Lawyer!Sevika x Assistant!Reader
â§Chapter Fifteen: Sevika and her charm.
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**MMDNI**
Sevika did not appear affected.
She rose calmly, buttoned the front of her suit jacket with one practiced motion, and crossed the courtroom toward the witness stand. The heels of her loafers clicked softly against the floor. She carried only a legal pad and a pen. No stack of exhibits. No dramatic visual aids.
Juanita watched her approach.
The EMT had appeared confident throughout the prosecutor's examination, but you noticed her sit a little straighter as Sevika stopped beside the witness box.
"Mrs. Dominguez," Sevika began pleasantly, her voice carrying clearly throughout the courtroom, "you testified that you've worked as an emergency medical technician for sixteen years."
"I have," Juanita replied.
"That's a considerable amount of experience." Sevika smiled as she spoke, giving clear praise to her.
"And during those sixteen years, you've responded to hundreds of motor vehicle collisions?"
A faint smile touched the witness's face. "Hundreds, certainly."
Juanita let out a small laugh. "Possibly." She shook her head.
A few jurors smiled as well.
The tension in the room loosened slightly.
Sevika glanced briefly at the jury before continuing. "When you arrived at the scene on May seventeenth, your responsibility was to provide emergency medical treatment, correct?"
"Your priority was preserving life." Sevika shifts her weight.
"Not conducting an accident reconstruction."
"Not investigating potential criminal conduct."
The witness wasn't fighting her.
Sevika paced slowly before the witness stand, allowing each answer time to settle. "You testified earlier that the pickup truck crossed the center line."
"That information was provided to you by investigators after the collision."
"It wasn't something you personally witnessed."
Several jurors began writing.
Sevika stopped walking. "You also testified that Mr. Reed appeared intoxicated when you encountered him."
"You detected the odor of alcohol."
"You observed slurred speech."
"You observed difficulty maintaining balance."
Sevika folded her hands behind her back. "Mrs. Dominguez,â She paused. Then she looked at Juanita. âare you trained to determine a person's exact blood alcohol concentration through observation alone?"
"Can severe emotional distress affect a person's speech?"
Juanita paused briefly. "Yes."
"Can shock affect balance?"
"Can an individual involved in a traumatic collision appear disoriented even if they are completely sober?"
You noticed several jurors stop writing.
One woman near the center of the jury box looked up sharply.
The prosecutor shifted in his chair.
For the first time all morning, he looked slightly uncomfortable.
Sevika continued. "You testified that Mr. Reed repeatedly asked about the condition of the other driver."
"He asked whether Daniel Mercer was alive."
"More than once?â Sevika asked softly.
Juanita hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes."
"He appeared frightened?"
The victim's mother stiffened.
You saw her husband immediately reach for her hand.
The room had become so quiet you could hear papers shifting at the counsel tables.
Sevika's voice remained steady. "In your sixteen years as an EMT, you've encountered individuals involved in fatal collisions who appeared unconcerned about the outcome." The statement wasn't phrased as a question.
Juanita nodded anyway. "Yes."
"You've encountered people who showed no remorse."
"You've encountered people who were angry about being arrested."
"And Mr. Reed did not behave that way."
The prosecutor rose slightly. "Objection."
Judge Medarda looked toward him. "Basis?"
"Calls for a conclusion." The prosecutor said breathlessly.
The judge considered it briefly. "Overruled. The witness may answer."
Juanita looked down at her folded hands.
When she finally spoke, her voice had softened. "No."
The entire courtroom seemed to be waiting. "How did he behave, Mrs. Dominguez?"
Juanita swallowed. "He was crying."
The answer seemed to hang in the air.
Across the courtroom, Marcus Reed lowered his head further.
"He kept asking if the other driver was alive," Juanita continued quietly. "He asked us repeatedly."
You looked toward the defense table.
Marcus wasn't watching the witness.
He wasn't watching the victim's family.
He simply stared at the polished wood before him.
For the first time since the hearing had begun, he looked less like the man described by the prosecution and more like someone trapped inside the worst night of his life.
Sevika allowed the silence to linger for several moments before closing her legal pad. "No further questions, Your Honor." She returned to her seat without another word.
The prosecutor remained standing for a moment after she sat down. His jaw tightened slightly as he adjusted his suit jacket and glanced toward the jury. It was obvious he intended to repair whatever damage had just been done.
Because while the facts of the collision had not changed, Sevika had managed to accomplish something far more dangerous.
She had reminded everyone in the room that the defendant was human.
The prosecutor immediately leaned toward the attorneys seated beside him. The three of them spoke in hushed voices while flipping through notes and exhibits. From the back of the courtroom, you couldn't make out the words, only the urgency with which they were exchanged.
After a moment, the prosecutor rose. "Your Honor, the State requests a brief recess."
Judge Medarda glanced down at the clock mounted beside the bench before giving a small nod. "Granted. This court will stand in recess for fifteen minutes." The gavel struck once.
