Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
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JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - The Ememy Within (M/F)
Loving it Jenny.
Dear @Caesar73, I'm glad you enjoy these glimpses into what Erica keeps fiercely guarded - her private life.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @Dpsiic, thank you so much. Your support means a lot to me.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
At precisely 5 AM, the soft buzz of Erica’s phone vibrates against the nightstand, pulling her from sleep. She blinks against the early morning darkness, takes a deep breath, and slides out of bed in one smooth motion.
Briefly, her thoughts drift to Candice Summers. It doesn’t take much to imagine that her night in holding at the Precinct might not have been great, but chances are good that she will be able to sleep in her own bed again tonight.
She tightens the belt of her maroon silk kimono around her waist as she moves through the quiet apartment, the hardwood cool beneath her bare feet.
In the living room, the kittens are still curled up in their bed by the air vent, a tiny bundle of warmth against the slight chill. Spot’s paws twitch in his sleep, chasing something only he can see. Erica smiles, watching them for a moment, their presence grounding her. No matter what chaos awaits, some things remain simple.
First things first. She lifts their bowls and takes them into the kitchen to clean and refill them, her movements efficient, almost automatic. Kittens first. Always.
As she sets the bowls down, she makes a mental note: Candice needs something appropriate to wear for court this afternoon. A crisp, conservative outfit. Nothing flashy, nothing that invites speculation. She trusts Holly to make the right choice. They are about the same size.
With that squared away, she sheds the kimono and changes into her running gear. The fitted tights, the breathable long-sleeved top, the well-worn running shoes - rituals in themselves.
Outside, the city that supposedly never sleeps is still in transition, the hush before the full force of the morning rush takes hold. Her five-mile run through Central Park is brisk, steady, the cold air sharp against her lungs, invigorating.
By the time she returns, the tension she hadn’t even noticed has melted from her shoulders. The shower is hot, the rough towel against her skin a sensory reset. Ready. Focused.
Her hair, swept into its signature ponytail, is still slightly damp at the ends when she moves into the kitchen. The coffee pad machine hums as it fills her cup, the rich aroma mingling with the faint citrus scent of the soap on her hands. She spoons together a breakfast of natural yogurt, crushed oats, and a drizzle of honey - simple, nutritious and tasty.
Standing by the windows, she eats in quiet contemplation, her gaze drifting to the silver-framed photograph on the top shelf of the cabinet.
Her parents. Herself, barely two years old, held between them.
Even after all these years, the same pang settles in her chest. It is a longing for something she never really had. Regret, because she has no real memories of her mother who died a couple of months after the photo was taken, and all she knows about her is what her father and an aunt had told her.
She touches the edge of the frame with the tips of her fingers. “I wish I could have known you, Mom.” she whispers, the words slipping out before she can stop them. But then, just like always, she straightens, squares her shoulders. There’s nothing to change about the past. Only what she does with the present.
She finishes the last sip of her coffee, rinses the cup, and moves toward the closet.
Rolling her right shoulder to loosen the muscles, a habit ingrained since she caught a bullet from Tony Maze, she selects her outfit. Navy blue pencil skirt. Matching tailored jacket. Cream silk blouse. Understated authority. The kind of presence that carries weight in a courtroom.
She slips the gold university class ring onto her right ring finger, then secures her Rolex around her left wrist.
The watch is more than just a timepiece, it is her most-prized possession. Not for its sales price, but for the personal value it holds for her.
It was a gift from her father, given to her upon her graduation from Harvard Law School. She remembers that day with great clarity. Still in her gown and her mortarboard tucked under her arm, her father asked her to follow him to his study.
He took the green case with the embossed gold crown logo from his rolltop desk, the piece of furniture where he kept only the most important documents and things, and when he handed her the box, he told Erica that “Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it.” When Erica opened the green case and lifted the steel Rolex dive watch out, feeling the grounding, solid weight of it, assuring and precious, she noticed the engraving on the back of its case which her father had a jeweler put there: “Stand for something or fall for anything”
“These words,” her father said in his low yet kind voice, “are more than a motto, Erica. They are a creed to live your life by.” And on that day she had promised her father – herself - to always, come hell or high water, adhere to this creed, let it shape and guide her.
