Chapter Text
Howard arrived at HHM before the lights turned on.
The parking lot was still half-shadowed, sky rinsed pale blue with the promise of heat later, but for now the cool hung like a pressed shirt: crisp, breathable. He adjusted the cuffs of his Brioni jacket as he stepped through the private entrance. Not because they were out of place. They never were.
He said good morning to Ron, the security guard on shift, as he entered the building. The automatic lights flickered awake in stages. Reception. Elevator bay. Halls. One. Two. Three. A quiet chorus of motion sensors announcing his presence. He moved with practiced grace through the building’s spine, nodding faintly at the unoccupied desks, the framed accolades, the fresh orchids at reception. Every detail spoke of order. Precision. Confidence. Like a monumental, glass swiss clock.
The metaphor should have brought him comfort, he thought vaguely.
He paused at the wall of glass just outside his office — that carefully tinted pane designed to blur the divide between transparency and privacy. Albuquerque’s sun was just breaching the horizon, a diffuse gold glow rising over downtown, washing the room in the kind of light real estate agents would kill for.
Inside, everything was pristine. The desk. The chair angled just so. A single file left neatly askew — a subtle prompt for the day ahead, courtesy of his assistant. He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
The silence settled on his shoulders like a second suit.
Howard set down his briefcase and crossed to the mirror on the far wall. Not a vanity, of course not, but a mirrored accent chosen years ago when Chuck had insisted the senior offices needed more “cohesion.” That was Chuck’s word: cohesion . Not aesthetics. Not morale. Howard had agreed. He always did, back then.
Now he faced the reflection in the polished glass.
Blue pinstripe suit. Pale blue tie with a muted diagonal stripe. Hair shellacked into place. Shoulders broad. Smile relaxed. The perfect image of Howard Hamlin.
He adjusted his tie. The man in the glass adjusted it, too.
A knock at the door broke the quiet. Three soft taps, the junior associate knock.
“Come in,” Howard called, voice even.
A young man — two years out of law school, cheeks still fuller than they’d be in five years — peeked in. “Morning, Mr. Hamlin. Just wanted to say — I appreciated your note on the Appel matter. That framing around the breach argument really landed.”
Howard smiled. PR smooth. Not too wide. “Glad it was helpful, Darren.”
As the associate turned to go, Howard added, lightly: “Oh! And Darren — next time, double check the timelines in the reply brief. Appel’s counsel didn’t. Which is why we had the upper hand.”
Darren blinked, then grinned, a little red. “Will do. Thank you, Mr. Hamlin.”
“It’s all in the margins,” Howard said, already turning back to his monitor. The associate lingered, then nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Howard sat at his desk. Opened his inbox. Cleared a few client updates, RSVP’d no to a gala he had no interest in attending, flagged a memo from Cheryl’s divorce attorney he’d been pretending not to see.
The cursor blinked in a blank reply box.
He stared at it. Then deleted the draft.
He glanced at the framed photo on his desk — the old one, still there, still untouched. Cheryl smiling at a company event, champagne in one hand, her arm looped around his waist. They both looked slightly posed, like they’d stepped into the frame instead of out of it. That smile had meant something once. It must have. Something more than the simple fact that the camera lens was pointed at them, cold and observant; and that they smiled for it, as one does. Like actors on a set, he thought grimly. Playing pretend.
Howard had worked hard at his marriage over the years, casting himself as a dutiful husband, a man of compromise and commitment. He blamed the difficulties that had arisen on their frequent absence from home; having met at an age filled with ambition, which the years later turned into the coldest of resentments. Looking back, however, he could see that a much more fundamental weakness lay at the heart of their shattered marriage. The trouble was, he realized, that for all her allure, her intelligence and the charm that so many people envied her for — Cheryl’s confidence was superficial. She thought there shouldn’t be any competitors in her personal life. Howard’s job had proved to be an opponent she could not match, and the result had been inevitable. Their increasingly heated arguments had driven Howard to escape more and more into his own world, a reaction that only served to magnify Cheryl’s frustration. They had carried this marriage for almost sixteen years. He wondered whether Cheryl ever felt the regret that he still experienced.
