Chapter 2 · Chapter 2

Caro Antilles returned to his office well after the end of his lunch, carrying neither a briefcase nor any visible sign that the afternoon had altered the firm’s immediate priorities. By then he had spoken twice with Veyr and once with Sorn, who was several systems away and had attended the partners’ conference through a secure hololink with an increasingly unstable delay. The three of them had agreed on the shape of the attack before the connection finally deteriorated: they would not pretend to possess instructions they had not received, they would not lead with a jurisdictional challenge before anyone had defined the jurisdiction, and they would give the Republic no opportunity to claim that Thrawn had been left without counsel because no counsel had presented itself. The first document would be narrow. It would offer representation, require that the offer be conveyed, preserve the record, identify the custodial authority and establish the conditions under which confidential access would follow if Thrawn accepted.

The agreement had taken less time than the argument over wording would.

By late evening, the outer offices had emptied. Caro had moved into one of the smaller litigation rooms rather than the principal conference chamber, because the smaller room contained an older transcription terminal that still interfaced reliably with the firm’s legal droid. ALEX-4 stood at the end of the table, polished bronze plating reflecting the pale light from the suspended displays. Officially, the initials denoted Advocacy, Litigation, Evidence and eXamination, a piece of inventive spelling for which the manufacturer had presumably charged extra. Everyone at the firm called him Alex, much to the chagrin of a recently hired associate with the same name, who had promptly become “Human Alex.” When he objected, he was informed that ALEX-4 had seniority and therefore outranked him.

The droid had the proportions of a protocol unit, although its torso was broader to accommodate redundant evidentiary storage and its eyes glowed a steady amber intended, according to the manufacturer, to inspire confidence during client interviews.

No client had ever described ALEX-4 as reassuring.

“Alex, resume dictation,” Caro said.

The droid straightened by a fractional degree. “Resuming at paragraph four, Counselor Antilles. The current heading is: Notice of Availability of Independent Counsel and Demand for Preservation of Custodial Records.”

“Remove ‘custodial.’”

ALEX-4’s head tilted. “The records in question arise from custody.”

“They also arise from surrender, transport, intake, medical examination and any conversation someone has chosen not to call an interrogation. ‘Custodial’ gives them an adjective to argue with.”

The word disappeared from the display.

“Paragraph four,” Caro continued. “The firm further requests immediate confirmation of the governmental authority presently exercising physical control over Mitth’raw’nuruodo, the legal classification under which such control is asserted, and the identity and official capacity of all persons who have conducted, authorized or attended any interview, examination or questioning since the moment of first contact.”

ALEX-4’s fingers moved across the integrated transcription panel, though no physical input was necessary. The gesture had been retained because attorneys disliked machines that appeared not to be working.

“Query,” the droid said when Caro stopped. “Would ‘detention’ be more concise than ‘physical control’?”

“No.”

“‘Physical control’ is less conventional.”

“That is why it is there.”

“A reviewing authority may interpret the phrase as polemical.”

“A reviewing authority may interpret ‘detention’ as an admission that they have lawfully detained him. Keep ‘physical control.’”

ALEX-4 recorded the instruction without further protest. The droid’s objections had been designed to prevent careless language. Caro regarded defeating them as a useful test of whether he had chosen his language deliberately.

The door opened behind him without an announcement. Selra Tann remained at the threshold for half a second, a datapad held against one hip, before stepping fully into the room.

She was a young Mirialan woman, probably still several years short of the point at which anyone in a firm like Veyr, Antilles and Sorn would cease referring to her as promising. Her skin was a muted green, marked across the cheeks and the bridge of her nose with fine black geometric tattoos whose severe symmetry gave her face a composure that youth might otherwise have undermined. Her dark hair had been drawn back into a smooth, practical knot, and her charcoal suit was cut with the conservative precision of someone who had learned early that being remembered for her clothes would rarely work in her favor. She was slender, held herself very straight, and possessed the watchful stillness of a person who entered every room already assessing where authority lay, who was wasting it, and how close she might safely move toward it.

“I was told you might need assistance.”

Caro did not turn immediately. “By whom?”

“Calder.”

That made him look around.

Rian Calder was a competent mid-level associate with an excellent record in administrative disputes and a finely developed instinct for cases unlikely to damage that record. Caro had assigned him preliminary research shortly after returning to the office.

“And what, precisely, did Calder tell you?”

Selra’s expression remained professionally neutral. “That the partners had decided to send an unsolicited letter to the government on behalf of an Imperial war criminal who had not retained us, that there was no billable client, no defined court and no guarantee the document would ever receive a response.”

Caro considered that summary. “It lacks nuance, but not structure.”

“He also said that anyone sufficiently interested in losing a night to it was welcome to the research file.”

“And you volunteered.”

“He had already closed it.”

“That was not my question.”

Selra met his eyes. She was young enough that ambition still appeared in her as concentration rather than entitlement, and careful enough not to deny what was plainly true. “Yes,” she said. “I volunteered.”

Caro gestured toward the nearest chair. “Then you may begin by telling me what Calder failed to find.”

Selra sat without wasting time on gratitude. She placed her datapad on the table and opened a routing diagram that spread into the air between them. Several government offices appeared as linked nodes, some solid, others surrounded by uncertain jurisdictional markers.

“There is no single published authority for accepting legal notices concerning a voluntary surrender of this category,” she said. “The Chancellor’s legal office can claim the matter belongs to Senate Security. Senate Security can refer it to the military liaison directorate because of Thrawn’s former rank. The liaison directorate can argue that no military detention order exists and send it back to civilian custody. The provisional Advocate-General may have review authority, but only after charges or a formal classification.”

