They thought they had watched a lamb walk to the slaughter. They didn't know the lamb was a wolf in a cheap suit.
The moment Isaiah stepped out of the Fulton County Courthouse, his demeanor shifted. The slight slouch disappeared. The nervous energy evaporated. He put Mrs. Porter into a cab, handing the driver a crisp $50 bill and promising her he would call her that evening.
Once she was out of sight, Isaiah walked three blocks, ducked into a subterranean parking garage, and approached a sleek black Aston Martin that looked entirely out of place in the dingy structure. He unlocked it, slid into the driver's seat, and peeled off the cheap polyester tie he'd been wearing, throwing it into the passenger seat.
Isaiah Crawford was technically his legal name, but it was only half of it. His full name was Isaiah Crawford Reed. He was 24, yes, but he wasn't a law student. He had graduated at the top of his class from Yale Law at 22. He had already passed the bar exams in New York, Delaware, and Georgia.
Most importantly, he was the only grandson of Jonathan Reed—the Reed in Harrison, Gable & Reed, the very firm he was currently pretending to intern for.
Isaiah had come to Atlanta undercover. His grandfather had grown suspicious of the Atlanta branch's plummeting win rates and rumors of unethical alliances with local corporate giants. Isaiah volunteered to play the lowly intern to find out exactly how deep the rot went.
Today, he had found the bottom.
Senior attorney Brentwood hadn't suffered a medical emergency. Isaiah knew for a fact that Brentwood was perfectly healthy, having spent the morning on the golf course with none other than the CEO of Oakhaven Development. The case was a setup. The firm was throwing the residents of the historic neighborhood to the wolves for a kickback.
Isaiah drove back to a high-rise penthouse in Buckhead, a property owned by his family's private trust. The moment the elevator doors opened into his sprawling minimalist apartment, he was on the phone.
"Grandfather," Isaiah said, pouring himself a glass of sparkling water.
"Isaiah. I assume by your tone that the Atlanta office is just as compromised as we feared." The gravelly voice of Jonathan Reed came through the speaker.
"Worse. Brentwood took a dive on the Porter case today. He left me holding the bag, and Judge Caldwell forced me to take first chair, denying a continuance."
"Caldwell," Jonathan mused, a dangerous edge in his voice. "Richard Caldwell has been a stain on the bench for a decade. What are you going to do?"