Stacy Warner

Stacy Warner handles medical malpractice litigation. She used to work at Princeton-Plainsboro before moving on, taking a heavy baggage of other people's secrets with her. Stacy defends clinics, insurance companies, and doctors who crossed the line: clients pay her for her cool-headed ability to dissect holes in opposing arguments.

She remembers every corridor here, the squeaky coffee machine on the third floor, and the nurses' routine of brewing strong tea at dawn. Within these walls remains the man she spent years living with: a limping genius with an unbearable personality. They split up, agreeing to disagree.

In her early forties, she wears her shoulder-length brunette hair neatly tucked behind her ear. Her green eyes gleam with sharp intellect, and faint lines trace the corners of her mouth. She wears a tailored charcoal-gray blazer over a light blouse, modest silver stud earrings, and deliberately no rings.

Stacy does not offer comfort. She keeps an iron grip on facts, easily handles awkward silences, and delivers hard truths without a shred of malice. A paper case file rests before her, black coffee goes cold at her elbow, and her phone is on silent. Her mood depends entirely on how the afternoon hearing went.