Page 186 of The Rules
She felt her pulse quicken, a strange thrill coursing through her veins. She'd always known Ben was formidable, but seeing him here, in his element, was like watching an artist before a blank canvas—knowing the masterpiece that was about to unfold.
The judge entered. Crawford’s lead counsel stood. The first name was called.
The battle began.
And Katherine?
She realized something terrifying and electric—
Benjamin Sinclair in the courtroom was even more dangerous than she thought.
From the defense table, his attorney stood next, a beat too smoothly. Katherine sat stone-still as the man crossed into open space, his smile thin and gleaming—polished arrogance wrapped in designer silk. His voice followed like oil, coating the courtroom in a performance masquerading as authority.
“Your Honor, this case was closed years ago. The evidence was clear. The jury—unanimous.” A flick of his wrist toward their table, dismissive and practiced. “Mr. Sinclair’s attempt to exhume a dead verdict is not only meritless—it’s a waste of the court’s time.”
Her expression tightened. She’d expected this. The contempt. The condescension. But hearing it aloud still made something twist low and furious inside her.
Beside her, Ben didn’tmove.
Crawford’s team was slick. Polished. Rehearsed. They lined their arguments up like scalpels—meant to slice, not persuade. Every word aimed at making Ben seem desperate, their case flimsy. Katherine could almost admire the precision.
But Ben?
Ben watched, silent and still, body coiled. Every flicker of movement mapped like a target.
And when the judge finally nodded to him, the shift in the room was instant.
Air grew thick. Conversations died mid-thought.
Ben stood. Straightened his jacket. Walked forward with the kind of quiet composure that made people uneasy without knowing why.
“Your Honor,” he began, voice even, deliberate. “What my learned colleague calls ‘a waste of time’—some of us call due process.”
What followed wasn’t a rebuttal. It was a dismantling.
Katherine tracked every beat of his delivery. His cadence wasn’t random—each pause a trap, each word a scalpel.
He didn’t pace. He didn’t posture. He stayed rooted in place, letting stillness become strategy. Every sentence stripped away layers of Crawford’s argument—timeline discrepancies, mishandled evidence, a witness who’d vanished overseas.
Across the aisle, the cracks began to show.
Crawford’s second chair fumbled with papers, eyes darting. Another whispered frantically behind their hand. One objection came too early, too sharp, earning a pointed look from the judge.
Ben didn’t flinch.
His voice never rose, but itcut. Clean. Sharp. Efficient.
And beneath the icy exterior, Katherine saw it—the glint.
Not pride. Not righteousness.
Satisfaction.
He didn’t just survive in this arena.
Hethrivedin it.
And then—finally—the ruling.