His personal cellphone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. Voicemail. Howard leaned back and tapped play on speaker.
“Hey Howie — Mike Burton here, from the Mitchell firm. Hope HHM’s treating you as well as ever. Listen, got a referral for you. Bit of an odd one, but the guy's loaded, and I mean loaded. Says he runs restaurants, upscale stuff, mostly in the south. Mister, uh… Jorge de Guzmán. Says it’s a family issue, cousin got into trouble down here and, uh…he’s footing the bill. They want to keep it low profile, but I know that’s your specialty. Looks like it could be a quick win if you want it. I’ll send the intake sheet over. Let me know.”
Jorge de Guzmán.
Howard frowned faintly. The name didn’t ring a bell. Something about the phrasing — family issue. Quiet. Loaded. He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk. Clicked to check for the intake form. Not yet in. But it would come. He adjusted his cufflinks again. Outside, the sun had fully crested the skyline, casting long, clean lines through the glass. He reached out and closed the blinds halfway. The light had become too sharp.
The intake form landed in Howard’s inbox at 9:37 a.m.
Subject line:
Referral Intake – Jorge de Guzmán (Tuco Salamanca Case)
Attachment:
Client Profile.pdf
He opened it casually, more out of routine than interest. These kinds of referrals—clean-shaven men with vague LLCs and enough money to keep things quiet—weren’t uncommon. They were the bread and butter behind HHM’s polished reputation: discreet disputes, private settlements, high-billed hours.
But as the PDF loaded, something snagged in him.
Name:
Jorge de Guzmán
Occupation:
Hospitality Executive (Restaurants, Southern US)
Referral Source:
Mitchell & Burton LLP
Case Type:
Family Criminal Defense Support
Client of Record:
Tuco Salamanca (Cousin)
Preferred Counsel Contact:
Howard Hamlin
Howard’s eyes paused on the name again.
Salamanca.
He’d heard it before. Not in court, HHM didn’t typically deal in criminal defense; but somewhere. Something pulsed faintly in the background of his mind. Like a warning light behind frosted glass.
He scrolled down.
Attached beneath the intake summary was a scan of a government ID. New Mexico driver’s license. Full name, date of birth, signature. And the photo.
Howard stopped.
There was something in the eyes.
The man in the photo wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but there was a curl at the corners of his mouth — something smug, maybe. Or amused. He was well-groomed. Neatly styled black hair. A salt-and-pepper streak that looked less like aging and more like a choice. Collared shirt. Open. No tie. But the posture was straight as a yardstick. Even the way his head angled toward the camera felt deliberate. Studied.
Howard zoomed in.
The man looked like someone who’d been photographed many times. The kind of man who could tell you his good side. Not the pose of someone caught off guard, but of someone who saw the lens and thought: finally . And the eyes. That was the thing. Big, dark and brown, but not soft. Focused. Calculating. He smiled like someone who already knew the punchline and was waiting for you to catch up.
Howard leaned back slightly in his chair.
He scanned the rest of the record. No criminal history. No lawsuits. No public red flags. Everything squeaky clean. Too clean. You didn’t get that deep into private business ownership without leaving a few footprints. This man, Jorge de Guzmán , seemed to glide across paper without touching it.
There were handwritten notes added by the referring attorney, Burton:
Met in person. Courteous, relaxed. Wore an expensive watch and probably more cologne than most judges would like, but sharp. Said he’d researched HHM and wanted “the best face the firm had to offer.” Wants to keep a low profile. Willing to pay top dollar for discretion. No trial unless absolutely necessary.
Howard reread the line: “the best face the firm had to offer.”
Well. That would explain the referral.
He’d been the firm’s face for over a decade now — press conferences, fundraisers, hearings. He’d leaned into the role like he leaned into a three-piece suit: tailored, confident, smiling. But that compliment — if it was a compliment — hit differently. It didn’t feel like flattery. It felt like... selection.
