Stepbrother Studs: Tristan by Selena Kitt

 
    Exiting the elevator in the federal court building, I couldn’t help straightening my shoulders and walking a little taller. Even a year after joining Tristan’s firm as a junior partner, I stood in awe of how far we’d both come.
    Poor kids raised by a dockworker and a waitress—we’d earned everything we had. Not like so many of our colleagues whose fancy educations had been given to them by wealthy parents. We’d gotten through law school on our wits—and fully funded scholarships.
    Sure, the opportunity to join Tristan’s firm had been a gift, but he wouldn’t have considered it if I wasn’t qualified. And over the past year, I’d more than earned my spot.
    Today, Tristan was defending a client against a wrongful death charge. The stakes were high because the client was well-heeled and influential. The fact he’d had too much booze in his system when he’d plowed into the Summers’ car, killing the mother, was discomforting, but I reiterated the mantra I’d learned during law school—everyone deserved the best defense possible. It was up to the jury to render judgment.
    As a junior partner, I was still shadowing Tristan’s moves and assisting him to the best of my abilities. During trials, I sat at his table along with the defendant, absorbing as much as I could about the way Tristan built his cases and then sold them to the jury.
    Over the past year, Tristan had come to rely on me, not only because the briefs and research materials I put together were the most complete he’d ever had, but also because I was his cheerleader of sorts. Something he needed. I’d realized that right from the start.
    When he faced a hostile jury and even more hostile DA, he needed every bit of confidence he could muster. He had to exude the stuff, so that his belief in his clients’ innocence caused little niggles of doubt in jurors’ minds that he could exploit. And Tristan was very good at seducing jurors’ into seeing things his way.
    I approached the meeting room Tristan had reserved and entered quietly. He was rehearsing, and gave me a wink as he continued to list the points he wanted to make that day. He couldn’t stumble. He had to be strong and clear.
    When he paused, I plunked the thick stack of folders I’d prepared, each aimed at a particular witness to pick apart their testimony and shadow them with doubt. “It’s complete, along with notes about which jurors to focus on when you bring up a particular point.”
    As I reviewed each folder with him, his eyes and features sharpened. I knew he was already creating the script for what he’d say to the jurors.
    “Seriously, Mavis Barnes belongs to MADD?”
    “Yes, her son was crippled when he drove the family car into a tree.”
    “So her objectivity as a witness is compromised. That’s good. You’re sure about the angle of her view from her apartment window?”
    “Yes, there’s no way she saw the lights at the intersection. She couldn’t have known which vehicle ran the red light. And be sure to focus on Anton Grieves when you question her. His brother was a passenger in his cousin’s car when he bit it. Anton is still close to the cousin. Visits him in prison every other Saturday.”
    My particular expertise was reading the jurors. I sat through every interview, approving everyone based on questions I scribbled and slid across the table to Tristan. Anton would be sympathetic to their client because he’d already seen the devastation his cousin’s incarceration had leveled on his aunt.
    “Thanks, I appreciate it. You always go above and beyond. Everything is amazing—your research, your investigative skill—even how you organize the notes. I couldn’t do this without you.”
    I snorted. “You did fine before I came. But we do make a good team.”
    He glanced at his watch and stood, sipping his coffee and narrowing his glance on me.
    And I recognized my cue. Knew exactly what he needed from me next. I walked to the door and turned the lock.