Dylan knew crying over his situation wouldn't change anything. He rose to his feet, throwing a glance at his wristwatch.
"8:30… If I leave now, I can make it on time before the interrogation." Dylan shoved the file into his briefcase.
He sped and walked towards the door, but before he could reach for it, the door yanked open.
Aria was just stepping into the room when Dylan approached the door, both stopping inches away from each other. She instinctively sniffed in his cologne, his fragrance strangely more enticing than before.
At this distance, she could see the new details of his face, her face flushing red as their eyes met.
Aria stepped aside, lowering her face as a sweet smile spread across her lips.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to leave…."
Dylan hurriedly walked past, not even bothering to spare her a glance. There were more pressing matters he needed to attend to at the moment.
Walking down to the rows of cubicles, a familiar figure blocked Dylan's path.
"Can I help you with the case you are working on!" She blurted out loud. Her eyes were shut tight, and her little fists clenched hard.
Dylan initially planned to walk past her, just like he did to Aria. However, her bold action made him stop in his tracks, and his gaze scanned her figure properly.
She was Clara Whiteman, a petite brunette with D-cup-sized breasts. She always wore glasses, hiding her unique gray eyes, and her choice of washes was limited to baggy sweaters.
Clara lacked confidence like Dylan and was always polite. While she wasn't a friend of Dylan, she had always been nice to him. Thinking back, he realized the only reason they never became friends was because of Aria's strict 'no girlfriend rules'.
But now things were different, he was a single man with a new and improved face. So why should he cry all night while she happily spends the night with his boss?
{That's right, now you are thinking like a man.}
Dylan made a decisive decision, pulling out his car key from his breast pocket and tossing it into her hand.
"You drive," he said, walking past her.
Clara stood there, beaming with smiles, for nearly thirty seconds before chasing after Dylan. The entire hall was silent, everyone's gaze fixated, on Aria who was just a stone's throw away from the exchange, yet Dylan acted like she did not exist.
The pain in her eyes was undeniable, something they were used to seeing in Dylan's eyes.
What changed?
How did the tables turn overnight?
Dylan and Clara headed straight to the company garage, where his Zenith Pathfinder X was parked. It was a mid-size red SUV which Aria suggested for him earlier this year, and now he was $30,000 in debt.
"Where are we going?" Clara asked as soon as they entered the car.
"Chicago Police Department, Central Station," Dylan said while putting on his seat belt.
Dylan opened his suitcase and began flipping through the file. He needed to know as much as he could about the case before the interrogation.
— Central Station Holding Room —
The dimly lit holding room carried the faint odor of sweat and disinfectant. Dylan adjusted his tie, his expression composed but his mind racing.
'This is just another case' he told himself.
Clank!
The steel doors flung open, and a man walked in. He was a tall man in his late twenties.
The first thing Dylan noticed was his hardened face, decorated with tattoos snaking up his neck and arms. He was dark-skinned with dreads, and even in cuffs, he looked calm.
This was not his first time in jail.
Dylan watched him pull out the chair opposite and sit down, his gaze fixated on Dylan.
"Mr. Jones…" Dylan began, using the rapper's legal name.
"It's 20 Shots," the man interrupted, his voice low but firm. "Ain't nobody in this city know me as Jones."
Dylan raised an eyebrow but nodded.
"Alright, 20 Shots. I'm Dylan Morningstar. Your attorney." Dylan said calmly, trying his best to maintain eye contact.
A gangster like 20 Shots could easily sniff out fear like a bloodhound.
"They sendin' the rookies now? Figures, they think I did it." 20 Shots leaned back, his cuffs clinking against the table.
{Stay calm…} The voice warned.
"This rookie doesn't care if you did it or not. My job is to make you innocent, so give me something to work it." Dylan responded, his voice low, only loud enough for the two of them.
20 Shots frowned, his gaze playing around Dylan for a few seconds before he let out a sigh.
"You already know what they're saying, right? That I shot my boy." 20 Shots snorted.
"I've seen the preliminary report," Dylan replied evenly. "Witnesses say there was an argument, and you pulled the trigger. The CCTV footage from the club is gone, so unless we can prove otherwise, it's your word against theirs. Help me help you. What happened that night?" Dylan was direct, especially since time wasn't on their side.
20 Shots' jaw tightened. He looked away, staring at the far wall like it held all the answers.
"We were drinkin', chillin'," he began, his voice quieter now. "Things got heated outside. Words were said… stupid stuff. Next thing I know, my boy is on the ground, blood everywhere, and his cousin screamin' I did it."
Bam!
20 Shots slammed his cuffed hands against the table, his frustration spilling out.
"I didn't pull no damn trigger! I swear on my life!" He swore, his voice shaky.
Silence followed as Dylan studied him carefully. The raw pain and desperation in 20 Shots' voice seemed genuine, but the emotion wasn't enough in court.
'Is he lying?' Dylan decided to try his luck and as expected he got no response from the system.
'I guess I'm on my own here.' he mumbled.
"The only piece of evidence that can back up your story is gone. I find it strange the CCTV footage of that night's events coincidentally disappeared." Dylan rubbed his chin, a thoughtful expression.
"That's because my boy's uncle owns the club." 20 Shot snorted disdainfully, his words hitting Dylan like a truck.
Bam!
Dylan slammed his hands on the desk, rising to his feet.
"You mean the cousin who accused you of pulling the trigger is the son of the club owner?" Dylan asked, his eyes dilating with shock.
20 Shots nodded, confirming Dylan's suspicion as he returned to his seat.
"Alright. I'll look into that. But for now, during the interrogation, keep your answers short and stick to the facts. Don't argue, don't react. That's what they want, to rile you up and trip you." Dylan warned sternly.
"And if they press me?" 20 Shots asked, his tone hardening.
"Then you look at me," Dylan said firmly. "Let me handle it. You stay quiet unless I tell you otherwise."
For the first time, 20 Shots cracked a small, bitter smile.
"You better be good, lawyer man. My life's in your hands." He said, his voice lacking the aggression it once had.
"And I don't intend to drop it." Dylan stood, gathering his briefcase.