Cobb hanging crayon drawings from his kids on his prison cell wall. He wanted to think about the liquid burning across his tongue, and not about the cut of Eames’ trousers as he unwound all of Arthur’s arguments on the record. Instead, he headed back to his office to sort paperwork. He’d been at it for forty minutes when his cell phone rang— a collect call from the county jail. He accepted.

“I think that went pretty well today,” Cobb said, a little too chipper. Arthur sighed. He ran a hand into his hair and leaned against his desk.

“Ok, Dom,” he said.

“You disagree?”

“You aren’t going to want to hear this,” Arthur began, hesitantly. “But you’re my client, and as your attorney, I have to be honest with you.”

“Ok,” Cobb said, wary.

“I think you should consider taking a deal.”

“Absolutely not!” Cobb spat. “How can you even suggest that, Arthur? You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“And I’m supposed to be your attorney,” Arthur said. Cobb let out an angry huff across the phone line. “Listen. It’s a strange looking scenario. I don’t understand why Mal wanted to set you up, but she did a good job.”

“I’m not leaving my kids without a dad.”

“I know, Dom.” Arthur breathed. “We’ll keep trying.”

“I want to testify,” Cobb said, firmly.

“Absolutely not,” Arthur said. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“You can’t tell me no,” Cobb said. “It’s my defense, and the jury needs to hear from me.”

“It is never a good idea for a criminal defendant to testify,” Arthur urged. “You get up there, I can’t protect you.”

“I’m counting on you, Arthur,” Cobb said, harshly. “You’re a lawyer. Figure it out.”

Arthur slipped his phone back into his pocket and sighed at the pile of files around him. He had other clients— nigh divorcees and other men who also cared about making sure their kids had a father in their lives. He needed to check his email. He needed to return phone calls. Instead, he forwarded his voicemails to his paralegal’s phone. He walked to her desk and grabbed a post it— “Fern—“ he wrote— “please help :(“ He slapped the note on her blinking desk phone and stalked out of the office.

6:56pm

Arthur wanted a break. He wanted to go somewhere he could ignore everything going on. He wanted to focus on his drink, and maybe a warm body on the stool next to him. It’s why he took a rideshare one town over, to somewhere dim, dirty, and anonymous. He didn’t want to think about the case.

Arthur was aware of the kind of luck he had, and so he really should have expected Eames to be at the bar, eyeing him anxiously from behind a tumbler of something amber and thick. Arthur never questioned fate, or bad luck. He slumped down on a stool next to Eames and ordered a bourbon. “Not surprised you need that after a day like today,” Eames muttered.

“Pot, kettle,” Arthur snipped, accepting his drink from the bartender.

“Oh, I’d say life as the pot is treating me better than life as the kettle is treating you right now.”

“Enough metaphors,” Arthur sighed. “Can we not? Just for tonight?”

Eames looked at him— really looked at him— and narrowed his eyes. “How are you feeling?” He asked, carefully.

Arthur took in Eames’ relaxed position— his loosened tie, his rolled up sleeves. “I should be asking you that.” He sighed into his drink, fogging the glass. “I really shouldn't be saying this to you, but I wanna know how somebody ends up running to three psychiatrists to try to pin a murder on someone they love.”

Eames snorted. “‘Someone they love.’ You can’t possibly believe Dominick and Mallorie Cobb were in love at the end.”

“They we’re at one point,” Arthur said softly. He took a drink of his bourbon.

“You really think so?” Eames asked. “Do you even believe in love, doing what you do?”

Arthur smiled into his glass, ruefully. “Love has nothing to do with why people end up in my office, Mr. Eames.”

“No?”

“No. Couples get divorced for lots of reasons. Somebody gets bored. Somebody stops trying. Somebody wasn’t really honest with themselves about what they wanted when the relationship began.” Arthur takes a long breath. “No, it’s not about lack of love.”

“Would you get married?” Eames asked. “With the right person?”

“Sure,” Arthur shrugged. He glanced up at Eames through his lashes. “With the right person.”

“So how do you prevent divorce, then?” Eames asked, taking a swig of the amber liquid. He scratched the edges of his beard, absently.

Arthur stared at the rows of alcohol behind the bar. He tapped his fingers against his glass. “You start slow. Have dinner with somebody.”

“Have dinner with somebody?” Eames repeated. His eyes glittered curiously.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, slowly. “Don’t rush into things. Maybe it just takes some time and some patience for some people to end up on the same page.”

