Chapter 11: Jordan’s Silence
Jordan Langston sat slouched in the cold interrogation room, a white paper cup of untouched water in front of him. His blond hair fell over his eyes, his expression blank, unreadable. Noah stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
“I’m Noah Keene,” he began, setting his leather bag on the table. “I’m your attorney now.”
Jordan didn’t look up.
“Jordan,” Noah pressed, sliding into the chair opposite him, “you’ve been found at a crime scene, blood on your sleeve, standing over a dead classmate. That’s not small-town gossip. That’s a life sentence. You want to start talking?”
Nothing. The boy’s eyes stayed fixed on the wall, as though Noah wasn’t even there.
The door clicked open behind them. A tall, impeccably dressed woman swept in, her perfume hitting the air first. She was in her mid-forties, her hair in a perfect chignon, her heels clicking on the tile.
“Mr. Keene,” she said smoothly, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Victoria Langston. Jordan’s mother.”
Noah shook her hand briefly. “Mrs. Langston.”
“I’ve heard about you,” she continued, her gaze sharp, appraising. “You were the city lawyer who took on the Calloway case. The one who lost his license for a year?”
“That was a suspension,” Noah corrected, his tone flat. “And it’s over.”
“Good. Then I’ll make this quick.” She slid a slim envelope across the table toward him. “Whatever the charges, just… wrap this up quietly. No trial, no circus. We don’t need Bellview turning this into a feeding frenzy.”
Noah didn’t touch the envelope. “You’re asking me to plead him guilty without hearing his side of the story?”
Victoria’s smile was polite, but cold. “I’m asking you to remember how this town works. And how much your father has already suffered. We wouldn’t want… a repeat of the past.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “He’s not guilty until I say he is. Not you. Not the sheriff. Not the town.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think you can fight the Langstons and win?”
“I’m not fighting you,” Noah said, leaning forward. “I’m defending your son. If you actually care about him, you’ll let me do my job.”
Victoria glanced at Jordan, who still hadn’t moved. “Jordan, say something.”
The boy’s lips parted just enough to murmur, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” Noah said sharply. “It matters a hell of a lot.”
Jordan’s gaze finally flicked to his. For a brief second, Noah thought he saw fear there—real fear—but then it was gone, replaced by the same empty stare.
Victoria scooped up the untouched envelope, her heels clicking toward the door. “We’ll speak again when you’ve had time to… reconsider your approach.”
The door shut, leaving Noah and Jordan alone again.
“You’ve got one shot, kid,” Noah said quietly. “If you don’t take it, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars. You want that?”
Jordan turned away. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
Silence.
Noah sat there a moment longer, studying the boy, trying to decide if this was arrogance or terror. Maybe both.
Finally, he stood, gathering his bag. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And when I walk in, I expect you to be ready to talk. Because if you’re innocent, I’m the only chance you’ve got.”
He left the room without looking back, but he could still feel Jordan’s eyes on him—watching, calculating, waiting for something Noah couldn’t yet see.