Page 76 of Velvet Corruption

I tapped the file. “The one intercepted at Black Falcon Terminal, Southie, on the night of the 16th. The one your client was caught discussing on a tapped call at 11:47 PM.”

O’Hara exhaled heavily through his nose. “Okay, enough foreplay. Where are we landing here?”

Klein sighed dramatically. “Fine. Five years. Supervised release.”

“No early parole.”

“Jesus, Marquez, you could take the win.”

O’Hara rolled his eyes. “Let’s be reasonable. The wiretap is strong, but the rest of your evidence is circumstantial. That’s why we’re not at a full ten, right, Marquez?”

I didn’t like it, but he wasn’t wrong.

O’Hara tapped his desk. “Seven years. Supervised release. Parole eligibility at five. And I don’t want to hear any more posturing from either of you.” He looked between us. “That’s my final offer.”

Klein sighed, adjusting his cuffs. “Fine. Seven years. But I want six months knocked off for time served.”

I tilted my head. “He’s been in holding for two weeks.”

“Time is relative,” Klein said, deadpan.

O’Hara rolled his eyes. “Fine. Time served plus a mandatory narcotics program. Now we’re done.”

Klein frowned, like he wanted to push more, but he knew better. “Fine.”

I hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “The Commonwealth agrees.”

Judge O’Hara scribbled his signature on the plea agreement with all the enthusiasm of a man signing away his soul.

“Done,” he said, tossing the pen onto the desk. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I have a full docket, and I’d rather not spend my morning listening to another one of Mr. Ivanov’s impassioned speeches about civil liberties.”

Alek’s mouth twitched. “That hurts, your honor.”

“Not enough,” O’Hara muttered, stacking his papers. “You’re worse than Klein on a good day.”

Klein, who was already halfway to the door, scoffed. “Oh, come on, Judge. I don’t grandstand. I just win.”

I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t win this time.”

Klein grinned. “Didn’t I?” He tapped the file. “Seven’s a hell of a lot closer to three than ten.”

I snorted.

“You’re worse at math than at being a lawyer, man, and that’s saying something,” Alek said.

“Did you use your fingers, or did someone help you with the counting?” I said sweetly.

Klein’s grin faltered. “I—”

“Oh my God, youdidneed help,” Alek cut in. Was it your assistant? Your barista? Wait…don’t tell me it was that intern who spelled ‘subpoena’ with two O’s—”

“Enough, you two,” O’Hara interrupted. “I have better things to do than listen in on the Marquez and Ivanov show. Now get out of my office.”

I shook my head, grabbing my files. Klein had already bolted out the door—probably to find a better-lit place to admire his own reflection. Alek and I followed, stepping into the hallway as the heavy wooden doors clicked shut behind us. “You could’ve stayed home, you know,” Alek said, rolling his shoulders.

“You told me O’Hara hates you,” I said.

“He does, but he’s a reasonable judge,” Alek replied. “He just doesn’t like it when I make constitutional overreach arguments, even when they’re solid.”

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