She fastens the last button of her jacket, checks her reflection in the tall mirror. Sharp. Ready.
Her phone and handbag in hand, she moves toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at the kittens, now stirring in their bed.
"You two stay out of trouble, okay?" she murmurs.
Then she locks the door behind her and steps into the day.
~~~
The steady hum of voices and ringing phones fills Sinclair & Associates’ sleek, modern office. Sunlight spills through the large floor to ceiling windows, catching the polished edge of Erica’s mahogany desk as she flips through a set of court filings.
She glances up from her notes as Holly Beck, their young receptionist, steps into the office. The young woman’s eyes are bright with anticipation, ready to take on any task that gets her closer to the action.
“I need you to do a clothing run for Candice Summers.” Erica says, closing her folder. “She has a bail hearing today, and right now, she’s wearing whatever she wore when the NYPD booked her.”
Holly nods, already pulling out her phone to take notes.
“You’re about the same size as her, so pick something conservative, please. Dark blue, if possible, with a white blouse. Nothing flashy. Underwear, nylons, a hairbrush, and some basic cosmetics - just enough to help her look put together.”
Holly’s eyes brighten. “You got it, Miss Sinclair.”
She sits up straighter, almost vibrating with purpose. It’s not every day she gets sent on a mission like this.
Erica opens her handbag, pulls out a stack of crisp banknotes, and hands them over. “Take the receipts and change to Claire when you’re back. Be here by ten-thirty sharp.”
“Absolutely!” Holly snatches up the money with a grin, already mentally mapping out her shopping route.
Before she heads for the door, she pauses. “What about shoes? If she’s wearing stilettos now, I should probably grab something more suitable.”
Erica considers this for a moment, then nods. “Good thinking. Something low-heeled, practical, but polished.”
Holly beams. “I’ll make it happen.”
As the door swings shut behind her, Erica watches for a second, then exhales, rolling her pen between her fingers. One detail handled.
Now, onto the next battle.
~~~
Briefly, her thoughts drift to Candice Summers. It doesn’t take much to imagine that her night in holding at the Precinct might not have been great, but chances are good that she will be able to sleep in her own bed again tonight.
She tightens the belt of her maroon silk kimono around her waist as she moves through the quiet apartment, the hardwood cool beneath her bare feet.
In the living room, the kittens are still curled up in their bed by the air vent, a tiny bundle of warmth against the slight chill. Spot’s paws twitch in his sleep, chasing something only he can see. Erica smiles, watching them for a moment, their presence grounding her. No matter what chaos awaits, some things remain simple.
First things first. She lifts their bowls and takes them into the kitchen to clean and refill them, her movements efficient, almost automatic. Kittens first. Always.
As she sets the bowls down, she makes a mental note: Candice needs something appropriate to wear for court this afternoon. A crisp, conservative outfit. Nothing flashy, nothing that invites speculation. She trusts Holly to make the right choice. They are about the same size.
With that squared away, she sheds the kimono and changes into her running gear. The fitted tights, the breathable long-sleeved top, the well-worn running shoes - rituals in themselves.
Outside, the city that supposedly never sleeps is still in transition, the hush before the full force of the morning rush takes hold. Her five-mile run through Central Park is brisk, steady, the cold air sharp against her lungs, invigorating.
By the time she returns, the tension she hadn’t even noticed has melted from her shoulders. The shower is hot, the rough towel against her skin a sensory reset. Ready. Focused.
Her hair, swept into its signature ponytail, is still slightly damp at the ends when she moves into the kitchen. The coffee pad machine hums as it fills her cup, the rich aroma mingling with the faint citrus scent of the soap on her hands. She spoons together a breakfast of natural yogurt, crushed oats, and a drizzle of honey - simple, nutritious and tasty.
Standing by the windows, she eats in quiet contemplation, her gaze drifting to the silver-framed photograph on the top shelf of the cabinet.
