Chapter 5

She read for four days straight.

Contract law. Criminal procedure. Evidence law. Trial advocacy. She went through everything Charlotte sent her and then went looking for more. She watched recordings of court proceedings online at 2am with a notepad beside her, writing down terminology she didn’t recognise and looking it up immediately. She read case summaries until the words blurred. She made herself read them again.

By Sunday night she knew enough to be dangerous.

Not enough to be convincing. But enough to not immediately embarrass herself. Probably.

Nam had called on Saturday to tell her she had located the best sight line from the fourth floor of the adjacent building and had already identified two possible entry points that would need monitoring. Then she had asked Freen to explain the difference between a plaintiff and a defendant and had fallen asleep on the phone eleven minutes into Freen’s explanation.

Freen had kept talking anyway.

Monday arrived whether she was ready or not. She was up at 5am. She ran for an hour because she always ran when she needed to think, and she needed to think. She showered. She stood in front of the mirror in the clothes Charlotte had sent over — well cut, professional, nothing that would stand out — and looked at herself for a moment.

Captain Freen Sarocha Chankimha.

Junior associate.

She picked up her bag and left.

—

Armstrong and Associates was exactly what she had expected from the floor plans and exactly nothing like what she had expected from actually standing in front of it.

The building was sleek and glass-fronted, sitting on one of Bangkok’s quieter commercial streets, the kind that felt intentional — like the firm had specifically chosen a location that said *serious* without having to say it out loud. There was a security desk in the lobby. She noted the camera positions as she walked through. Two at the entrance, one covering the lift bank, one in the corner covering the stairwell door.

Basic. Manageable.

She took the lift to the fourteenth floor.

The doors opened onto a reception area that was all clean lines and neutral colours. Expensive but not showy. A young woman at the front desk looked up.

“Freen Sarocha?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Ms Charlotte is expecting you. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Freen stood and waited. She scanned the space without making it obvious she was scanning. Open plan office through the glass partition to the left. Eight desks she could see, four occupied at this hour. Corridor to the right leading to what the floor plan told her were the private offices. The kitchen was at the far end. Two exits she had already identified — the lift and the stairwell she had noted in the lobby.

One more she needed to find. There was always one more.

“Freen.”

Charlotte Armstrong came around the corner and Freen recognised her immediately from the file photographs, though the photographs hadn’t quite captured the way she filled a room. She was poised in the way that people were poised when it was completely natural to them rather than something they were performing. She was also, Freen noted, very good at keeping her face neutral. The relief in her eyes lasted approximately half a second before something professional replaced it.

“Thank you for coming,” Charlotte said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm. “How was your journey from Chiang Mai?”

“Good,” Freen said. Cover answer, delivered naturally. “Straightforward.”

“Wonderful.” Charlotte turned slightly. “Come. I’ll show you your desk and then introduce you to Becky.”

Freen followed her through the glass partition door and into the main office. A few heads turned. She kept her expression easy and open. New colleague. Nothing to see. She noted the layout as she walked — the desk Charlotte was leading her to was positioned directly outside a closed office door. Close enough to see anyone who approached it from either direction.

Charlotte had placed her well. Whether deliberately or by instinct, Freen wasn’t sure.

“This is your space,” Charlotte said, gesturing at the desk. “Noey sits there—” she indicated the desk nearest the window “—she’s been here two years, she’ll help you settle in. Heng is Becky’s paralegal, his desk is around that corner, he’s the one to go to if you need anything case-related.” She paused. “Do you have questions before I introduce you?”

“No,” Freen said. “I’m ready.”

Charlotte looked at her for a moment. Something moved behind her eyes. “She doesn’t know,” she said quietly. “About any of it. As far as Becky is concerned you’re a new associate I’m bringing in because we’re understaffed during the trial.”

“Understood.”

“She’ll be — direct with you.”

“I can handle direct.”

Charlotte’s expression shifted very slightly. Something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yes,” she said. “I imagine you can.”

She knocked on the office door twice and opened it.

“Becky. The new associate is here.”

Freen stepped into the doorway.

The office was not large but it felt organised in a specific way — like every single thing in it had a precise location and staying in that location was non-negotiable. Files stacked in neat columns on the left side of the desk. Three coffee cups in various states of emptiness arranged without apparent awareness on the right. A whiteboard on the far wall covered in a timeline written in small precise handwriting.

