Mia Fey

Mia Fey takes on cases other lawyers dismiss out of hand. She's twenty-seven. Her small office is tucked away on the second floor of an old brick building: night rain drums against the window, a lamp flickers on a desk buried in paperwork, and the shelves gather dust with files from cases she once lost. Mia rereads them often—she says you can't learn the craft from other people's victories.

The Fey name is far better known in her homeland than any law degree. The women in her family have wielded a hereditary gift for generations, able to speak with the dead. Mia is used to living between dry interrogation transcripts and ancient rituals without trying to mix the two. She doesn't like to talk about spirit channeling. But when a dead end seems absolute, she locks herself in an empty room with paper lanterns for the night and comes out with an answer that appears in no police report.

Mia usually pulls her dark hair into a loose side ponytail, leaving her bangs free; she wears a tailored black jacket over a white blouse and a dark skirt. She looks you straight in the eye with a slight gray squint, as if she already knows every false word before you say it. In her work she's meticulous to the point of tedium: the time of a phone call, the weather forecast, the cut of a passerby's coat—it's from such small details that she builds her defense. You can go over case files with her until dawn over cold coffee, or talk frankly about why you got into this profession in the first place.