Her parents. Herself, barely two years old, held between them.
Even after all these years, the same pang settles in her chest. It is a longing for something she never really had. Regret, because she has no real memories of her mother who died a couple of months after the photo was taken, and all she knows about her is what her father and an aunt had told her.
She touches the edge of the frame with the tips of her fingers. “I wish I could have known you, Mom.” she whispers, the words slipping out before she can stop them. But then, just like always, she straightens, squares her shoulders. There’s nothing to change about the past. Only what she does with the present.
She finishes the last sip of her coffee, rinses the cup, and moves toward the closet.
Rolling her right shoulder to loosen the muscles, a habit ingrained since she caught a bullet from Tony Maze, she selects her outfit. Navy blue pencil skirt. Matching tailored jacket. Cream silk blouse. Understated authority. The kind of presence that carries weight in a courtroom.
She slips the gold university class ring onto her right ring finger, then secures her Rolex around her left wrist.
The watch is more than just a timepiece, it is her most-prized possession. Not for its sales price, but for the personal value it holds for her.
It was a gift from her father, given to her upon her graduation from Harvard Law School. She remembers that day with great clarity. Still in her gown and her mortarboard tucked under her arm, her father asked her to follow him to his study.
He took the green case with the embossed gold crown logo from his rolltop desk, the piece of furniture where he kept only the most important documents and things, and when he handed her the box, he told Erica that “Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it.” When Erica opened the green case and lifted the steel Rolex dive watch out, feeling the grounding, solid weight of it, assuring and precious, she noticed the engraving on the back of its case which her father had a jeweler put there: “Stand for something or fall for anything”
“These words,” her father said in his low yet kind voice, “are more than a motto, Erica. They are a creed to live your life by.” And on that day she had promised her father – herself - to always, come hell or high water, adhere to this creed, let it shape and guide her.
She fastens the last button of her jacket, checks her reflection in the tall mirror. Sharp. Ready.
Her phone and handbag in hand, she moves toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at the kittens, now stirring in their bed.
"You two stay out of trouble, okay?" she murmurs.
Then she locks the door behind her and steps into the day.
~~~
The steady hum of voices and ringing phones fills Sinclair & Associates’ sleek, modern office. Sunlight spills through the large floor to ceiling windows, catching the polished edge of Erica’s mahogany desk as she flips through a set of court filings.
She glances up from her notes as Holly Beck, their young receptionist, steps into the office. The young woman’s eyes are bright with anticipation, ready to take on any task that gets her closer to the action.
“I need you to do a clothing run for Candice Summers.” Erica says, closing her folder. “She has a bail hearing today, and right now, she’s wearing whatever she wore when the NYPD booked her.”
Holly nods, already pulling out her phone to take notes.
“You’re about the same size as her, so pick something conservative, please. Dark blue, if possible, with a white blouse. Nothing flashy. Underwear, nylons, a hairbrush, and some basic cosmetics - just enough to help her look put together.”
Holly’s eyes brighten. “You got it, Miss Sinclair.”
She sits up straighter, almost vibrating with purpose. It’s not every day she gets sent on a mission like this.
Erica opens her handbag, pulls out a stack of crisp banknotes, and hands them over. “Take the receipts and change to Claire when you’re back. Be here by ten-thirty sharp.”
“Absolutely!” Holly snatches up the money with a grin, already mentally mapping out her shopping route.
Before she heads for the door, she pauses. “What about shoes? If she’s wearing stilettos now, I should probably grab something more suitable.”
Erica considers this for a moment, then nods. “Good thinking. Something low-heeled, practical, but polished.”
Holly beams. “I’ll make it happen.”
As the door swings shut behind her, Erica watches for a second, then exhales, rolling her pen between her fingers. One detail handled.
Now, onto the next battle.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Getting ready for battle?
Erica´s Battlefield is the Court - looking forward to that Hearing! And Erica is right Appearances matter - she knows why she gives Holly this instructions.