Instantly, the tension that had held the courtroom together began to loosen. Jurors were escorted through a side door. Attorneys stood and stretched. Families clustered together in quiet conversations. The low hum of voices gradually filled the room.
You were on your feet before you'd fully thought about it.
The nausea had been building throughout the testimony.
The descriptions of the crash.
The memory of your own DUI.
All of it churned together unpleasantly in your stomach.
You slipped from the bench and made your way into the hallway, weaving between attorneys and court staff. The restroom sat at the far end of the corridor. Once inside, you immediately threw your half-finished coffee into the trash.
The smell alone made you feel worse.
You turned on the faucet and let cold water run over your hands longer than necessary. The sink reflected the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Your makeup was still intact, though your face looked paler than it had that morning.
You stared at your reflection for a moment.
By the time you stepped back into the hallway, the crowd had thinned considerably.
You barely made it a few steps before Sevika appeared beside you.
You hadn't even seen her leave the courtroom.
"Were you paying attention?" she asked.
Her tone was casual, but her eyes were studying your face carefully.
Sevika held your gaze for a moment longer before taking a slow breath. "Good." The answer seemed to satisfy her.
For a few seconds she said nothing. People moved around you in both directions. Lawyers carried folders beneath their arms. A clerk hurried past with a stack of files. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone laughed.
Then Sevika leaned slightly closer.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Do you think he's guilty?" The question sounded teasing. Almost playful.
Yet it hit you harder than you expected.
You pulled back slightly.
The smile faded from her face almost immediately.
"I..." The word caught in your throat. You swallowed hard. "I don't know." Your hands were shaking.
You tucked them beneath your arms before she could notice.
Or perhaps she already had.
Sevika's brow lifted slightly.
You could see the surprise in her expression.
Normally you would have rolled your eyes.
Said something sarcastic.
Instead, you looked genuinely unsettled.
The silence stretched between you.
For the first time all morning, Sevika seemed unsure what to say.
Her gaze lingered on your face for another moment before she nodded once.
Neither of you spoke again.
When the bailiff announced that court would be reconvening shortly, you simply fell into step beside her. Together you walked back toward the courtroom, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly through the marble hallway.
By the time you and Sevika returned to the courtroom, most of the gallery had already settled back into their seats. The victim's family occupied the same bench as before, though the mother looked more exhausted now. Her eyes were red from crying, and the photograph remained clutched tightly against her chest. Beside her, her husband sat with one arm draped protectively around her shoulders.
Marcus Reed had returned as well.
He sat at the defense table with his hands folded before him. During the recess he appeared to have aged somehow. The lines around his mouth looked deeper. His shoulders had sunk further inward. Whatever hope he'd possessed that morning seemed to have been worn down by the testimony.
You slipped back into your seat as Judge Medarda reentered the courtroom.
The afternoon passed slowly.
The prosecution called an accident reconstruction specialist next. Charts were displayed. Measurements were discussed. Distances, speeds, points of impact. The witness spoke in clinical terms while diagrams of twisted vehicles appeared on monitors throughout the courtroom.
The evidence painted a clear picture.
Marcus Reed's truck had crossed the center line.
The collision had occurred at significant speed.
Alcohol had impaired his reaction time.
The jurors listened attentively.
You found yourself glancing toward the victim's family more often than the witnesses. Every new detail seemed to wound them all over again. The mother's expression would tighten. The father's jaw would clench. The young man seated beside them rarely looked up from the floor.
When the prosecution eventually called the investigating officer, the testimony became even more difficult to listen to.
Photographs were introduced into evidence.
The judge warned the gallery beforehand.
Several images appeared only briefly before the monitors were turned away from the public seating area, but even those brief glimpses were enough.
A vehicle that scarcely resembled a vehicle anymore.
The knot in your stomach returned.
Throughout it all, Sevika remained composed.
She listened carefully. Took notes. Occasionally whispered something to her client. During cross-examinations she picked apart timelines, questioned assumptions, and challenged conclusions without ever appearing aggressive.
Watching Sevika work felt strange.
When you'd first met her, you'd assumed defense attorneys spent their days inventing excuses for bad people. The trial had shattered that assumption piece by piece. She wasn't standing beside Marcus Reed because she believed Daniel Mercer deserved less sympathy. She wasn't trying to convince the jury that the collision hadn't happened. Hell, she wasn't even trying to convince anyone that Marcus Reed was innocent. Even you could see that.
What she seemed determined to do was force everyone in the room to be precise.
Every statement had to be supported. Every assumption had to be challenged. Every conclusion had to earn its place. While the prosecution constructed a story, Sevika pulled apart every piece of it, examining the joints and seams to see whether it could actually bear the weight being placed upon it. There was something oddly fascinating about watching her do it. Frustrating, too. Because every time you thought she was defending the man, she'd ask a question that reminded you she was defending the process instead.
