Page 30 of Dial L for Lawyer
Caleb doesn’t even blink. “And the system timestamps? Can we see them?”
“Of course.” David slides over a printout. Caleb barely glances at it before handing it to me.
11:54 PM—Serena Morgan badge, elevator to 15.
12:01 AM—Serena Morgan badge, elevator to 20.
I shake my head, throat closing. “No. I was only on 15.” I look at Caleb, panic rising up my throat like bile. "I've never used the twentieth floor. In five years, I don't think I've even stepped off the elevator there except for orientation."
Patricia raises an eyebrow, her pen poised. "Yet your credentials were also used to enter the server room on that floor."
I'm about to protest—swear on my grandmother's recipe box—when Caleb leans forward. The temperature drops ten degrees.
"Do you have video of my client on the twentieth floor?"
Patricia hesitates. "There are no cameras inside the office areas. We only have access logs."
Caleb leans back, baring a smile sharp enough to bleed. The kind of smile that promises ruin. "So, at no point can you produce footage of my client on the twentieth floor. Not entering, not leaving, not anywhere near those servers."
Silence.
"Correct," Patricia admits. "But the badge records?—"
"—show only that her credentials were used." Caleb's voice turns condescending. "As we all know, badges can be borrowed or cloned, especially when you force employees to wear them on lanyards like it's summer camp."
Patricia's eye twitches. David says nothing, but I catch him glancing at me with something like apology.
"Passwords can be compromised as well," Caleb continues, flipping the printout back. "If someone accessed the twentieth floor with her badge and no camera caught it, your security is essentially Swiss cheese." He looks directly at David. "I'd like to request the full server room access logs, including any building maintenance overrides and master keys in play that week. It's basic digital forensics. Unless you're seriously making a case on this alone?"
Patricia shifts tactics. "We also received a call yesterday from someone who claims they saw you meeting with Victoria Chase from Radiance Beauty."
"What?" The lie is so bold I almost laugh. "Who told you that?"
"The person wishes to remain anonymous, but they claim they saw you and Ms. Chase having lunch at Alinea three weeks ago. They said it looked like a business meeting."
"That's a lie." My voice shakes. "I've never met Victoria Chase in person. Ever."
"The witness seemed quite certain?—"
"The witness is lying," I repeat, louder.
"Let me get this straight." Caleb's hand covers mine under the table—completely inappropriate and exactly what I need. "You have grainy security footage that could be anyone, access logs that prove nothing about intent, and an anonymous tip from someone who may or may not exist?"
"Caleb," David warns.
"No, David. This is amateur hour." Caleb's voice turns ice cold. "You're building a circumstantial case based on digital evidence that any first-year IT student could manipulate and hearsay from a source who won't go on record. It's embarrassing."
The room falls silent. David looks like he wants to strangle his brother. Patricia has actual sweat beading at her hairline.
"We're not accusing anyone of anything," Patricia says carefully. "We're gathering facts."
"Then gather better facts." Caleb starts packing with brutal efficiency. "Real security footage, not these parking garage glamour shots. Technical analysis that would hold up in court. And if you want witness testimony, produce someone willing to show their face."
He closes his briefcase with finality. "My client will be happy to cooperate further when you have something worth discussing. Until then, this conversation is over."
He guides me out with a hand on my lower back that burns through my blazer. We're barely three steps into the hallway when David's voice stops us.
"Caleb. Got a minute?"
