Nikolai: The Complete Collection

28. Justine

28

JUSTINE

W hen the faint ring of a cell phone sounds through my ears, I stop rubbing at a kink in my neck. Confident it’s coming from my bedroom, I commence my hunt. It takes shuffling through the mammoth load of paperwork sprawled across my bed before I find it under the photographic evidence from Nikolai’s attempted murder charge.

My pulse quickens when my eyes drop to the screen and I discover who is calling. With everything that happened this morning, I forgot to return Mr. Fletcher’s call as promised.

Riddled with guilt, I swipe my hand over my screen and squash my phone close to my ear. “Hey,” I greet him. “Sorry I forgot to call you back. Things have been a little hectic here.”

Although my statement is honest, my tone is smeared with dishonesty. Things were more than hectic at the start of my day, but the past five hours have been very somber. I haven’t seen Nikolai since our exchange in the kitchen this morning.

When I approached his room to seek clarification on some notes documented by a detective on the scene, Roman advised me Nikolai didn’t want to be disturbed and that any messages I wished to give Nikolai would need to be directed through him from now on.

I’m not going to lie. I’m peeved. Although our argument was brutal, I shouldn’t be the only one left searching for crumbs to piece back our attorney-client relationship.

I sigh softly. If I were being honest, I’d admit I’m not solely seeking a way to fix our professional relationship. I also want to spend time with Nikolai.

When I interviewed for my internship at Schluter & Fletcher, I was asked why I wanted to be a defense attorney. I answered the same way every intern does, “I want to protect the innocent.”

Only after my argument with Nikolai did I realize innocence doesn’t just extend to people guiltless of a crime. It also reflects the men, women, and children who don’t have a choice.

Nikolai doesn’t have a choice. He was born and raised to serve his lifestyle. He knows no different. And if I hadn’t seen snippets of the man he could be this weekend, I would have believed he had no chance of rehabilitation. Now I think he just needs someone to believe in him.

That’s precisely what I’ve been trying to do for the past five hours.

On paper, Nikolai is presented as a ruthless and coldhearted leader who rules the Popov entity with an iron fist. But I believe the man who woke up in my bed this morning is the true Nikolai Popov. The angry, gruff mobster he displays in front of his crew is a persona he created to survive the ruthless life he was born into—I’m sure of it. And I believe I know why.

With Nikolai’s parting statement fresh in my mind, my search of his records delved deeper than a standard examination. It took several hours, but my dedication was rewarded in a way I never expected.

A medical record from when Nikolai was eight discloses that his blood type is AB positive. His father’s is O negative. Although there’s a slim chance they’re still related, Nikolai’s confession early this morning leaves me doubtful.

Nikolai plays the part well, but I’m beginning to wonder if he truly is a Russian mafia prince.

My focus snaps back to the present when my boss calls my name. “Justine? Are you there?” His cell phone beeps when he pushes the buttons.

I lick my parched lips before muttering, “Yes, sorry. I spaced out.”

Mr. Fletcher’s chuckle eases the swishing of my stomach. “Glad to hear I’m not the only one dropping the ball this morning. Let’s hope your frantic morning was more worthwhile than mine. Have you unearthed any flaws in Nikolai’s case that will aid in the dismissal of his charges?”

“Not yet.” Frustration echoes in my tone.

“I’m close, though,” I lie when his disappointed huff sounds down the line. “The DA is presenting this case as if Nikolai assaulted the complainant without cause, but the evidence doesn’t corroborate that. A portion of the surveillance footage Trent uploaded yesterday morning shows Nikolai and the complainant had a brief exchange an hour before the incident. After pleading with the club’s owner, I’ve been granted access to their security feeds. I’ve been backtracking through old tapes for the past few hours, hoping to discover if Friday night was their first encounter. Although I can’t swear on a Bible, I have an inkling they’ve met before.”

My intuition could be wrong, but just like I’m sure Nikolai and Mr. Fletcher have met previously, I’m highly suspicious of the complainant’s claim that a stranger attacked him. Nikolai’s rap sheet is extensive, but I doubt even he would stab a man with a beer bottle all because he bumped into him during transit to the restroom.

“Okay. That’s good. Suppose we can establish a relationship between the complainant and our client that he failed to disclose during testimony. In that case, we have a good chance of having his statement stripped from the DA’s evidence,” Mr. Fletcher replies, sounding impressed. “Forward all your notes and the access codes for the security monitoring to Trent. I’ll have him run their faces through our facial recognition software. It will be a quicker process than viewing the tapes firsthand.”

“All right. I’ll do that now.” I contemplate how to articulate my next question without sounding rude. It’s a waste of time when I blurt out, “Why does Trent need my notes? They’re not required for facial recognition.”

My heart slithers into my guts when Mr. Fletcher sighs softly, a sigh that relays I won’t like what he has to say. “You’re off this case, Justine. If we secure Nikolai as a client, we have an immense opportunity to extend the handshake to other men in his industry. This is a goldmine for Schluter & Fletcher. We can’t risk losing this opportunity if you fail to clear Nikolai’s charges.”

“I’m not going to fail.” My words come out in a flurry. “I’m giving this case everything I have. You know this arrangement is as important to me as it is to you, Mr. Fletcher. I will not mess it up for anything. Or anyone.” I scarcely whisper my last guarantee.

I grind my teeth together when my voice reveals I am on the verge of tears. The only thing keeping them at bay is the anger thickening my blood. Except for his little slip-up during our first meeting with Nikolai, Mr. Fletcher has not once treated me like a worthless commodity, so I am shocked by his sudden belief I am incapable of doing my job.

“This decision wasn’t made lightly, Justine. I appealed the board’s verdict with as much grit as you’re displaying now. The matter is out of my hands. The board’s vote was unanimous.” Even hearing the truth in Mr. Fletcher’s voice doesn’t lessen the impact of his words.

Not willing to back down without a fight, I continue pleading, “Did you tell them this isn’t what Nikolai wants? He requested I be the lead counsel on his case. If I don’t continue, he may seek alternative arrangements…”

The remainder of my sentence is lost when he says, “Nikolai is aware you’ve been removed from the case. Consent was given over two hours ago.”

Disappointment blemishes my skin with a vibrant red hue. “Then I guess everything is settled,” I snicker, my pitch snarky. “I’ll forward the online documents to Trent now. Then I’ll arrange for a courier to collect the rest once our call ends.”

The whooshing of multiple emails being forwarded nearly drowns out Mr. Fletcher’s reply. “You know this isn’t a reflection on your work standards, Justine. It’s just?—”

“Business. I know. It’s fine.” I inwardly smile, grateful I sound put-together when I feel anything but.

After jotting down the address he wants my paperwork couriered to, I disconnect our call, cutting off his farewell mid-sentence. The papers scattered over my bed crinkle when I flop onto my back. I fight with all my might not to let disappointed anger envelop every inch of me, but it’s impossible.

Before I stop to consider my actions, I scamper off my bed and march across my bedroom floor.