As the afternoon stretched toward evening, the atmosphere inside the courtroom grew steadily heavier. Fatigue settled over the room like dust. The jurors shifted more often in their seats. Attorneys rubbed at tired eyes while witnesses drank water between answers. Even Judge Medarda seemed ready to conclude for the day by the time the final witness stepped down from the stand.
The prosecutor reviewed his notes one last time before quietly informing the court that the State had no further witnesses for the day. He gathered his papers into a neat stack and returned to counsel table while Judge Medarda looked down at the file before her. She spent several moments reviewing her notes before finally removing her glasses and addressing the courtroom.
"We will adjourn for the day and reconvene tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."
The announcement seemed to release a breath the entire room had been holding.
Chairs shifted. Pens were set down. Conversations resumed in cautious whispers. The jurors were dismissed first and quietly filed from the room under the guidance of the bailiff. Afterward, the gallery began to empty.
The victim's family remained seated longer than everyone else.
The mother still held the framed photograph against her chest. She looked exhausted now, as though the day had physically worn her down. Her husband stood first and gently helped her to her feet. The young man beside them followed silently. Together they made their way toward the courtroom doors.
You found yourself watching them until they disappeared.
The sight settled heavily in your chest.
Across the room, Marcus Reed remained seated at the defense table. He hadn't moved much during the final hour of testimony. One of the deputies eventually approached him and quietly spoke a few words. Marcus nodded and rose without argument.
As he passed the gallery, he never once looked toward Daniel Mercer's family.
You couldn't decide whether that made things better or worse.
Maybe he couldn't bear to look at them.
Maybe there was nothing to say.
The courtroom gradually emptied around you. Attorneys gathered files into briefcases. Court reporters packed equipment away. The sharp snaps of closing folders echoed through the room while conversations resumed in low professional murmurs. Little by little, the strange gravity that had dominated the day began to dissolve.
Without the witnesses, without the testimony, without the families, the room suddenly looked different. Smaller. Less imposing. Just polished wood and fluorescent lights again.
Yet everything you'd heard still seemed to linger in the air.
Eventually a shadow fell across your bench.
You looked up to find Sevika standing beside you.
Her suit jacket rested over one arm while a thick binder sat tucked beneath the other. A few loose strands of dark hair had escaped her claw clip during the course of the day. She looked tired too, though she'd never admit it.
For several moments neither of you spoke.
Then her eyes drifted toward the witness stand. "Tough day?" she joked raising her brows.
You looked down at your hands.
The answer felt obvious. "I keep thinking about the family." The admission came out quieter than you'd intended.
Sevika didn't respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on the now-empty benches where the Mercers had spent the entire day listening to strangers discuss the worst moment of their lives.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than usual. "That's normal."
For some reason, you had expected something colder. Something detached. A speech about objectivity or professionalism or the importance of separating emotion from work.
Instead, she simply stood beside you in the quiet courtroom while the last court employees finished gathering their materials.
Eventually she let out a long breath and adjusted the binder beneath her arm. "Come on."
She nodded toward the exit. "We still have reports to finish."
Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.
The sound felt strange after spending an entire day surrounded by grief and testimony and photographs of dead strangers. Yet somehow it loosened the knot that had been sitting in your chest since that morning.
You grabbed your purse and stood.
Together, the two of you left the courtroom behind. The doors swung shut softly at your backs, muting the sounds inside. Yet as you followed Sevika down the marble hallway toward the elevators, you couldn't shake the feeling that some part of the hearing had followed you out.
"Where are we doing the reports?" you asked quietly.
The question felt distant even to your own ears.
Your stomach still churned from the hearing. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the photograph in the mother's hands. The trembling in her shoulders. The way Marcus Reed had stared at the table as though looking anywhere else would break him. You also saw the photos of the crash, contorted bloody limbs and broken facial bones.
Sevika glanced toward you as the two of you stepped into the courthouse hallway. "At my house," she replied.
She reached the front doors first and pulled one open, holding it for you. Evening sunlight spilled through the glass and washed the marble floor in gold. For a moment she simply watched you walk past.
"You haven't eaten all day." Her voice carried the familiar edge of annoyance, but there was something softer beneath it now. She sighed. "And it's nearly six."
You looked down at the tiled floor.
The thought of food hadn't even crossed your mind. "Oh."
The response made her brow furrow.
You nodded once. "That's fine."
The evening air hit your face the moment you stepped outside. The city felt different now than it had that morning. Quieter somehow. The rush of commuters filled the sidewalks while the last warmth of the day lingered on the concrete.
Neither of you spoke much as you crossed the parking lot.
Like someone had reached inside your chest and wrung every ounce of energy from it.
When you reached her car, she moved ahead of you and opened the passenger door before you could reach it yourself. The gesture had become strangely routine over the past few days.
She rested one hand against the doorframe.
Then paused. "Do you want to stay at my place tonight?"
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