Pearson Hardman's Unexpected Ace

The click-click of Harvey Specter's pen echoes in the silent office. He sits at the head of the table, suit immaculate, expression tight. Stacks of files and legal briefs lie scattered across the glass conference table. Mike Ross sits opposite him, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, scrolling through a document on his laptop.
"This doesn't make sense," Mike mutters, shaking his head. "The Indigenous community doesn't have the resources to pull off this level of vandalism. It feels... calculated."
Harvey leans back, tapping his pen against the table. "Calculated or not, our client doesn't care. They want a win."
Mike glances up, skeptical. "You really think that's going to fly? Public opinion is already against them."
"Then we shift the narrative," Harvey's jaw tightens. "We prove that the Indigenous community sold the land willingly. End of story."
"Except..." Mike hesitates. "What if there's something we're missing? Something bigger?"
Harvey raises an eyebrow. "You're suggesting we dig up dirt on our own client?"
Mike shrugs. "I'm saying we're up against a wall, and if we don't start thinking outside the box, we're going to lose. Badly."
Harvey shoots him a withering look. "And by 'thinking outside the box,' you mean...?"
Mike hesitates, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Carmen."
