I KNOW many people would believe this, and if it weren't true, perhaps I would be the first to prove it.
Life is like a coin.
Some days, when you flip it, one face catches the light. That side gleams, polished by approval and easy admiration. It is the face people choose to believe: the visible one, the acceptable one, the life that feels comfortable to look at. We focus on it because it asks very little of us. A glance is enough. Judgment comes easily.
But there is always another face. The one pressed constantly against the ground. Not because it is evil, but because it has been denied illumination. It absorbs scratches, stains, and the quiet damage of being used and never acknowledged. This face is misunderstood because it carries weight, consequence, truth, and survival—things that are rarely beautiful when exposed.
And me? I am the one who flips the coin and chooses to look at the darker side.
I have been a criminal defense attorney for five years. Five years of flipping coins, of studying faces the public had already condemned, of uncovering truths no one wanted brought into the light.
This time, the coin was heavier than most.
I sat across from Mr. Carson, my client in a case involving multiple counts of murder. To the public, there was only one side to him: a man who killed without mercy. What they never cared to see was the truth beneath that story—the truth of a man trying to survive, the truth I had chosen to defend.
"You can ask me for anything in the future, Attorney Schuett," he said quietly. "If it weren't for you, I would be in prison right now."
He sat beside me, his shoulders finally relaxed, as if the weight that had crushed him for years had at last been lifted.
"It is my job to bring the truth to light, Mr. Carson," I replied.
"I mean it," he said, turning to me. "If you ever need anything, just call."
I had been with him since the beginning of the case. Three trials and long nights buried in evidence that never told the story people wanted to hear. Long enough to know the man beneath the headlines.
If I were being honest, Mr. Carson looked dangerous. Sharp eyes. A hard presence. Someone who seemed capable of violence without hesitation. He filled a room without trying.
But outside the courtroom, far from whispers and suspicion, what remained was a man worn thin by accusations that were never his.
"If you insist," I said with a polite smile. "But be careful. The public does not forgive as easily as the law does."
I slipped the last folder into my leather case. I had stayed longer than I should have. The firm had already called, telling me to return immediately.
"I know," he said quietly. "If only my bastard of a twin brother could be found and made to admit what he did." The words lingered longer than they should have.
Mr. Carson was the perfect example of the darker side of the coin—a man cursed with sharing a face with a monster. His twin brother was supposed to be dead, killed in a car accident years ago. Supposed to be. Instead, he resurfaced and left behind a trail of bodies pointing back to Mr. Carson.
The police never believed him. A dead twin was too convenient, the kind of lie desperate men told when they ran out of options. His brother was careful and terrifyingly precise. Clean enough that the public accepted the easier story: that Mr. Carson had invented a twin to escape punishment.
Sometimes, I thought his brother deserved professional recognition. No one kept their hands that clean by accident.
But that was no longer my concern.
I had done my job. I cleared his name in court and collected my fee. What remained was his burden alone—to hunt a ghost and prove his innocence to people who had already decided he was guilty.
My phone vibrated again in my pocket.
"I hope this is my last case with you, Mr. Carson." I stood, leather case in hand, and extended my arm. A practiced goodbye with my clients every time I won a case.
He smiled as he took my hand. "We will see each other again." There was certainty in his voice. Not a promise, but just a statement that settled uncomfortably in my chest.
I let go and turned toward the door. I had done what I was supposed to do and that should have been the end of it.
Outside the building, security guards were positioned near the gates. A crowd of protesters had gathered, their voices rising the moment I stepped into view. Shouts cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, as if my presence alone had provoked them.
"GO TO HELL, YOU BITCH!"
"MAY YOU BURN FOR DEFENDING A MURDERER!"
"BURN IN HELL!"
I raised my leather case to shield my face as eggs and other objects were thrown. The guards reacted quickly, forming around me and escorting me through the chaos until I reached my car.
"Idiots," I muttered, slipping inside and slamming the door shut.
The noise continued, but the glass muffled their curses. I exhaled, grabbing tissues from the dashboard while my other hand turned the wheel, pulling away from the scene.
"Ignorant people never understand how the law works," I said under my breath.
Defending criminals had never been admirable in the public's eyes. To them, I was no better than the people I stood beside in court.
Guilt was contagious. Sympathy did not exist.
But I did not do this for approval. I loved the work, or rather, I loved the tension that came with choosing the side no one else wanted. Defending the innocent was simple and almost predictable. There was no challenge in it. Defending the accused was where the real fight was. It never stopped in the courtroom; it followed you into the streets, into the noise, into the anger of people who needed someone to blame.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel as the shouts finally faded behind me, only to be replaced by another crowd waiting outside the firm. I let out a dry laugh. Seriously... did these people have nothing better to do than protest a verdict they could no longer change?
