In the hallway, Victoria is still talking to Cole. The low murmur of his responses drifts in, though not the words.
"I have a hearing in forty minutes."
"Then I'll be efficient." Margaret settles into the chair across from my desk like she's been invited to sit. She hasn't. "When your trafficking cases conclude, survivors scatter. No follow-up. No resources. The DA's victim advocates are overworked, underfunded, and frankly..." She pauses, selecting the word with care. "Inadequate."
"Victim services fall outside judicial purview."
"Recommendations don't." Her eyes hold mine, sharp and gray and assessing everything. "A word from the bench about available resources. A warm handoff at the point of verdict, when survivors are still in the system. We're proposing a three-month pilot program with a foundation liaison embedded in the courthouse. Immediate connection to housing, counseling, job training. No bureaucratic delay."
I turn this over the way I'd turn over a motion. The argument has merit. Trafficking survivors do fall through the gaps between verdict and aftercare. I've seen it in my own courtroom, watched women walk out of sentencing hearings into nothing, their traffickers behind bars and their futures a complete blank. But a private foundation with embedded access to active case participants raises questions I can't ignore.
"Conflict of interest concerns me," I say. "A private entity with that level of access to case information could compromise proceedings."
"We've already coordinated with Judge Morrison's office. Administrative approval is pending." Her smile is thin and practiced. "I'm extending a courtesy by informing you directly, given your docket."
Already coordinated.Which means this conversation isn't a request. It's a notification dressed up in deference
"I'll review the proposal." I keep my voice even. "Send it through official channels."
"Of course." She produces a card from her jacket pocket, places it on my desk with two fingers. "The foundation also works with various security consultants. CPG among them. Excellent reputation."
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
"It's reassuring," she continues, watching my face, "to know you're well protected, given the current climate."
Given that eight of my colleagues are dead.The math never stops running in the background.Eight down. Seventeen days on my clock. Who's next?
"Mrs. Winchester." I lean forward slightly. "Is there something specific you're trying to tell me?"
She stands and smooths her skirt with the unhurried movements of someone who always has time because time bends around her schedule instead of the other way around. Her gaze holds mine one beat longer than comfortable.
"Only that not everyone who offers help has pure motives, Judge Castellano. Be discerning." A smile that doesn't warm her eyes. "But then, you already are."
She leaves the way she entered: without waiting for permission. The hallway swallows the click of her sensible heels, and I'm left with her card on my desk and the distinct impression that I've been handled by a professional.
What the hell was that about?
Through the open door, Victoria steps back from Cole. She adjusts her portfolio strap, says something I can't catch, and walks past my chambers without a glance.
Cole appears in the doorway. Reads my face the way he reads threat assessments: fast, thorough, missing nothing.
"Close the door."
He does. The lock clicks and the room contracts to just his breathing and mine and the hum of the building settling around us.
I exhale and press my fingertips into the desk until the wood grain bites back. The morning isn't even half over and the world is already pressing in from every direction. Oyelaran, Winchester, Lockwood, seventeen days.
"What did Lockwood want?"
"Trial schedule concerns. Whether the judge killings might delay proceedings." He crosses to the window, checks the curtain's edge, turns back. "She wanted to know if witnesses were being advised to adjust their availability."
"For eight minutes?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile, but something worse. Recognition.
"You were timing it."
Damn him.