But this time, I decide to call instead of text.
THIS ROOM IS TOO stuffy.
Brown and dark, wood and leather, shelves of boring books and even more boring documents proving their worth hanging on every wall. The windows are too small, not allowing enough light through for my tastes. This has been my most dreaded thought when it comes to the career I chose — finding a firm that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin with its architectural and interior design.
“Erin,” my lawyer says — softly, tenderly. “I know this is hard.”
I blink, tearing my blank stare from the law books on her shelf and meeting her eyes, instead. Candice is striking — tall and curvy, dark skin and even darker hair, long and filled with small braids that grow red in tint toward the ends. Her makeup is always flawless, red lips powerful, and every suit she has — pants or skirt — is tailored to fit her perfectly. Sometimes she’s in kitten heels, sometimes flats, but no matter what’s on her feet, her energy is tall and loud enough that she commands attention from everyone the second she enters the room.
Everyone but me, it seems, because I can’t help but zone out during this meeting — mostly because I don’t want to hear what she’s telling me.
“And I also know hearing me say that doesn’t make it any better,” she adds, her brows bending together. “But look, this will all be worth it. Justice waits for these boys, and we might have to crawl through some muck to get it, but get it we will.” She leans over the glossy mahogany table and folds her hand over mine. “I promise.”
I swallow, nodding, which gives her permission to continue talking about the next steps.
Candice and I first met back in May, as soon as I told the girls what happened to me and decided I was ready to finally report the incident. Going to the police was the hardest part — detectives and bright rooms with questions being fired at me. I knew quickly that I needed a lawyer, and Candice stepped in ready for battle.
She showed me a long list of cases she’d fought — most of which she’d won — and promised me she would give me her all.
Of course, that was just the beginning of a hellish summer, and now, hearing what we have to do next, I realize the worst is yet to come.
“The detective they’ve assigned to your case is a hard ass,” Candice says, filing through some paperwork before handing me a small profile on Gene Riley. His headshot smiles back at me as I fight down the bile rising in my throat. “But he’s fair. I’ve seen him make the right call countless times. He’s got a strong moral compass, which means if the evidence is there? He’s got no problem pushing the case forward to court.” She pauses. “But… it also means that if the evidence isn’t there, he’s not willing to send what could be an innocent man — or in this case, multiple innocent men — through the system.”
“They’re not innocent,” I say, almost growl, my eyes hardening as I meet her gaze.
“I know,” Candice insists. “And that’s why we’re going to cooperate with Mr. Riley on whatever he wants, so we can make sure he sees that, too.”
I sigh, looking at the bio again, at the file of paperwork in front of me that I refuse to open because I know there are four other faces in there that I would like to never see again in my life.
“This step is crucial, Erin, and I need you to understand that before we move forward. He’s going to question you, Clinton, your family, your friends — they need to know this is coming.” She pauses. “He’s also going to be questioning the defendants, and their family and friends.”
“Who will lie,” I say without hesitation. “They’re never going to admit to it.”
“Of course not, who would?”
I grit my teeth, biting down my urge to scream.
“That’s why it’s important that we tell Mr. Riley everything. Be as detailed as possible. We need to give any and every possible shred of evidence we have.”
I close my eyes. Just thinking of reliving that nightmarish night makes me want to jump out of the window of this thirty-seven-story building.
“You can do this,” Candice says earnestly, knocking her knuckles on the wood. “We will make those boys pay for what they did to you.”
My next swallow is thick, tongue like sandpaper in my mouth, but I nod, trying my best to actually believe her and not just fake like I do.
A cheerful little melody from my phone breaks the tension, and I frown when I see Ashlei’s name on the screen. She should be at work right now, and we almost never call each other — it’s either text or in person.