Public Record
1069 Words
By morning, the city had already made up its mind.
I knew that before I even reached the office, because my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating against the passenger seat—alerts stacked on alerts, headlines layered with opinions disguised as facts. I didn’t open any of them. I didn’t need to. I’d learned early in my career that public outrage followed patterns, not truth.
Still, the weight of it pressed against my chest as I rode the elevator up to my floor.
“Joan.”
Maya was waiting at my door, coffee in one hand, her expression unusually serious.
“Tell me it’s not as bad as it looks,” she said.
I set my bag down slowly. “How bad does it look?”
She handed me the coffee. “They’re calling you ‘the lawyer protecting violence.’”
I let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “Creative.”
“And him?”
“They’ve already decided who he is,” I said. “The case hasn’t even reached hearing.”
Maya leaned against my desk. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated. The honest answer was complicated.
“I’m steady,” I said finally. “That’s not the same thing as okay.”
She nodded, understanding more than she said. “Just remember—you don’t owe the public anything. You owe the law.”
“And myself,” I added.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Especially that.”
---
By noon, Jayden’s name trended across every platform.
Clips replayed endlessly—the shove, the fall, the freeze-frame moments that could be twisted either way. No one mentioned the chaos before it. No one talked about the shove that came first. Context didn’t trend well.
Jayden didn’t speak publicly. That, at least, he did right.
Inside the practice facility, however, silence was doing damage of its own.
“You’re killing team morale,” Luca snapped, tossing his gloves into a locker. “Sponsors are calling. Media’s camped outside.”
Jayden stood quietly, lacing his skates. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Tyson shot back, “but you didn’t walk away either.”
Coach Holloway’s whistle cut through the room. “Enough.”
The room stilled.
“This isn’t trial by locker room,” the coach said. “And it sure as hell isn’t trial by internet. Anyone got a problem can bring it to me.”
No one spoke.
Jayden straightened, jaw tight, shoulders squared. He’d faced worse hits on the ice. This one was different. This one followed him home.
---
Back at the firm, Margaret called me into her office.
She didn’t offer a seat.
“Ethics committee flagged your case,” she said plainly.
I nodded. “Expected.”
“They’re not accusing,” she continued. “They’re watching.”
“I’m aware.”
Margaret studied me carefully. “This is where lawyers get sloppy—or defensive.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“I believe you,” she replied. “But belief doesn’t protect you.”
“What does?” I asked.
“Clarity,” she said. “If at any point your judgment shifts because of who this man is to you—not as a client, but as a person—you step back.”
“I understand.”
She held my gaze. “Do you?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Because the truth was—I understood the rule. I just didn’t yet know how close I was to breaking it.
---
That evening, the firm emptied early. Everyone had an opinion they wanted to tweet or text. I stayed.
Paperwork grounded me. Facts. Timelines. Statements stripped of emotion.
At seven forty-two, I heard footsteps outside my office.
Jayden stood there, hands in his pockets, uncertainty written plainly across his face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “I just—security let me up. I didn’t want to leave without saying something.”
“This isn’t appropriate,” I said again, though my voice lacked heat.
“I won’t stay,” he said quickly. “I promise.”
I gestured to the chair. “Five minutes.”
He sat.
“They’re tearing you apart,” I said, surprising us both.
He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it makes it survivable.”
I studied him—the restraint in his posture, the exhaustion he tried to hide. “This is why silence matters,” I said. “Every word you give them becomes ammunition.”
“I trust you,” he said.
The words settled heavy between us.
“You shouldn’t,” I replied quietly. “Trust makes people careless.”
“Or careful,” he countered.
I looked away first.
“You need to leave,” I said.
He stood, hesitated. “Do you ever wish you’d said no?”
I met his gaze. “Every time something like this happens.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” I said, “someone has to stand between the truth and the noise.”
He nodded. “I’m glad it’s you.”
He left before I could respond.
---
Later that night, alone again, I finally opened my phone.
The comments were worse than I expected.
Some vicious. Some ignorant. Some painfully certain.
I closed the app and set the phone down.
This was the cost of public cases. Of standing beside someone the world had decided to hate. Of believing that justice wasn’t a popularity contest.
I poured myself a glass of water and stared out at the city lights.
I wasn’t afraid of losing the case.
I was afraid of winning it.
Afraid of what that would mean for the man accusing Jayden. Afraid of what it would mean for Jayden himself. Afraid of what it would mean for me—how easily lines blurred when empathy entered the room.
Tomorrow, discovery would continue. Witnesses would crack or hold. Stories would bend further.
And I would keep walking the line.
Because the moment I stepped away—not because the law required it, but because the noise became too loud—I would no longer be the lawyer I trusted myself to be.
And that, more than any headline, terrified me.
- Writer
