Chapter 9

The Piedmont Driving Club was the epicenter of Atlanta's old-money and political elite. It was a place of dark oak paneling, crystal chandeliers, and cigar smoke, where deals were made and careers were crowned in quiet whispers over expensive bourbon.On Saturday night, Judge Gregory Shaw was the undisputed king of the ballroom. Dressed in a bespoke tuxedo, holding a tumbler of twenty-year-old Macallan, Shaw held court among a circle of state senators, corporate lobbyists, and high-powered attorneys. Thomas Vance was by his side, laughing entirely too hard at Shaw's jokes."I'm telling you, the Eleventh Circuit doesn't know what's hitting them," a state senator chuckled, clapping Shaw heavily on the shoulder. "We finally get a strict constitutionalist up there. Someone who doesn't put up with this modern liberal nonsense in the courtroom.""Well, you know me, Senator," Shaw beamed, his face flushed with alcohol and boundless ego. "I run a tight ship. I don't let these pro se clowns or activist lawyers waste the taxpayers' time. You have to put the fear of God into them early, otherwise they run all over you."He took a long sip of his scotch, feeling utterly invincible. He was days away from a federal robe, a lifetime appointment. He would never have to answer to local voters or petty county politics ever again. He was a god among men.Across the ballroom, standing near a towering ice sculpture, Alicia Grant watched him. She was wearing a stunning, floor-length emerald gown, her hair elegantly styled, a diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. She looked like royalty. Several men had tried to approach her, but the sheer, intimidating force of her presence kept them at bay.Shaw's eyes briefly swept the room and landed on her. For a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed. There was something familiar about the shape of her face, the intensity of her stare. But his alcohol-soaked brain, conditioned to categorize people by their immediate utility and appearance, completely failed to connect the dazzling, powerful woman in the emerald gown with the timid, cardigan-wearing "girl" he had verbally abused in Courtroom 4B four days ago.He offered her a sleazy, appreciative wink, raised his glass in her direction, and turned back to his sycophants.Alicia's smile was razor-thin. She turned and walked out of the ballroom, stepping into the cool night air. Her work here was done. The stage was set.Monday morning arrived with the brutal, unforgiving heat typical of Atlanta. Judge Shaw was sitting in his chambers behind Courtroom 4B, sipping black coffee and reviewing his docket, when his secretary nervously knocked on the heavy wooden door."Come in, Martha. What is it?" Shaw barked, not looking up.Martha, a woman who had worked for Shaw for ten years and feared him deeply, stepped into the room holding a thick, sealed envelope stamped with the State Seal of Georgia. Her hands were shaking visibly.

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