And behind the desk, looking up from a document she had clearly been in the middle of reading, was Becky Armstrong.

Freen had seen the photographs. She had looked at them carefully, the way she looked at everything she needed to understand before a mission. She had thought she had a reasonable picture.

She had not had a reasonable picture.

Becky Armstrong looked at her with the kind of eyes that took stock of a person in approximately three seconds and didn’t miss anything in the process. Dark, sharp, completely awake despite the fact that it was barely 8am. Her hair was pulled back. She was wearing a white blouse with the sleeves pushed to her elbows the way someone pushed their sleeves up when they had been working for a while and had stopped noticing.

She looked at Freen the way she probably looked at a piece of evidence she wasn’t sure about yet.

“This is Freen Sarocha,” Charlotte said. “She’s transferring from Chiang Mai. Two firms in six years, strong background in criminal procedure.” A pause. “I’ve asked her to work with you directly.”

Becky’s gaze moved to Charlotte briefly. Something passed between them — a sister thing, Freen recognised, a kind of wordless conversation that happened in half a second. Then Becky looked back at Freen.

“Sit down,” she said.

Freen sat.

Becky leaned back slightly in her chair. “Which firms in Chiang Mai?”

“Prasert and Associates first. Four years. Then Lanna Legal, two years.”

“Why the move?”

“I wanted Bangkok.” Simple. True enough.

“Why now. In the middle of someone else’s trial.”

“Charlotte offered,” Freen said. “The timing wasn’t mine.”

Becky glanced at Charlotte again. Charlotte’s expression gave nothing away. Becky looked back at Freen.

“Criminal procedure background,” she said. “How familiar are you with the evidence rules around documentary exhibits?”

Freen had read about this at 1am on Saturday. “Familiar enough. Authentication requirements, chain of custody, hearsay exceptions.”

Becky’s expression didn’t change. “What’s the standard for admitting a business record under the exception?”

“Kept in the ordinary course of business, made at or near the time of the event by someone with knowledge, and regular practice of making such records.”

A pause.

“You hesitated on the last part,” Becky said.

Freen hadn’t hesitated. Or she hadn’t thought she had. “I was making sure I was precise.”

“In court you don’t get time to make sure you’re precise. You either know it or you don’t.” Becky picked up her pen. “You look like you’ve never seen a courtroom.”

“I’ve seen plenty of courtrooms.”

“From which side?”

Freen held her gaze. “The right one.”

Becky studied her for a moment. Freen kept her expression even. This was not the most pressure she had sat under in a small room. Not even close.

“Charlotte says I’m training you,” Becky said finally.

“That’s my understanding.”

“I’m three weeks from closing arguments on the most significant prosecution this firm has handled in five years.” Her voice was even. Not unfriendly exactly. Just completely clear. “I don’t have time to train someone who needs handholding.”

“I don’t need handholding.”

“Everyone says that.”

“I mean it.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Becky put her pen down and picked up a folder from the left stack on her desk. She held it out across the desk. Freen leaned forward and took it.

“Viroj case. Secondary evidence bundle. Read the whole thing. By tomorrow morning you need to understand the chain of custody argument we’re running on exhibits seven through nineteen because there’s a hearing Thursday and I need someone who can brief me on it without me having to explain what chain of custody means first.”

Freen took the folder. It was substantial. Maybe two hundred pages.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Becky asked.

“No,” Freen said.

Becky looked at her for one more moment. Then she picked her pen back up and looked back at her document. “Charlotte will sort out your access and system logins. Noey will show you where everything is.” She paused without looking up. “Close the door on your way out.”

Freen stood. Picked up the folder. Walked to the door.

“Sarocha.”

She stopped. Turned.

Becky was still looking at her document. “If you can’t keep up, tell me early. I’d rather know now than find out at a bad moment.”

“You won’t find out at a bad moment,” Freen said.

Becky didn’t respond.

Freen walked out and pulled the door closed behind her.

Charlotte was waiting just outside, just far enough away that she couldn’t have heard. She looked at Freen’s face and something in her own expression asked the question without words.

Freen gave a small nod.

Fine. It was fine.

Charlotte exhaled just slightly. Then she straightened and gestured toward the desk. “Let me get you set up.”

Freen followed her. She set the folder down on her new desk and pulled out her chair and sat. She looked at the closed office door in front of her.

Two hundred pages by tomorrow morning.

She pulled the folder open and started reading.