“Or even the same book,” Eames mused.

“Maybe,” Arthur smiled. “It’s maybe best if you’re friends first.”

“Are we friends?” Eames asked, quickly. He leaned closer to Arthur, one arm on the bar. Arthur was certain he was more than mildly inebriated. But then, Arthur was well on his way.

“I think so,” Arthur answered.

Eames’ grin spread. He hummed a short laugh into his drink.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me, Arthur?” He asked, a teasing note in his voice.

Arthur’s smile slipped.

Eames cleared his throat. “After this is all over, of course.”

“After this is all over,” Arthur hummed. “I can’t think that far ahead, Eames. Maybe you’ll hate me by then.” He hoped not. Fuck, did he hope not.

Eames pursed his lips. “Suppose you might hate me instead, jury depending.” He finished his drink. “The point is,” he paused. “Maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life following Saito’s orders.”

Arthur breathed slowly through his nose. “I think you’re trying to distract me, Eames.”

Eames eyes were soft. He shook himself and let out an amused huff. “You can’t really believe Cobb is innocent,” he said, dancing back to the elephant in the room.

“Do you remember the story I told you, about the little girl in my brother’s class who was murdered?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.”

“A couple years after the second daughter died, the father was caught in the act of trying to kill a child he’d abducted from a local park.”

Eames frowned. “What,” he said, “was he driven mad with grief?”

“No, he was the one who killed the first daughter.” Arthur swallowed more bourbon than he really should have in one gulp.

Eames started. “But the sister—“

“Wrote a note saying she blamed herself,” Arthur shrugged. “Killed herself because she couldn’t save her sister from their abusive father.”

“And the father planted the evidence to absolve himself,” Eames confirmed, eyes wide.

“And when people heard about the death of the grieving sister, they saw what they wanted to see.”

“And he let them,” Eames said, flatly.

“And he let them.” Arthur moved to take a drink, but there was nothing left.

“You really think Mrs. Cobb planted all that evidence against her husband and killed herself.” It wasn’t a question.

Arthur stood up. He pulled on his jacket and threw a twenty onto the bar. He leaned into Eames’ space and whispered into his ear: “I think Mallorie was in my older brother’s class at school too.”

August 1, 5:47pm
Saito’s Office

Of course, after a full day of medical testimony (and nearly all of it had been allowed in), Eames was called to the boss’s office. The sun was hanging low over the city skyline. It was a beautiful view, and Eames tried to remember that, despite his unease with the height of the plate glass window, and despite his reason for being in a position where he could see it. He frowned into the distance, watching the light play across the water’s edge. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” he asked.

Eames turned back from the window. Saito gestured to the seat across from his desk, and Eames sank into it, the leather creaking. “What does your brain tell you?” Saito asked, leaning onto his crossed arms. “Not your heart, Mr. Eames, and not any other part of your body.”

Eames glared back at him, bristling. “I think he’s guilty. Too many coincidences for it to be suicide, or an accident.” And yet, Eames found himself fidgeting, fingering a loose button on his jacket sleeve, shaking his foot where it crossed his knee.

Saito took a sip of water, moving the conversation precisely, slowly. “So why are you hesitating?”

Eames shrugged, uncomfortable. “Something feels wrong.”

Saito hummed. “This is why I said to use your mind. Look at what’s in front of you, and not what your bias would trick you into believing.” Saito hummed. “Mr. Cohen is doing a job, just like you are. You should not be afraid of what he might think of you.” Eames ignored that.

“I just,” Eames sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure we’re doing what’s best.”

Saito nodded, humming his agreement. “We are necessary,” he said. “You and I, we live in a society where we have to devote whole months to remind people it’s wrong to attack us. We have to put up posters and commercials on television to convince people they shouldn’t attack me because a pandemic began in a country I have no ancestry in and have never been to. We fly flags in hopes no one spits on you if you’re out on a date.” Saito drummed his fingers on his desk calendar. “Perhaps we can overshoot our mark, on occasion. It does not stop us from being a light in the darkness for people like Mallorie Cobb. We could not prevent the domestic violence that ended her life.” Saito stood, walking to stare at the sunset. “We cannot bring her back. But we can achieve something like justice.”

“We’ll leave her children with no parent at all,” Eames murmured.

“Mr. Cobb is the one who took their parents from them,” Saito reasoned. “We are just putting them in safer hands.” Eames hummed. “Justice. Honor. Family,” Saito said. “This is all we have. This is how we protect the ones we love.”

