About the book
Lets Go Counsel
The gavel cracked once—sharp, echoing against the wood-paneled walls—and every muscle in Nina Daley’s body went rigid. She told herself it was muscle memory. Pavlov’s dog with a baritone hammer. The sound that had ended her life once before. Her fingers brushed the worn leather of the briefcase at her side, a second-hand buy from a consignment shop near Dupont Circle, the place that catered to the daughters of ambassadors who didn’t care where the money came from.