THE LAWYER'S DILEMMA

THE LAWYER'S DILEMMA
James Morrison's POV

The envelope arrives with my morning coffee, slipped under my office door sometime between the security guard's 3 AM rounds and my 6:30 arrival. No postmark, no return address, just my name written in block letters that make my stomach clench before I even break the wax seal.

Inside, a single photograph: Robert and Susan Reeves' mangled Toyota wrapped around a Douglas fir, steam rising from the crumpled hood like smoke from a funeral pyre. The image I've spent fifteen years trying to forget, now staring back at me with accusatory headlights shattered like dead eyes.

The letter beneath tastes of threats and old secrets when I unfold it with fingers that have forgotten how to be steady:

Mr. Morrison,

Your continued assistance to Maya Reeves has become problematic. We suggest you reconsider your loyalties before your involvement in certain... arrangements... becomes public knowledge. The Washington State Bar Association takes a dim view of attorneys who facilitate murder.

Cease all contact with Miss Reeves immediately, or discover how quickly a respected practice can become a criminal enterprise.

\-A Concerned Party

My coffee grows cold as I read the words again, each sentence another nail in the coffin of my professional reputation. The photograph burns between my fingers, glossy evidence of a night I've tried to convince myself was tragic accident rather than calculated murder.

The intercom crackles. "Mr. Morrison? Maya Reeves is here for her 8 AM appointment."

"Tell her..." My voice catches like broken glass in my throat. "Tell her I'm running late. Give me ten minutes."

I slide the photograph into my desk drawer, but the damage is already done. The past has finally come collecting, and the bill is Maya's life.

Maya enters my office carrying the weight of federal investigation on her shoulders, her usual composure cracked like ice beginning to thaw. Dark circles under her eyes suggest she slept as poorly as I did, if at all.

"They're calling it industrial espionage," she says without preamble, settling into the leather chair where her father once sat to discuss his daughter's future. "The FBI thinks I stole my own parents' technology."

"Maya, we need to talk about—"

"No, James, you need to listen." Her voice carries steel I remember from Robert Reeves, the same determination that got him killed. "I know you've been hiding something. The way you structured my inheritance, the timeline, the marriage clause—it's too convenient. Too perfect for exactly this scenario."

The accusation hits like ice water. "Maya, everything I did was according to your grandparents' wishes."

"Bullshit." She leans forward, lawyer instincts sharp as surgical instruments. "Patricia and James Reeves were progressive thinkers who raised a daughter to value independence over marriage. They would never have created a trust that demanded I find a husband to claim my inheritance."

"You don't understand the pressure they were under—"

"From who, James? Who was pressuring them?"

The question hangs between us like smoke from a house fire, and I realize Maya already knows. She's known for days, maybe weeks, and she's been waiting for me to confirm what she's discovered.

I walk to my filing cabinet, hands shaking as I retrieve the folder I've kept locked away for fifteen years. Patricia Reeves' original will, drafted six months before her death, contains no marriage clause. Just a straightforward inheritance designed to ensure Maya's independence.

"They came to me three days before your grandmother died," I hear myself saying, the words tasting like betrayal. "Richard Cross and someone who introduced himself as a federal investigator. They had documents proving your parents stole classified technology, evidence that would destroy the Reeves family reputation and leave you with nothing."

Maya's face goes pale as understanding dawns. "They blackmailed you into changing the will."

"They said if I structured the inheritance with a marriage clause, it would protect you. Give you time to find someone who could help navigate the legal complexities when the truth eventually surfaced." The lie tastes like acid on my tongue. "They promised no one would get hurt if you had a husband to share the burden."

"And you believed them?"

"I was scared, Maya. Your grandmother was dying, your parents were already dead, and these men had enough evidence to prove your family fortune was built on stolen government secrets. I thought I was protecting you."

She stands abruptly, pacing to the window overlooking Elliott Bay. "How much did they pay you, James?"

The question cuts deeper than any blade. "It wasn't about money."

"Wasn't it?" She turns, eyes blazing with righteous fury. "Cross Technologies has been funding your practice for fifteen years. I checked. Every major expansion, every new hire, every pro bono case you've taken—all funded by shell companies connected to the Cross family."

The weight of my own stupidity crushes down like a collapsed building. "I never made the connection. The payments came through so many different—"

"You didn't want to make the connection." Her voice breaks, and for a moment she's not a powerful attorney but a frightened woman who's just discovered her last trusted ally has been compromised. "They've been paying you to manage my life, James. To make sure I stayed vulnerable, stayed isolated, stayed dependent on an inheritance I could only claim by walking directly into their trap."

The rest of our meeting passes in a blur of legal documents and bitter revelations. Maya's parents' real will, hidden in my safe for fifteen years, leaves everything to their daughter with no conditions except that she use the inheritance to continue their work in ethical technology development.

The marriage clause was my addition, crafted under duress but implemented with my own cowardice. I'd convinced myself I was protecting Maya while actually ensuring she'd remain vulnerable to exactly the kind of manipulation that led her to Ethan Cross.

As Maya prepares to leave, she pauses at my office door. "They're going to destroy you too, you know. Once they have what they want from me, your usefulness ends."

"I know." The admission tastes like ashes. "Maya, if there's anything I can do to help—"

"There is." She doesn't turn around. "Stay away from me. Don't answer my calls, don't respond to my emails, don't try to fix this. Your help has done enough damage."

The door closes behind her with the finality of a coffin lid, leaving me alone with the evidence of my fifteen-year betrayal spread across mahogany that suddenly feels cheap as sawdust.

My phone rings before I can process the magnitude of what I've lost. Unknown number, but I already know who's calling.

"Mr. Morrison." The voice carries satisfaction like expensive wine. "I trust your meeting with Miss Reeves went well?"

"She knows everything."

"Good. That will make the next phase much simpler." Papers rustle in the background. "Your services are no longer required. Consider your contract with our organization terminated."

"What about Maya?"

"Miss Reeves is no longer your concern. In fact, I'd recommend you take a vacation. Somewhere far from Seattle. Somewhere with no extradition treaty."

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at fifteen years of legal documents that suddenly feel like evidence in my own trial. Maya was right—I'm not her ally anymore. I'm not even her unwitting accomplice.

I'm her betrayer, and the people who made me one are done pretending I serve any purpose beyond taking the fall for their crimes.