August 2, 8:46am
Division B, District Court

That Saito was right didn’t really make Eames feel better. Maybe this was the right thing to do, but it was painful. He’d never thought about whether he wanted to do this for the rest of his career. He couldn’t see himself being a defense attorney, but maybe he could be something else. Maybe he could write up wills, or negotiate divorces. Yes, he thought. He could negotiate divorces before more Mrs. Cobbs went tumbling out of windows on their anniversaries.

“Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Cohen?” Browning asked. Arthur stood, almost shakily. Eames frowned. Arthur was many things, but Arthur was never visibly nervous.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Go ahead.”

“The defense calls Dominick Cobb.” The court room rumbled. Eames stole a look at Arthur, shocked. Arthur met his gaze. He looked defeated. He nodded shortly, acknowledging Eames. For a moment, Eames wanted to reach out, grasp his hand in comfort. Instead, he sat as still as stone while Cobb buttoned his jacket and practically stumbled into the witness stand.

“Please state your name for the record,” Arthur sighed.

“Dominick Cobb,” Cobb answered. He held himself with a confidence that was, perhaps, at least a little inappropriate for his situation. Arthur felt dread build in his chest.

“Mr. Cobb, I’m not interested in wasting your time or the jury’s time getting back into evidence we’ve already gone through. Were you with your wife at the Plaza Hotel the night she died?”

“Yes,” Cobb answered.

“And are you responsible for her death?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Cobb insisted. “I loved my wife.”

Arthur began to pace. “Your father in law testified that Mallorie Cobb told you she was seeking a divorce that night. Is that correct?”

“Yes it is,” Cobb replied.

“And how did you react?”

“I was upset,” Cobb admitted. “But I understood. She’d been unhappy for a while. My main concern was that she was planning to try to get full custody of our children.”

“Did you argue?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Cobb said. “But she was hysterical. She wasn’t making much sense at all.”

“At any point during your argument, did you become violent with her?”

“No,” Cobb said, emphatically. “I would never have hurt her.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “No further questions,” he said, almost hesitantly.

Eames watched Arthur return to his seat. For at least the fourth time during this nightmare of a trial, he thought about retiring. He thought about the look he’d have to see on Arthur’s face if he successfully tore his client apart. He thought about Arthur’s mouth pressed against his, and the disintegration of any chance of that happening again.

But Eames had a job to do.

“You say you had no problem with your wife filing for a divorce,” Eames stated, looking expectantly to Cobb.

“That’s correct.”

“But you were upset that she was seeking custody,” Eames pushed.

Cobb shook his head violently. “You don’t understand,” he said.

“Explain it to me,” Eames ordered.

“Kids need a dad. She was making plans to make sure ours didn’t have one, and I don’t know why.”

“Why do you think?”

“Objection,” Arthur spat. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

“Because she hated me,” Cobb growled.

Arthur blinked. “Your Honor—“

“I said ‘sustained,’ Mr. Cobb,” Browning blurted.

Eames looked at Arthur, with his hands gripping the table and his mouth set in a worried scowl. He felt something uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. He pressed forward anyway. “And what makes you believe she hated you?”

“She told me. Her family made it clear they felt the same.”

“Did you realize she was going to go out the window before she did?” Eames asked, carefully. He walked back to his table to grab a drink of water while Cobb answered.

“No,” Cobb said, earnestly. “She had the window open, and she stumbled on her heels near it. She fell before I could do anything.”

Eames froze. Nearby, he heard Arthur’s pen clatter to the table.

“You say she fell,” Eames clarified, turning back to Cobb.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Cobb, do you recall telling the police on the night of September third that your wife committed suicide?”

“I might have,” Cobb shrugged. “It was all really confusing and overwhelming at the time.”

“And it’s now your testimony that she merely fell, by accident.” Eames waved his hands dismissively.

“Right.”

“So she slipped in water?” Eames asked.

“No, she was unsteady in her heels. She’d been drinking.” Eames heard a hiss of breath from Arthur’s direction, and knew the smaller man was as aware as Eames that Mallorie Cobb’s toxicology report showed she was completely sober.

Eames decided to press his luck. “And then she tumbled forward?”

“She fell backwards,” Cobb said, a little irritated. “You know that.”

“You’re sure she didn’t fall forwards?”

“No.”

“No she did or no she didn’t?”