Caro studied the diagram. “Calder found all of that.”

“He listed the offices. He did not map the transfers.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because sending the notice to one office gives the others time to say they never received it. Sending it independently to all four prevents the chain from becoming an excuse.”

“It also makes us look uncertain about jurisdiction.”

“We are uncertain about jurisdiction.”

“We need not advertise every uncertainty we possess.”

Selra enlarged the diagram. “Then do not address the notice to all four equally. Address it to the Chancellor’s legal office and serve authenticated informational copies on the other three. The primary recipient cannot claim we failed to select an authority, and the others cannot claim they were unaware while the matter was transferred.”

Caro looked from the diagram to Selra, then back again. She had arrived expecting to prove that she belonged in the room and had wisely brought something more useful than enthusiasm.

“Alex,” he said, “append the Chancellor’s legal office as primary recipient. Authenticated copies to Senate Security, military liaison and the provisional Advocate-General. Require individual receipt confirmation.”

“Appended,” ALEX-4 replied. “Query: should the document explain the rationale for multiple service?”

“No,” Caro and Selra said at the same time.

ALEX-4 paused. “Consensus recorded.”

Selra’s mouth shifted slightly before she suppressed the reaction.

Caro returned to the draft. “You may review the preservation section.”

She brought the text toward her side of the display. It was already extensive: recordings, transcripts, internal messages, sensor logs, intake records, medical findings, transportation orders and the identities of everyone present during any questioning. Selra read it twice, more slowly the second time.

“You have included statements made before formal notice of rights.”

“Yes.”

“But not attempted interviews that produced no statement.”

Caro leaned back. “Explain.”

“If someone questioned him and he declined to answer, the government may decide there is nothing substantive to preserve. But the attempt itself establishes timing, access and whether they approached him before counsel could be offered.”

Caro looked toward ALEX-4. “Add all attempted or incomplete interviews, whether or not any responsive statement was obtained.”

The droid entered the phrase.

Selra continued reading, encouraged but not careless enough to display it. “You have asked them to confirm that he has received a medical assessment.”

“I have.”

“You have not asked them to preserve the assessment separately from the general intake records.”

“It is already covered.”

“It is covered generically. A medical office could treat its records as protected from administrative production and preserve only the custody summary supplied to the detaining authority.”

Caro considered the point. “Separate demand. Full medical record preserved under seal, with disclosure subject to client authorization or judicial order.”

Selra nodded and made a notation on her own copy.

“You are not to mistake this for a collaborative draft,” Caro said.

“No, sir.”

“You are reviewing research.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And occasionally identifying omissions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The distinction matters.”

“I assumed it would.”

That answer earned her another look, but no reprimand. Caro rose and crossed to the narrow counter where a neglected cup of caff had cooled beyond usefulness. He poured it away, started another and did not offer one to Selra until she had been in the room long enough to make leaving unlikely.

“The next question,” she said while the machine worked, “is whether the offer should identify a specific attorney.”

“It identifies the firm.”

“They may tell Thrawn that an organization has offered representation without giving him a name.”

“They may.”

“That makes the offer abstract. Easier to dismiss, especially if he assumes it is political theater.”

Caro rested one hand against the counter. “And whose name do you propose?”

“Yours.”

“Why?”

“You are the senior partner directing the matter. Your name tells him the firm is serious.”

“It also tells the government which individual to isolate, discredit or delay.”

Selra glanced at the header. “Then name all three partners.”

“Sorn is offworld. Veyr may need to challenge the detention through a forum that would benefit from her appearing independent of the initial contact. And if this becomes what I suspect it will become, we should avoid committing the entire senior structure of the firm in the first communication.”

Selra absorbed that without argument. Caro brought the fresh caff back to the table and set a second cup near her before sitting down.

“The document does not need to persuade Thrawn that we are important,” he continued. “It needs to reach him intact. If it does, he will assess us from the language.”

“You think he will read the distinction between an offer of counsel and an assertion of representation.”

“I think a man who surrendered without negotiating public terms is unlikely to ignore distinctions.”

Selra looked again at the opening paragraph, now with a better understanding of how much work its restraint was doing. Nothing in it begged for the case. Nothing promised sympathy. It simply made the firm available and made concealment of that availability procedurally expensive.

“What happens if he refuses?” she asked.

“We retain the record of having offered.”

“And if he accepts?”

Caro looked at the suspended document, at the narrow demands they had chosen precisely because every broader attack would come later.

“Then Calder will regret giving you the file.”

It was the first thing he had said all evening that sounded remotely like praise. Selra lowered her attention to the draft before her expression could answer for her.

ALEX-4 turned its head toward Caro. “Counselor Antilles, the document now contains seventeen separate preservation categories. Shall I consolidate them for elegance?”

“No.”

“For readability?”

“No.”

“For judicial economy?”

“Alex.”

“Yes, Counselor?”

“Preserve the inconvenience.”

The droid’s amber eyes brightened as it recorded the instruction.

Selra took a sip of caff and reopened the jurisdictional matrix. Outside the room, the firm had become almost entirely dark, its ordinary work abandoned until morning. Inside, the notice continued to grow—not into a challenge, not yet, but into a series of carefully positioned restraints around every decision the Republic had already made and every decision it might attempt to deny making later.

By the time Caro began dictating the final paragraph, Selra was no longer merely occupying the chair Calder had surrendered. She had earned a place in the work, though not yet in the case.

Caro, who had noticed the distinction long before she did, gave no indication of it.