The office hummed with the kind of frenetic energy that felt like it could combust at any second. Papers flitted from desk to desk, pens scratched furiously against notepads, and the hum of voices filled the air—low, anxious, like a swarm on the brink of panic. In the center of it all stood Uriel Zander, unflinching, his eyes cold and calculating, flicking through a fresh case file like a general examining battle plans. Around him, a battalion of public defenders sat, weary but attentive, as if his mere presence was enough to pull them from the depths of their exhaustion.

Tom Reardon, the overworked, perpetually frazzled boss, had practically begged Uriel to take on this new load. Not because Uriel had time—no one here did—but because Uriel wasn’t like the others. When cases became labyrinthine, when everyone else hit a wall, he could still see the invisible threads that held everything together, the cracks where others saw none.

He didn’t need to shout, didn’t need to pound a fist on the table to demand attention. When Uriel spoke, the room naturally gravitated toward his words like metal to a magnet.

“This DUI,” Uriel began, his voice smooth, controlled, like he was ordering lunch instead of dismantling a case, “the sobriety test wasn’t done right. Anyone pull the dashcam yet? If the officer bungled it, the whole thing can get tossed.”

Silence. Julia, the fresh-faced junior attorney, stiffened, wide-eyed. “I... uh... I didn’t check that.”

Uriel’s eyes locked onto her, steady, unblinking, enough to make her shift in her seat. “Do it,” he said, sliding the file back toward her like it was weightless. “Sloppy cops mean sloppy evidence. Juries hate sloppy.”

She nodded, face flushed, scrambling for the file. The room watched with a mix of awe and relief. Uriel hadn’t even needed to open the file for more than a moment to see the unraveling thread. But he wasn’t done.

“Next,” he muttered, flipping open another file with the nonchalance of someone checking the weather. “Assault case. Three witnesses, three different stories. Hit that inconsistency hard. Juries loathe conflicting accounts.”

David, a veteran attorney, raised an eyebrow. “How do you do that, man? You barely read these things.”

Uriel shrugged, unimpressed by his own ability. “Every case is like a house of cards. You just gotta know where to blow.”

The team sat in stunned silence, absorbing the words. Uriel didn’t need applause. He didn’t need validation. He was too busy getting results.

“I’ve got my own trial,” Uriel said, standing, his eyes already on the door. “But you’ve got this. Just remember—every case can be won if you find the right crack.”

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In the courtroom, tension hung thick in the air. This was it—*People vs. Daniel Reiss*. Uriel had spent weeks dissecting this case, pulling apart every single angle, preparing like a master strategist. Across from him, Ellen Price—sharp as a viper—stood ready, her gaze slicing through the room. She wasn’t just playing to win. She wanted blood.

The judge called the court to order, the gavel slamming down like a guillotine. Daniel, pale but steady beside Uriel, kept his eyes fixed forward. They’d been through this a hundred times. The battle wasn’t about what had happened. It was about what the jury *believed* had happened.

Ellen began, her voice slicing through the quiet like a scalpel. “This is not self-defense,” she said, pacing before the jury. “This is anger. Jealousy. A man consumed by rage.”

Each word felt like a knife twist, slow, deliberate. Ellen had mastered the art of suffocating silence, letting the weight of her accusation hang in the room like a toxic cloud.

“This wasn’t a desperate act of survival,” she continued, her voice dripping with venom. “This was murder.”

Uriel watched her with a cool detachment, letting her work. She was good, no doubt. But when his turn came, he rose with the kind of languid confidence that spoke volumes.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Uriel began, his voice calm, deliberate, “the prosecution wants you to believe that Daniel acted out of rage. But the truth—what the *evidence* will show—is much more nuanced. Daniel was backed into a corner. He was defending himself.”

The room seemed to still, Uriel’s words sinking deep into the minds of the jury. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Measured. Methodical.

The trial unfolded, and Ellen called Detective Maya Torres to the stand. Uriel had been waiting for this moment. Torres was the linchpin, the prosecution’s ace. But Uriel had an ace of his own.

Ellen laid out the case—methodical, steady. She laid the groundwork perfectly, letting Torres confirm every point. The bruises, the crime scene, the arrest. It all aligned. It all made Daniel look like a man possessed by fury.

Uriel approached the stand, calm as ever. “Detective,” he began, his voice deceptively soft, “you mentioned the bruising. You said it indicated aggression, correct?”

Torres nodded. “Yes.”

Uriel smiled, almost imperceptibly. “But bruising doesn’t tell the full story, does it? After all, bruises can happen in a struggle, can’t they?”

Torres hesitated. “I suppose... yes.”

“And you weren’t at the scene when the struggle took place, were you?”

“No.”

“So what you’re really offering is your interpretation. Not fact.”

Torres shifted, uncomfortable. The doubt had been planted.

Uriel dismantled the prosecution’s case piece by piece, witness by witness. He didn’t rush. He let the prosecution collapse under the weight of its own inconsistencies. By the time closing arguments came, the tension was so thick you could slice it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uriel said, his voice firm but soft, “the prosecution has tried to paint Daniel as a man driven by anger. But the truth, as we’ve shown, is that he acted in self-defense. They haven’t proven otherwise.”

The jury deliberated for what felt like days. When they finally returned, Uriel was as calm as ever.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Daniel Reiss... not guilty.”

The words hit like a gunshot. Daniel collapsed in his seat, tears streaming down his face. Uriel, ever composed, placed a hand on his shoulder. Another victory.

Later, as Uriel collapsed on his couch, his phone buzzed. An unknown number. He answered, voice tired.

“Uriel Zander?” The voice was smooth, almost cocky. “Marcus Rye here. Big-time streamer. I’ve been watching your cases. My audience? They’d love you. Seventy-five grand for a stream appearance. You in?”

Uriel leaned back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Seventy-five grand, huh? I’ll think about it.”