It was a good thing the crowd was only protesting outside the building. Guards were also posted at firm to ensure no one could cause a commotion.
I drove my car into the back parking area of the firm building. Fortunately, the area was clear. I took the back entrance and was greeted by my coworkers.
"Now all of us are being greeted with backlash," Mia whispered sarcastically, making sure only I could hear. "All thanks to the best attorney in town."
I stopped walking and turned to her slowly. "You're welcome," I said, smirking to annoy her even more. "Public outrage tends to follow competence. You wouldn't recognize it."
Her jaw tightened. "This isn't funny, Schuett. The firm is under fire because of you."
No. The firm is under fire because people prefer hysteria over facts." I shrugged "I just happened to win."
"Enjoy it while you can, Schuett. Karma moves fast," she hissed.
"I enjoy results, and I do Tango with karma." I straightened and regained my professional composure, done with the conversation.
She was one of the most jealous coworkers I knew. The fact that she always talked behind my back and couldn't win a single case only placed her below my level. People below my level did not need my time or attention.
If being hated is the price of being right, then I'll gladly pay it in full.
Tristan Smith was chaos when I entered his office, phone pressed to his ear as he answered call after call. He had been receiving threats, curses, and complaints ever since I decided to represent Mr. Carson.
"The decision of the court is final and irrevocable. I advise you to accept the verdict being made. I am sorry," he said to whoever was on the line before slamming the phone down.
He looked disheveled, sleep-deprived. "I told you not to take this case, Lauren," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Why didn't you listen?"
"It's just another case we all take," I replied, sitting down. "The law states that we shouldn't decline people seeking justice."
"It's not about the case. It's the people outside the firm, Lauren." He sighed, palming his forehead. "Seriously? We're already facing massive backlash. I'm getting threats, anonymous calls, and people waiting outside. Aren't you worried about walking home at night?"
"That's the price of this profession, Tristan," I said, crossing my arms. "This isn't the first time. You're making it bigger than it is."
I had handled severe cases before in my five years as an attorney, and we were criticized every time I won. It wasn't my fault that prosecutors and attorneys had been incompetent. I deserved the hate, yes—but I also deserved recognition for bringing justice to the wrongfully accused.
"My firm is being accused of accepting bribes—you are accused of taking bribes." He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure crush him. "We're under public scrutiny, Lauren. And once the High Court gets wind of this, they won't stop at you. They'll come after all of us."
"I know exactly who I defend. I have evidence, proof that the court cleared them."
"That won't be enough. Perception matters now more than facts." He exhaled, defeated. "I'm sorry. I've already made my decision." He slumped back in his seat.
I scoffed with a disbelief rising inside my chest. "You can't be doing this to me, Tristan."
"You're terminated. Effective immediately. I can't risk this firm being dragged further into public scrutiny or questioned by the court because of you." He dropped it as if I hadn't been the best his firm had in the past five years.
I GOT out of the airport and was greeted by the familiar sights I hadn't seen in years. The multicultural hub, with its towering buildings was softened by the light of the warming sun, slowly descending over the quiet rhythm of the city. This was where I grew up—where life moved slowly, not like in Canada, where the pace was relentless. Here, the day seemed stretched out, meant to be savored, a stark contrast to the past eight years I had spent rushing to keep up with life in a fast-moving world.
I sighed as I pulled my luggage, scanning the crowd of people waiting for family, friends, and relatives. It wasn't long before I spotted my best friend Leandra among them, holding a cardboard sign with my name. I waved, and when she saw me, she waved back.
"Welcome home." She hugged me tightly, as if the years of phone calls between Canada and here had never happened. She helped me with my luggage after we broke apart. "Canada got too cold, so you came back for some sun?" she teased as we walked out of the airport.
"I'm unemployed." I said it without hesitation, which made her stop in her tracks and look at me as if she hadn't heard correctly. "I wasn't joking, Leandra."
I expected she might not believe me—after all, I had been doing well in my career for the past 5 years. This time, though, my success had come with consequences I couldn't ignore.
She closed her mouth, processing the words. "That's a first." Then she chuckled. "Congratulations."
"I need a job. In your firm." I said it outright.
"Convince me," she teased, raising an eyebrow as we reached her car. "I don't just hire anyone"
I rolled my eyes, smirking. "Your wife—what's her name again?"
Her eyes widened, clearly displeased of what I asked her. "Don't," her face contorting.
"Olivia—" I started.
"You start next week. Don't be late." She dismissed me immediately, and I laughed. She really didn't want her marriage brought up. She had always hated her wife for causing her troubles, and she would vent to me about it during our phone calls.
And just like that, I had a job again. As if working at Tristan's firm was something I needed—when I could have joined any firm and still made a name for myself. It was his loss for letting me go, and I will prove him wrong.