He looked again at the photo. The kind of man who’d enjoy court, not endure it. A courtroom wasn’t a gauntlet for someone like him. It was a stage. Howard tapped a finger lightly against his desk, thinking. Then he reached for his office phone, pressed the extension for scheduling.
“Julie, could you fit in a consult with a new referral today? Jorge de Guzmán. Just a half hour, something light. Fit him in between the review with Emily and the grant hearing call.”
A pause. “Yes, it’s a criminal matter. Family side, though. Keep it internal, no need to flag it on the board.”
He hung up. Sat back. And stared once more at the screen, at the eyes.
Julie buzzed him at precisely 11:02 a.m.
Howard glanced at the digital readout on his desk phone before pressing the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Mr. de Guzmán is here for your ten o’clock. Traffic, he said. Very polite. He’s waiting in the client lounge.”
Howard muted the line, exhaled quietly through his nose. Ten minutes late wasn’t ideal. He usually didn’t see clients who didn’t respect the clock. But somehow—he wasn’t surprised, he’s had clients like this before, highly esteemed characters who want their lawyer to play their tune, not the other way around.
“Send him in.” A few heartbeats later, the door opened without a knock.
He’d seen the photo, but it hadn’t prepared him.
The man who entered wore an open grey jacket over a crisp ivory shirt, no tie, collar unbuttoned. His pants had a subtle pattern—houndstooth or something close—and the shoes were calf leather, a rich reddish brown. Not quite flashy. But not not flashy , either. He moved with an easy, rolling grace. His gait said confident. His shoulders said relaxed. If his eyes looked dark brown in the picture, now they looked pitch black; two drops of ink, never absorbed by the paper, suspended, infinitely deep. His smile said: You’ve already lost track of your next sentence, haven’t you?
“Señor Hamlin,” he said, extending a hand like they’d known each other for years. Deep, pleasant voice. Glazed in honey. Howard would know. “Jorge de Guzmán. Sorry for the delay. Albuquerque freeways, huh?”
Howard took the hand automatically, finally remembering to flash his best smile. His own grip was firm. So was the other man’s. Warm, dry, perfectly timed. Handshakes, like conversation and any form of human expression, can be an artform if performed correctly, one of Chuck’s earliest lessons, and one Howard assumed automatically in his mind whenever he performed.
“Mister de Guzmán, how are you? Please, no trouble at all. Welcome to HHM.”
The referral’s eyes moved across the office in a slow, deliberate sweep. “Beautiful space! All that light.” He pointed toward the long western-facing window, looking delighted. “Bet this place glows around sunset.”
“It does,” Howard said, smiling wider, and he hated how much that comment pleased him. “We invested in daylight-maximizing glass panels a few years ago. It’s been worth it. The lighting in the central hall is just spectacular.” He couldn't help but ramble on, proudly. His referral didn't seem to mind, looking somewhat amused.
“I believe it.” His gaze slid to the credenza behind Howard’s desk. “You’re an architecture guy, huh? Clean lines, sharp edges. I like that. I mean, this—” He gestured around, hands articulating almost theatrically, Howard observed, internally amused. “This is exactly what I was looking for.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Howard smiled kindly. “I can assure you we will give you the best legal defense you can get.” He gestured toward one of the guest chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
Jorge took it like it belonged to him.
Howard sat opposite, palms resting lightly on a legal pad. Once he was settled, he looked up and dimmed his smile a notch. “Let’s talk through the matter. You’re here on behalf of your cousin, Tuco Salamanca?”
“Exactly.” Lalo leaned back, legs crossing. “Tuco got into a little... moment with the Albuquerque PD. Again.” He said it with an inflection so dry it could crack glass. “He’s not a bad guy, he just… Se va de rosca, gets too caught up in his own emotions, you know?”
Howard made a small note on his pad. He could certainly understand that. “Your intake mentioned possible misconduct during the arrest?”
Lalo nodded slowly. “Yeah. They say he lunged. They tackled him pretty rough. I’ve seen the bruises. Might’ve been justified. Might’ve been excessive. That’s what I’d like you to find out.”
Howard studied him. Most family representatives were flustered. Defensive. Emotional. This man was… none of those things. Why?
