His Nanny Mate - Season 4 Episode 24

Ella

A sharp jolt of realization pulled me out of my sleep. The luminescent glow of dawn was already seeping through the window blinds. How long had we been asleep? Frantic, I scrambled upright, inadvertently knocking a few papers off the cluttered desk.

“Logan!” I shook his shoulder, urgency lacing my voice. “Wake up. We overslept!” His eyelids fluttered open, his usually sharp eyes clouded with confusion. “Ella? What time is it?”

My fingers flew to my wristwatch, and a gasp escaped my lips. “God, it’s nearly time for the court session! We have minutes, Logan, minutes!”

His eyes widened as he registered the severity of the situation. “Damn,” he cursed, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Come on!” I urged, grabbing my files and purse, doing my best to appear somewhat professional. Looking at my reflection in a nearby window, I grimaced at the mascara smudged under my eyes and the crease lines imprinted on my cheek from the papers.

As Logan and I dashed through the halls of the firm, his tie hung loosely around his neck, and his shirt wasn’t entirely buttoned up. I struggled to adjust my blazer while balancing on my heels, my hand clutching a bundle of important case documents. There was no time for the elevator. We opted for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Reaching the ground floor, we burst through the building’s main doors, the cool morning air hitting us. As we sped toward the courthouse just a few blocks away, Logan pulled off his tie, hastily re-tying it.

“You alright?” he panted, glancing my way.

“I’ve had better mornings,” I quipped, trying to find humor in our predicament. “We need to be on our A-game the moment we walk into that courtroom.”

We made it to the courthouse steps, barely catching our breath. As the grand doors came into view, I tried to mentally prepare myself. Every second counted, and making a good impression was vital.

However, despite our best efforts, as we entered the courtroom, all eyes turned our way -and not in the flattering, commanding presence I’d hoped for. The judge’s gaze was especially piercing, his expression far from amused.

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“You’re late,” the judge declared in a tone that allowed no room for excuses. I opened my mouth to apologize when Mr. Westbrook, shooting me a smug look with his cold, predatory eyes, sneered. “Seems like some of us don’t understand the importance of punctuality. It speaks volumes, doesn’t it, Your Honor?”

Logan shot him a warning look, but I could tell he was rattled. Ignoring the snide remark, I began, “Your Honor, I sincerely apologize for our tardiness. It won’t happen again.”

The judge raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but after a heavy pause, he nodded. “Very well. Proceedings will begin in five minutes, once you two have had a chance to settle in.”

The courtroom was a pressure cooker of tension, but if there was one man who reveled in it, it was Mr. Westbrook.

With a sharply tailored gray suit and a pocket square that peeked out just so, he was the epitome of calculated perfection. His entrance had no doubt been marked by nods of respect from fellow attorneys and begrudging acknowledgment from others. His reputation preceded him-a man who knew the ropes, knew the judges, and more importantly, knew how to get his way.

Mr. Westbrook made it a point to catch my gaze as he passed by, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Good morning, Miss Morrigan,” he began in a condescending tone. “Always a pleasure.”

I steeled myself, refusing to let him see any chink in my armor. “The name is Morgan, Mr. Westbrook. I hope you remember it this time. We’re ready to present our case.”

He chuckled softly. “I have no doubt. But it’s not always about being ready, is it? It’s about playing the game.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air before continuing to his table, laying out his meticulously organized files.

Once the proceedings began, Westbrook was in his element. He started by painting a vivid picture for the jury-one of a city under siege, a place where men like Logan roamed the streets, and where families lived in fear. Every word was like a stroke of his brush, every pause calculated to let the gravity of his words sink in.

“Our city,” he intoned dramatically, “stands at a crossroads. Do we allow individuals who flout our laws to run rampant, or do we take a stand?”

He glanced in Logan’s direction, a cold smile touching his lips, then pivoted swiftly to focus on the day’s evidence. With every exhibit he presented, Westbrook weaved a tale. He spoke of past incidents, of confrontations and aggressive outbursts. He used witness statements, expert testimonies, and even went as far as to play audio recordings that painted Logan in a questionable light.

“Your Honor,” he said at one point, holding up a photograph of a scene from Logan’s alleged crime. “This is not merely about a man and his past. It’s about the patterns we see, the consistent choices made. And patterns, as we all know, predict behavior.”

I had to admit, as much as it pained me, Westbrook’s tactics were effective. He was weaving a narrative that was becoming harder and harder to counter, especially with the jury’s increasingly concerned expressions. He thrived in this arena, controlling the narrative, keeping everyone-including the judge-hanging on his every word.

But his pièce de résistance was saved for Logan’s questioning. He began with seemingly innocuous questions, designed to lull Logan into a false sense of security.

“Mr. Logan,” Westbrook began in a honeyed voice. “Tell us about your childhood. Would you say it was… normal?”

Logan shifted uncomfortably. “As normal as any, I suppose.”

Westbrook nodded, feigning sympathy. “And your teenage years? Friends? School?”

Logan frowned, sensing a trap but playing along. “Went to school, had a few close friends. Played a bit of football.”

Westbrook seemed to muse on this for a moment. “Football. Ah, yes. A sport that requires… aggression, doesn’t it?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “It requires discipline.”

A hint of a smile. “Of course. ‘Discipline’. But back to your friends. Weren’t some of them known to the authorities?”

Logan shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. Some of them may have had their run-ins, but I fail to see how that applies to me.”

Mr. Westbrook’s smirk grew only more pronounced. “Run-ins? How modestly you put it. Tell the court, Mr. Logan, how many times have you been arrested?”

Logan hesitated. “A few times.”

“A few?” Westbrook chuckled. “And isn’t it also true that the majority of these ‘run-ins’ involve violence?”

The murmurs in the courtroom grew louder. Logan’s dark eyes darted around, searching for the right words, but coming up empty.

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“You are a known criminal with a history of violence, correct?” Mr. Westbrook pressed, his voice rising triumphantly.

Logan swallowed hard, his silence speaking volumes. But as the defense lawyer, I couldn’t let this go unchecked. This was our case, our fight. And this was our moment to oust Westbrook for what he really was: a cheat and a liar, and unfit for practicing law.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed back my chair and stood.

“Objection, Your Honor!”