"But what about the guilty ones? How do you defend them knowing they're guilty."
"They've got to be proven guilty first."
"You know what I mean," she sighed. "The ones who've admitted doing the crime, or where there's no reasonable doubt because they've been caught red-handed."
I ran my hand through my hair then used it to rest my head upon. This question, this notion, was never easy to explain. "A lot of the time, I can't let myself think too much about it. I can't make it personal or get involved beyond what my job, as their legal counsel, requires. But the ones who show remorse for their wrongdoings, genuine remorse … do they deserve punishment to the fullest extent of the law? No. I personally don't think they do. And unless I help them, that's what they'll get."
Her eyes widened. "So you believe a murderer deserves to be free if he/she is truly sorry?"
I chuckled, but the fact she was asking me these questions twisted my gut. The last thing I wanted was for my career to disappoint her through lack of comprehension.
"No, of course not. If you're guilty of a crime, you deserve to be punished and rehabilitated. The thing is, more often than not, not everything is black and white. There are almost always mitigating circumstances."
"But some crimes are black and white."
"Well, yes, and no."
"So how do you defend a cold blooded murderer?"
"Facts," I stated, my answer short and simple because I wanted this conversation to end.
"Facts?"
I sighed. "Yes, it all comes back to facts."
She narrowed her eyes at me then downed the last of her drink, stretching toward the coffee table to dispense her glass. The light from the fire lit her skin golden, her body smooth and flawless. And the nude lace underwear covering what I desperately wanted to see, touch, and taste the most, was only fuelling my need even more.
"I don't understand," she said, wiggling back into the seat and hugging her knees to her chest.
I swallowed and tried to ignore my thickening cock. "I stick to the facts while also questioning them, creating reasonable doubt while hoping, deep down, that the facts will prevail."
"So you do your job but hope you fail at it?"
"Where the cold-blooded murderers are concerned, yeah, you could say that."
"It must be hard defending them."
I shrugged and stood up, offering my hands to help her stand with me. "Somebody has to do it."
She stared at me, sympathy curving her pouting mouth.
"Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody. There's no such thing as a perfect person in a perfect world because neither exists. People are flawed. Life is flawed. And it's through flaws and mistakes that we learn to accept, forgive, and grow."
She placed her hands in mine and let me guide her to stand. "But imperfection doesn't justify the actions of a cold-blooded killer or a brutal rapist."
"No, I'm not saying that it does." I held our hands by our sides. "Because nothing justifies that, which is why I represent them. I make sure they receive their duty of care and nothing more."
She let go of my hands and draped her arms over my shoulders, stretching up on one foot while suspending her sore ankle. "You remind me of a vigilante superhero."
I laughed. "Batman?"
"Maybe. Speaking of Batman, where's that t-shirt?"
Picking her up in my arms, I carried her to my bedroom and gently set her down on the bed. I walked into my walk-in robe, opened my set of drawers, and quickly rifled through them until I found it. "Here you go?" I said, walking back out, the t-shirt in my hands.
"Thank you." She took it from me, quickly threaded it over her head, and then reached behind and unhooked her bra, pulling it out through one of the armholes.
"I've never understood how you women do that."
"It's easy," she said, twirling the bra around her finger. "Here, I'll show you. Hold out your hands." Danielle hopped up to me and proceeded to guide the bra's straps over my hands.
"What are you doin-"
"Oh shoosh. This is the best way to learn."
"You're not gonna do that thing up are you?"
"Think of it as your next dare."
She continued to hop behind me and hooked the bra into place before the sharp sting of her hand slapped my arse.
"Hey!"
Leaning back, she raked me with her eyes. "Oh, you look good in nude, Lots."
All I could do was stand there, in my boxer shorts, while a small piece of lace material emasculated me. "Danielle Cunningham, you have exactly two seconds to get this thing off of me."