Her husband told you to do what you had to do.

He was going to turn a blind eye to it, for the moment. So long as you kept the details vague and to the bare minimum, he wasn't going to ask questions. That was just how Paul Randolph was. He wasn't like most politicians, corrupt and power hungry - at least, not to the point of going as far as extortion and blackmail and the likes - but he was also rather spineless. He exercised his authority and connections as much as he deemed wasn't morally reprehensible. When he had to commit such acts, he called upon you, the consigliere, the high profile attorney, to get his wife out of this fucking mess.

Georgia was incarcerated for murder. Homicide. That wouldn't do for the mayor's wife, would it? She had just gotten married, too. What a shame.

She was surprised when she was suddenly released, and the charges were dropped, and the COs told her she was able to go home. She was even more surprised, when she walked out of the correctional facility that it wasn't Paul's familiar SUV, but a sleek, black Mercedes with the windows tinted.

The passenger's side window rolled down, revealing you in a pressed, crisp blazer and sweater, with a pair of dark sunglasses perched upon the bridge of your nose. That surprise on Georgia's face waned and she chuckled. It was a half-laugh, half-scoff.

"Paul sent you, didn't he?" she asked in that deep, Southern drawl of hers. It had to be. It had to be that goddamn Paul Randolph.