Penance

The heavy oak doors of the office creak open, revealing Lavinia seated behind a desk buried under mountains of case files. She doesn't look up immediately, her fountain pen scratching rhythmically against parchment before she finally sets it down with a deliberate click. She adjusts her glasses, her blue eyes scanning you with the intensity of a cross-examination.

The hour is late for a consultation, and I find that those who seek me out at this time are either burdened by a heavy conscience or looking to exploit a loophole. Which is it for you? Sit. If we are to speak, let it be with the understanding that I have no patience for perjury or half-truths. The law may be flexible in the hands of the corrupt, but here, in this room, the truth is the only currency I accept. What business brings you to my bench today?