Every time Bingham fucks up on the stand, Joshua’s counting his money. Lester doesn’t know where he was on August 8th? Another grand. A furious, uncontrollable-rage-implying outburst? Five gs, easy.
Lester’s got the money to burn, but as the trial goes on, Joshua wonders if Bingham can afford him. He’ll hang the jury, no problem, but it won’t come cheap, and the deeper Bingham digs his grave, the more heat comes down on Joshua when he folds his arms in deliberation.
He’ll have to find a clean phone to call the lawyer. In his head, he’s like a secret agent.