Carl Bent knew how to win. He’d spent two decades turning murderers into victims, thieves into misunderstood strugglers, liars into saints. He did it without conscience, without warmth, and without ever letting a jury glimpse his soul. If he had one left.
It was mid-afternoon in his Chicago office when his secretary, Rachel Herron, leaned across his desk with a knowing smile.
“So, how’d you pull off your latest miracle?”
Carl didn’t look up from his monitor. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the keyboard. “You should know by now, Rachel. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“Right,” she muttered, stabbing at her salad. “The difference is, a magician’s tricks don’t ruin lives.”
This display of emotionless response is common from Carl, yet Rachel still felt close to the lawyer and as she returned to her desk she contemplated why she stays with him, but her thoughts were interrupted by a call which she patched through to her boss’s office.
“Tell me, Carl,” sneered ADA Henry Greystone, “how do you sleep at night?”
Carl smirked. “Hi, Hank. Still licking your wounds from court? Don’t be bitter. Not everyone can be me.”
“One day your lies will choke you,” Greystone snapped. “And I’ll be there to watch.” The line went dead.
Carl leaned back, amused. Greystone’s rage was almost sweet to him, like a bitter tonic that reminded him he still had rivals worth beating.
After revelling in his own glory, Carl stood up from his desk and walked over to Rachel.
“I know you just wanted to talk, but I had some work to finish before I could really engage with anybody else. Fortunately, little boy Hank’s call put me in a better mood and now I want to celebrate with a nice supper with the best assistant I could ever ask for,” he said while smiling at her.
Despite his cold-hearted nature, Rachel still felt connected with Carl which made her quick to accept his apology, even though it lacked any real emotion and the pair left the office.
The next morning, Carl was woken up by a call and after ending the conversation, the lawyer informed a sleeping Rachel that he had a potential new client waiting for him at the police station.
At the station, a police officer told Carl that a suspect had requested him by name and faced charges for a triple homicide at a Ravenswood warehouse.
Carl expected another desperate hustler, but when he stepped into the holding cell his smirk slipped.
Mason Cox.
The bulk of him still filled a room. His grin was the same as when they were boys in Hillview—fierce, protective, a little dangerous.
“Hey, buddy,” Mason said, rattling his chains. “Sorry for not standing up.”
Carl froze, heart pounding in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Mason had been his shield in childhood—the muscle that absorbed beatings from neighbourhood bullies, the one who kept Carl’s drunk father at bay. But Mason was also the shadow of everything Carl had tried to bury.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mason chuckled. “What’d you think, I was dead?”
Carl pulled himself together, sat down, and lowered his voice. “Why am I here?”
“Because you owe me,” Mason said, eyes narrowing. “And because you’re going to make this all go away.”
Carl reached into his pocket, turned off his phone, leaned forward and said: “Tell me everything that happened Mason.”
The next day, Carl walked into the office to find Rachel already sitting by his desk before she said: “You did not come back home after you went to the prison and I tried calling but your phone was off. If I cared, I would have called the police but I am used to the way things are and I just assumed that you spent time with the friends that help you stay in your job.”
Carl sat down at his desk and almost ignored Rachel, until he snarled: “How many times must I tell you that you need not concern yourself about things that have nothing to do for you. Just do your job and stop with your irrelevant questions.”
The lawyer stopped talking when he saw Rachel’s face starting to get angry and he softened his tone to say: “We have a new client, it’s the guy that was arrested for the murders at the warehouse. My friends and I are already working on something. I just need you to reach out to your friends in opposition.”
A few days later the trial opened with Mason seated beside Carl, flashing him a grin that went ignored.
Greystone rose first. “Ladies and gentlemen, this case is simple. The defendant, Mason Cox, murdered three men in cold blood. You will hear from an eyewitness who saw him at the scene, and you will see forensic evidence linking him to the weapon. By the end, the only reasonable conclusion will be guilt.”
Carl adjusted his jacket and addressed the jury. “The prosecution wants you to believe. But belief is not proof. Eyewitnesses can be mistaken. Evidence can be misinterpreted. My client is innocent—and when this trial ends, you’ll see the state is more interested in headlines than truth.”
Greystone’s star witness, Kyle Vale, claimed Mason had lured his brother and two others to the warehouse with promises of work. Carl pressed him on the cross. “You say you saw my client at 7:30 p.m. in Ravenswood. Yet here is his timesheet from Oak Park—he clocked out at 7:20. Are we to believe he travelled across town, gathered three men, and killed them in ten minutes?”
The jury murmured. Greystone fumbled. Carl went on, “Fingerprints on the gun? He lived with the victims. More likely, he stumbled upon the aftermath—his arrest at 8 p.m. fits that timeline.”
Greystone exploded. The judge’s gavel cracked. “Mr Greystone, your conduct is unacceptable. This case is in shambles. I declare a mistrial. Mr Cox, you are free to go.”
Mason walked out grinning, clapping Carl on the back as if they’d beaten the world.
That night in Carl’s apartment, a bottle of whiskey waited on the coffee table beside two glasses. Mason laughed. “So this is the celebration?”
Carl poured him a drink, slid an envelope across the table. “Thirty thousand. Enough to disappear.”
Mason scoffed, downed the whiskey, and counted the money. “You think I’ll vanish for this? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have this life.” He coughed harder with each word.
Carl watched calmly. “You always thought muscles beat brains. The gun you buried with your grandmother? I know about it. And now I’m the only one left who does. The money was a distraction. The whiskey was poisonous.”
Mason collapsed, gasping, trying to curse. He hit the floor before he could finish. Carl cleaned the scene with clinical precision, then made one short call. “It’s done.”
The next morning, Rachel found Carl already at the office, coffee waiting for her. He smiled faintly, gazing out the window.
Then the door opened. ADA Greystone entered with two officers. He dropped an evidence bag on Carl’s desk.
Carl poked it with a pencil. “What’s this—your dignity?”
Greystone tipped the bag, and a rusted revolver clattered onto the desk. Carl’s smirk vanished.
“You killed your father with that gun. Mason helped cover it up. And I arranged your little reunion. I pushed Mason to call you, staged the trial, knowing you’d cheat your way out with fake timesheets and planted evidence.”
Carl tried to keep calm. “You’re making a mistake.”
Greystone hit play on a recorder. Carl’s own voice echoed in the room: the cold call he’d made the night Mason died.
Rachel’s silence confirmed the rest. She had given him up.
“You bitch!” Carl snarled, lunging, before the officers dragged him back.
Greystone leaned back, smiling. “By the way, Carl… where’s Mason?”
