Chapter 10: Edge of the Blade

The courthouse smelled like worn leather and bureaucracy. That subtle mix of paper, stress, and something old and cold — like ghosts in linen suits. I'd been here before. Many times. But never like this.

This wasn't just a case. It was a statement. My stake in the city's legal hierarchy. My opening move in the bigger game.

I paused at the base of the courtroom steps, rolled my shoulders back, and took a breath that tasted like adrenaline. When I walked in, all eyes snapped to me. Reporters. Opposing counsel. Jury members pretending not to stare. They all watched like they were waiting to see if I'd flinch.

I didn't.

"Alister," Max whispered, falling into step beside me as we reached the defense table. "Donner's being prepped. Dorr's been circling the building since 7 a.m."

"Let him circle," I muttered. "It'll only hurt more when he crashes."

Max grinned, but his fingers fidgeted over the latest set of exhibits.

Across the aisle, Franklyn Dorr adjusted his tie and offered a smirk — the smug, calculated one worn by men who've had their victories framed on mahogany walls for decades. I knew the look. And I knew how satisfying it would be to wipe it from his face.

The gavel dropped.

"All rise."

Game on.

The Shattering of Eric Donner

Eric Donner took the stand like a man with something to prove — or something to avenge. Trim beard, dark circles, lips set in a grim line. He didn't glance at me, which meant Dorr had warned him. Smart. But it wouldn't help.

Dorr began his direct.

"Mr. Donner, could you explain to the court what your experience was like as a participant in the RX-51 trial?"

Donner leaned into the mic. "I was told it was safe. That the side effects were minimal. I trusted them. I wanted to help… and now I have permanent liver damage."

Gasps from the gallery. Well-timed. A few jurors looked stricken.

Dorr handed him Exhibit 19 — a photo of Donner's prescription sheet — and coaxed out the next part of the performance.

"They told me everything was fine, even when my bloodwork screamed otherwise. They lied. And they let it happen to dozens more."

He was good. Righteous. Almost believable.

Too bad, truth doesn't survive long under a scalpel.

I stood slowly. "Mr. Donner… let's talk about the timeline, shall we?"

He nodded stiffly.

"You began the RX-51 trial on March 3rd. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And on March 19th — sixteen days later — you claim you were hospitalized due to adverse reactions."

"Yes."

I tapped the binder beside me. "But your admittance records say March 26th. That's a week-long gap. Care to clarify?"

Donner blinked. "They delayed reporting. Covered it up."

"Right," I said calmly, "but your own journal entries — the ones you voluntarily submitted — mention abdominal pain starting on March 24th. No hospital, no complaints prior. Did you also forge your own notes?"

A flicker of doubt crossed his face.

Dorr objected, but the judge waved it off.

"Answer the question, Mr. Donner."

"I… I don't recall exact dates."

"Understandable," I said, voice low and sympathetic. "Trauma has a way of distorting memory. Which is why facts are so important."

I moved in, deliberate.

"You testified under oath last month that you were unemployed during the trial. But these pay stubs from McKinley Freight suggest otherwise. Full-time hours logged through the entire month."

Donner's mouth opened.

Closed.

"I needed the money," he finally muttered.

"Which you were compensated for, correct? You received $4,000 from Redwell's trial stipend."

"Yes."

"And you never reported adverse symptoms until after your application for disability insurance was denied?"

Dorr rose again. "Relevance, Your Honor—"

"Sustained," Judge McKinley snapped. But the seed was already planted.

Donner slumped back, deflated. The jurors watched him with fresh skepticism.

And just like that, the key witness cracked.

The Missing Anchor

We broke for recess. The buzz outside was palpable. Dorr ducked into a side hallway, probably to scream into someone's voicemail.

I stepped into the defense room. Max was already mid-panic.

"They've been pulled," he said. "The June internal logs. The trial phase three segment. Gone from our discovery drive."

"What?" My stomach flipped.

"They're still on the index, but when I tried to open them—nothing. Redacted placeholders."

I stared at him. "Langford?"

"No response. Radio silence since yesterday."

That bastard.

That segment held the statistical analysis proving Redwell's compliance — the key to showing oversight, not negligence.

Without it, the plaintiff could claim willful suppression. Suddenly, we weren't defending against negligence. We were flirting with corporate manslaughter.

I clenched my jaw. "Keep digging. Find a backup."

Max nodded, already pulling his laptop from his bag.

The silence in the room was deafening.

For the first time in weeks, I didn't know if we had enough to win.

The Turn

Afternoon session. Back on the battlefield.

This time, Dorr brought a new witness — a medical auditor named Carlisle. Calm, methodical, and dangerous.

"Redwell failed to submit adverse event updates for five trial patients within the mandatory reporting window," she said clearly.

"Do you believe that was accidental?" Dorr asked.

She paused, then said, "No. It appears deliberate."

Gasps again.

I didn't object. I let it sit.

Then I stood and approached her like she was a wall I planned to walk through.

"Ms. Carlisle, would you consider an audit of a single trial phase—without context of all phases—accurate?"

"Depends on the audit."

"Then let's consider this." I laid down Exhibit 42 — a trial matrix I had been holding in reserve.

I walked her through the inconsistencies in the plaintiff's interpretation — side effects reported, yes, but also resolved. Dosing adjusted, trial protocol revised. No cover-up. Just corrections.

"Have you seen this full data sequence before?" I asked her.

"No."

"So your conclusion was based on partial data?"

Her jaw tightened. "Yes."

I turned to the jury.

"And that's what this case hinges on — what's being shown, and what's being deliberately left out."

The court adjourned for the day to resume the case tomorrow.

Back in my office that night, I was pacing around. I needed something, some kind of contingency, and then something clicked.

A contact — an ex-data technician I once helped in a small insurance fraud case — had quietly messaged two days ago. He had messaged me when he saw my name on the TV tied to the Redwell case.

He used to freelance for Redwell's IT archiving.

I called him.

"I need backup copies of the June logs."

He whistled. "You know what you're asking?"

"I do."

"I'll send a drop folder. But if I get traced—"

"You won't."

I spent that night combing through every line of metadata, verifying the audit trail.

Then I brought the originals — printed, indexed, timestamped — into court the next morning.

Dorr tried to object. "This was not included in prior disclosures."

I handed the judge the verification letter.

"These are not new documents, Your Honor. They are clean versions of files originally produced, but corrupted. We are merely restoring what should never have been redacted."

The judge looked through them. Then nodded.

"Proceed."

And I did.

And then came the call for the final witness.

Final witness: Redwell's own internal audit manager — June Wexley.

She was poised. Slick. Trained to dodge.

But I knew where her armor cracked.

She looked at me as if judging what kind of person I am. She did approach me with documents for help.

I ignored her already formulated opinion of me.

I laid out email chains, internal alerts, and ignored memos.

"You wrote this report, yes?" I asked, tapping a document she had initialed.

"Yes."

"And you sent it to the Clinical Oversight Team?"

"Yes."

I stepped forward. "So why was it never logged in the official registry?"

She blinked. "That wasn't my decision."

"Then whose?"

Silence.

I pressed. "Ms. Wexley, who instructed you to remove this from official records?"

More silence.

"I remind you, you are under oath."

She faltered. "Langford. Philip Langford."

I turned, slowly, toward the jury.

And I saw it.

They believed me.

They saw what I needed them to see.

Not a perfect company.

But not a malicious one either.

Just a machine — flawed, fixable — with certain hands guiding it off course.

I turned back to the judge and said my final line with the calm weight of truth.

"Negligence isn't a story we're telling here. It's a word they're hiding behind."