Chapter 6: The Judgment

Chapter 6: The Judgment

The summons came not as a polite email or a call from a secretary, but as a terrified-looking paralegal who scurried up to Leo’s desk, her eyes wide. “Mr. Harrington wants to see you. On the fiftieth floor. He said… immediately.”

Every head in the bullpen swiveled towards him. The air was thick with a morbid, electric curiosity. As Leo stood, he caught Elara’s gaze from across the room. Her expression wasn't curious; it was one of profound concern, a silent question hanging in the space between them. He gave her nothing back, composing his face into a mask of mild, professional confusion as he walked towards the elevators. The walk felt a hundred miles long, each step an eternity. He was walking into the dragon's lair, but he carried an invisible shield.

The heavy oak door to Harrington’s office was already ajar. Leo pushed it open and stepped inside. The scene was even more dramatic than the roar had promised.

Arthur Harrington was behind his massive desk, his face a mottled, dangerous shade of crimson. He wasn’t sitting; he was hunched over, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the desk. In the center of the leather blotter lay Leo’s 110-page masterpiece, looking for all the world like a piece of toxic waste that had been carelessly dropped there.

And in a plush leather chair facing the desk, Sterling Prescott III sat pale and sweating. His bespoke navy suit, which had looked so impressive an hour ago, now seemed to be strangling him. His carefully constructed tan had vanished, replaced by a pasty, greenish pallor. His eyes darted towards Leo with a desperate, pleading look that quickly morphed into one of pure venom. He was a cornered animal, looking for someone—anyone—to sacrifice.

“Vance,” Harrington’s voice was a low growl, stripped of all its usual boardroom polish. “Close the door.”

Leo complied, the soft click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence.

“This,” Harrington said, nudging the bound memo with a single, disgusted finger. “Is this your work?”

Leo stepped forward, his posture the perfect picture of a diligent, confused junior associate. He looked at the memo, then at Harrington, his expression one of earnest concern.

“Yes, sir. That’s the research memorandum on Admiralty Law,” he said, his voice clear and steady. He glanced at Sterling, as if for confirmation. “Is there… is there something wrong with it? I spent my entire Christmas holiday on it.”

The line landed with surgical precision. He saw Sterling flinch. Harrington’s eyes, chips of obsidian, narrowed on Leo.

“Your entire Christmas?” Harrington repeated, the question laced with ice.

“Yes, sir. And New Year’s. Mr. Prescott stressed it was your top priority, an urgent directive for the Ackerly appeal.” Leo maintained eye contact with Harrington, projecting nothing but sincerity. He was a good soldier who had followed his orders to the letter.

Sterling finally found his voice, a reedy, panicked squeak. “I told him to— to use his discretion! He must have misunderstood the scope! This is… this is insubordination! Wasting firm resources on a… a flight of fancy!”

Harrington’s head snapped towards Sterling. “He misunderstood? Did you or did you not hand him this assignment and tell him it came from me?”

“I… I conveyed the urgency of the matter, Arthur,” Sterling stammered, avoiding the direct question. “Vance clearly went off the rails. This is his folly.”

This was the moment. The pivot. Leo knew his next move had to be perfect.

“Sir,” Leo said, turning his full attention to Harrington. He infused his voice with just the right amount of wounded pride. “I would never undertake a project of this magnitude without a direct order. Mr. Prescott gave me the assignment personally on Christmas Eve. He gave me a memo. He said it came directly from your desk.”

Harrington’s glare was intense enough to melt steel. “A memo? From me?”

“Yes, sir.” Leo reached into the slim portfolio he’d carried with him. He pulled out a single, cream-colored sheet of paper—the original forged blade—and placed it carefully on the desk, a few inches from the toxic tome. “This is what he gave me.”

Harrington stared at the paper. He saw the embossed letterhead—his letterhead. He saw the Courier New font. He saw the curt, imperious tone. And he saw his own name at the bottom. A vein pulsed in his temple. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he had never written, seen, or even conceived of this document in his life.

“I never wrote this,” Harrington said, his voice dangerously quiet. He looked at Leo, his eyes filled with a new, lethal suspicion. “Is this your idea of a joke, Vance? Did you forge my signature to get out of doing real work over the holidays?”

The accusation hung in the air. Sterling seized on it, a drowning man grabbing for a life raft. “Yes! That must be it! He forged it! He’s been trying to undermine me for months!”

Leo didn’t flinch. He didn’t look at Sterling. He kept his gaze locked on Harrington, his expression morphing from confusion to hurt. This was the checkmate.

“Sir… why would I forge a memo that forced me to cancel my family Christmas and work for a hundred hours on a topic I haven’t studied in years?” He paused, letting the logic sink in. “Mr. Prescott gave me that memo. I can prove it. I sent him a follow-up email on Christmas Day, just to confirm I was on the right track. I can show you.”

He pulled out his phone. Sterling’s face, if possible, grew even paler. He remembered the email. He’d seen it on his phone while lounging by the pool in St. Barts. He’d smirked at it, a notification from a toiling serf, and then archived it without a second thought.

“There’s no need,” Harrington growled, his eyes fixed on Sterling. The gears were turning in his brilliant legal mind, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with horrifying clarity. He turned his full, undivided attention to his senior associate.

“Prescott. Did you receive an email from Vance on Christmas Day regarding… triple-masted schooners?”

Sterling’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He was trapped. If he said no, Leo would show Harrington the sent email, proving him a liar. If he said yes…

“I… my holiday email is… it was a busy time,” he stammered weakly.

“Answer the question,” Harrington commanded.

“Yes,” Sterling whispered, the word barely audible.

Harrington leaned forward, the mask of fury dropping away to reveal something far more terrifying: a look of utter, cold contempt. “So, to be clear. You received a memo, supposedly from me, assigning a nonsensical, archaic, and completely irrelevant research project. You did not question it. You did not call me to confirm. Instead, you passed this career-killing task onto a junior associate, ruining his holiday. You then received a follow-up email about it and still did not think to tell him to stop. You let him bill over one hundred hours to a client for this… this garbage.”

He picked up the forged memo and the bound report, holding them together. “And then, you had the unmitigated, monumental, brass-balled arrogance to walk into my partner’s meeting and present this piece of shit as your own work.”

The final piece clicked. Harrington’s face turned from crimson to a strange, almost calm white. He finally understood. This wasn’t just incompetence. It was vanity. Sterling hadn’t questioned the absurd assignment because his ego was so vast, he implicitly believed he was the kind of indispensable man who would be entrusted with secret, historical pet projects by the firm’s founding partner. He had been played like a fiddle, and his own arrogance had been the tune.

Harrington slowly sat down in his chair. He looked from the memo to Sterling’s terrified face, and then to Leo, who stood there, the picture of innocence.

He pointed a finger at Leo. “Vance. You are dismissed. Go back to your desk.”

“Yes, sir,” Leo said with a crisp nod. He turned, not daring to look at Sterling, and walked to the door.

He opened it, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled it shut behind him. Just before the latch clicked, he heard Harrington’s voice, no longer roaring, but low, controlled, and filled with the promise of utter annihilation.

“Sterling. Sit down. You and I have a great many things to discuss.”