Suits: A Lawyer Surviving TV Chaos

On Monday, Martin called Rachel to remind her to handle Priya's onboarding while he drove the Camaro out of the firm. 

The second-degree murder case had been delayed for weeks—it was time to act before trial. 

Navigating New York's gridlock, Martin's nostalgia for the 1973 Camaro—a "dream car" for many geeks—evaporated. Despite its restored engine, the lack of power steering and manual clutch left his calves cramping. *No wonder Leonard lost interest after two weeks.* He decided to sell it and buy something modern. 

After an hour, Martin arrived at Rikers Island, New York's largest prison for violent offenders. His defendant, though unconvicted, was held here pending trial. 

"You're the youngest criminal lawyer I've seen," remarked a burly Black guard, leading him to the visitation room. "If they try anything, hit the panic button under the table." 

"Thanks. I'll feel safer with you around," Martin replied, omitting his three national youth kickboxing titles. 

A female officer escorted in a gaunt, hollow-eyed young woman. "Two hours. No physical contact." She lingered on Martin's sharp suit before leaving. 

The girl slumped into the chair, her frayed hair and sunken cheeks betraying months of stress. "So Mommy hired a rookie to be my last fling before prison?" Her voice rasped. 

"Frankly, at my current rate, your family couldn't afford me," Martin said, sliding a file forward. "Amanda Sommers. Twenty-one. Penn State fashion design sophomore. Partial scholarship. On May 13, 2007, you argued with your boyfriend in a Walmart parking lot, then ran him over and dragged him 310 feet. Charged with second-degree murder." 

Amanda flinched at the clinical recap. 

Martin activated a recorder. "I'm here to help. But if you lie or withhold details, I can't work miracles." 

"Can you… get me off?" Hope flickered in her eyes. 

"I'll try." 

The facts were brutal: Amanda's boyfriend, Sokoya Spencer, grew increasingly controlling. At Walmart, he'd raged after seeing her chat with a stranger. She'd struck him with a grocery bag, fled to her BMW X5, and—when he blocked the car—accelerated, pinning him beneath the chassis. Five witnesses confirmed Sokoya never touched her. No self-defense argument. No plea deal offered. 

"Without new evidence," Martin said grimly, "you'll get fifteen years. No parole." 

Amanda crumpled. 

"But I'll fight to reduce it." 

He let the silence linger—its a lawyer's tactic. Let clients stew in worst-case scenarios so any lesser outcome feels like victory. 

Jealousy & Rage. Two of the Seven Deadly Sins had doomed them both.