“Tuco’s facing assault charges?”
“Mmhmm. Same song and dance as last time.” Lalo’s tone remained breezy. “But this time, he didn’t have a knife. Or a pipe. Just words.”
That’s why. Howard set his pen down with practiced precision.
“Mr. de Guzmán—”
“Call me Jorge,” he said, flashing that same too-easy smile. “We’re on a first-name basis, right?”
Howard didn’t smile back. Not exactly. But his lips moved in something adjacent. “Jorge. This firm doesn’t typically handle criminal defense. Especially not violent cases.”
“Understood.” Lalo uncrossed his legs, leaned forward just enough. “But I was told you might be willing to consult. Just to see what’s possible. Maybe make a few calls.”
“And you were told to ask for me, specifically?”
Lalo’s head tilted slightly to one side, like a cat hearing a sound behind the wall.
“I did my homework,” he said, soft. “HHM’s got the reputation. But you, Howard—you’re the face! You’ve got the handshake. The press smile. Bet you were the kid who always had the perfect book report. Tidy. Always smiling.” A beat. “ A que todavía lo eres .”
Howard felt something catch in his throat. He didn’t clear it. He didn’t have to. Jorge was already leaning back again, giving him space. He was staring again. Not rudely, not quite. But when Jorge de Guzmán looked at you, you felt it—like the sun through a pane of glass, too much, too focused.
Howard shifted his weight. He picked up his pen again, drew a clean line under the last note. “I’d need to review the arrest record. Any video footage, incident reports. We also may need to consult a local criminal defense partner. Discreetly.”
“Discretion,” Lalo repeated, tasting the word like it was wine. “That’s why I’m here.”
Howard gave a tight nod. “Of course.”
There was a pause. The lights humming softly above them.
“You ever been arrested?”
Howard blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t seem like the type,” Lalo said quickly, raising his hand to gesticulate casually as if it were small talk. “But I always wonder. You know. Clean-cut types? They’ve got one wild college story buried in there somewhere.” Howard smiled politely.
“I’m a lawyer,” He said, keeping his voice even. “I don’t have the luxury of wild stories.”
“That a yes or a no?”
Howard didn’t answer. Instead, he smoothed a hand down the page again, buying time.
“HHM has resources. If there’s merit to the misconduct claim, we’ll explore options. But we don’t pursue long shots for sport. If this is about leverage—”
“It’s about family,” Lalo cut in, gently. Almost softly. “Tuco’s blood. He’s got a temper, sure. But I can’t let him rot. Not when there might be another way.”
Howard nodded once. “Alright, then. I’ll start the intake. Julie can get you copies of the preliminary paperwork. And I’ll need your contact details—”
Lalo reached into his coat and produced a business card with a flourish.
El Michoacano - Cocina Auténtica . A restaurant. He handed it over. Howard took it carefully. His fingers brushed Lalo’s for just a moment.
Too warm.
“Best carnitas in the state,” Lalo said, standing. He seemed to find his own comments infinitely amusing, regardless of whether they were meant as jokes or not.
Howard stood, too, flashing his exit grin as he accompanied Jorge to the door of the conference room. “I'll have to swing by sometime. It was a pleasure to meet you, mister de Guzmán. We'll be in touch.”
“That we will,” Lalo smoothed his jacket. “One last thing,” he added, offhand, as he turned toward the door. “You’ve got a whole… symmetry thing going, huh? Yeah, the suit helps. I'll call you!”
Howard opened his mouth to respond but found no words queued up. Jorge kept his sharp grin as he walked out.
Howard sat back down slowly. The light had changed in his office. The sun had shifted west, throwing long lines across the glass table. He looked at his own reflection in the dark monitor. It shimmered, faint and ghostly, as he adjusted his tie. Not because it needed it.
“You’re not rattled,” he said aloud, to no one.
Then quieter: “There’s nothing to be rattled about.”
He turned back to his computer and began to type:
Subject: Jorge de Guzmán — Intake Follow-up
The cursor blinked. He stared at it. Then deleted the line. Then typed it again.