“Your Honor—“ Arthur began, standing up, but Cobb was too fast on the draw.

“No, she didn’t!” Cobb insisted, his voice rising. “She can’t have been falling forward because she was facing me when I shoved her.”

Eames had never been skydiving. He was not the kind of person who took serious risks, or enjoyed adrenaline. Still, he was confident that the frozen, plummeting feeling in his stomach was a rough approximation of purposely throwing yourself out of an airplane. He stared in shock at Cobb, who didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. The courtroom was silent, except for the overwhelmed, quiet sobbing of Professor Miles.

Eames glanced at Arthur, his face ashen. Arthur met his gaze. And then he got up and walked out.

LOCAL MAN CONFESSES TO MURDERING WIFE
By Ariadne Campbell

It was a dramatic scene at the court house on Tuesday when Dominick Cobb admitted on the stand to killing Mallorie Cobb, his late wife. The testimony came as a surprise after months of stringent denial. Arthur Cohen, Mr. Cobb’s defense attorney, literally left the courtroom to vomit.

Even Deputy District Attorney Eames looked stunned when what was expected to be a somewhat close case became a slam dunk for his office. When asked for a statement, he said, “Our only goal is justice,” before rushing out of the courtroom.

Mr. Saito had more to say. “Our office is glad that this trial is coming to a close. More than that, I am personally glad to see Mr. Cobb is taking personal responsibility for his actions.”

The defense rested following Mr. Cobb’s testimony. A verdict is expected shortly.

August 3, 1:42pm
Division B, District Court

Arthur was pale and stone faced when the verdict was read. It was unsurprising, really. Eames wasn’t sure how he would have handled the loss, but he had no personal stake in the case. Arthur had taken Cobb’s side against the family of his friend, and against his friend herself. He thought he was doing what was right, and now here he was, losing all of it.

Eames kept throwing surreptitious glances at the other attorney. He was slumped in his seat, listening to the judge thank the jury, and watching the deputies take Cobb into custody. To his credit, Cobb skipped the hysterics. Because he couldn’t leave well enough alone, though, he hissed at Arthur on his way out— “I’m gonna sue you for malpractice.” Arthur just waved.

“You alright?” Eames asked. Arthur didn’t respond. He got up and left the courtroom.

August 18, 9:34am
Division B, District Court

Eames didn’t see Arthur between the verdict and sentencing. It was the same as before. Arthur was listless, pale. It had only been two weeks, but Eames was certain the man looked smaller, thinner. He made an argument for a shorter sentence, arguing heat of passion, and the quasi-orphan status of the Cobb children. Eames made a brief statement asking for a standard range, but then Miles made his statement, asking for the harshest punishment available. Eames thought Arthur might literally melt through the floor.

When Arthur left, practically crawling out of the courtroom, Eames followed. It was unseasonably cool, rain off the lake chilling the air. He caught up with Arthur at the edge of the water.

“Good sentence you got,” Arthur said, staring out at the lake.

“Thanks,” Eames said.

Arthur sighed. “Go on.”

“What?”

“Tell me you told me so.” He looked at Eames then, and his eyes were searching, desperate. They broke Eames’ heart. Eames didn’t say anything. “I believed him,” Arthur said, quietly. “I really did.” He stared down at the ground for a moment, unable to look Eames in the eye. “She was my friend.”

“I think you’re brilliant,” Eames said. He stepped closer. “I think you just tried to defend an actual murderer, and you would have succeeded if he wasn’t such an idiot.”

“Eames—“

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Arthur threw him a lopsided smirk. “Yeah.”

Eames pushed into his space, his hands in his pockets. “Have dinner with me,” he said.

“As friends?”

“No,” Eames answered, quietly. Arthur leaned in close and kissed him— a single, short press of cool lips.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, “I think you’re trying to distract me.”

Eames leaned his head against Arthur’s. He breathed in the other man’s scent, and he thought about the future. “Is it working?” he asked.

Arthur closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. Arthur turned and started walking. Eames jogged to match his step.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Arthur smiled softly at him. “Sure,” he said. “I’d like that.”

Eames watched a man run by, a harnessed black lab at his side. “What are your thoughts on Massachusetts?” Eames asked.

Arthur blinked, surprised. “Massachusetts?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed, thoughtfully. “We should get lobster for dinner. Or maybe clams.”

Eames smiled. He wrapped an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulled him closer. “Darling,” he sighed. “You read my mind.”