I have the Feeling the Hearing might provide us with some more Informations what is going on
Dear @LunaDog, you can bet your butts. We haven't seen Erica in court (even if it's only a bail hearing) in a while.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @Caesar73, with ADA Calloway representing the People, Erica will have to bring her A game.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The sharp scent of disinfectant and stale coffee lingers in the air as Erica steps through the doors of Midtown North Precinct. Fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over the beige walls, and the steady hum of chatter, ringing phones, and the occasional burst of static from police radios fills the space.
At the front desk, Sergeant Kowalski barely lifts his head from his paperwork. The overhead light reflects off his balding scalp, deepening the tired creases in his face.
“Hello Sergeant.” Erica greets him with a polite but purposeful nod. She places the neatly folded packet of clothes on the counter. “Erica Sinclair to see Candice Summers. I brought fresh clothes for her bail hearing - some basics to make her presentable in court.”
Kowalski grunts, wiping a hand over his jaw before tugging the package closer. With calloused fingers, he shakes down the garments, searching for anything sharp, illicit, dangerous with practiced efficiency. It’s a routine - mechanical, impersonal. To him, Candice Summers is just another case number.
Erica waits, her expression neutral. It’s all part of the process.
Finally, Kowalski gives a low grunt of approval. “All clear.” He picks up the phone, speaking in clipped tones before setting the receiver down. “They’ll bring her up. Interview Room Two. You know the way.”
“I do.” Erica folds the clothes, smoothes the crumpled edges, stacks them up. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
She moves down the familiar hallway, her heels clicking softly against the worn tile. The air grows colder, the walls narrowing as she approaches the row of interview rooms.
Through the grimy, reinforced-glass window, she spots Candice inside.
Her shoulders are slumped, her hands resting in her lap—palms down, fingers slightly curled. A defensive posture.
A uniformed female officer stands against the wall, arms crossed.
Erica knocks once before stepping inside.
Candice lifts her head instantly, and for the first time, there’s something in her eyes other than sheer exhaustion. Hope.
“Miss Sinclair.” she breathes, her voice dry and papery from a night in holding.
Erica reaches out, and Candice clasps her hand like a lifeline.
“How are you holding up?” Erica asks, keeping her voice even.
Candice lets out a brittle laugh. “It’s been… an experience.”
Translation: Hell.
Erica doesn’t press. She’s seen it before - the mix of disbelief, humiliation, and frustration. Here Candice is not the celebrated journalist. For the cops she is just another detainee. Maybe they even regard her as the opposition.
Her voice is strained, like she hasn’t spoken much in hours. She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t have to. The fluorescent light makes the shadows under her eyes more pronounced, her blouse slightly wrinkled, hair tangled at the ends. It’s clear the night hasn’t been kind to her.
Erica nods once. “I brought you fresh clothes. You’ll look your best at the bail hearing this afternoon.”
She sets the neatly folded bundle on the cold metal table. “After lunch, the Paddy Wagon will take you to the court and back here after the hearing. Once the judge grants bail, my bail bondsman will get things moving. During the hearing, all you have to do is to follow my lead and don’t speak unless the judge asks you anything. If you are required to answer, address him as Your Honor, be polite and to the point. That’s all there’s to it.”
Candice listens intently, then nods. “Understood.”
The uniformed officer steps forward slightly, arms still folded. Erica meets her gaze, already anticipating the next step.
“The Desk Sergeant already searched everything.” Erica gestures at the bundle. “Would you like to check again?”
The officer shakes her head. “Not necessary. But I stay while she changes.”
Candice’s mouth parts slightly, a flicker of irritation sparking in her eyes, but Erica raises a hand - a silent signal to let it go.
She exhales, then nods. It’s compliance, not consent.
Erica notices the way Candice’s fingers grip the edge of the table for a fraction of a second before letting go.
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t protest.
She just accepts.
Because at this moment, she has no choice.
Erica meets Candice’s gaze, giving her the only reassurance she can.
“This will be over soon. Tonight, you’ll be back home.”
Candice nods again, then slowly reaches for the clothes.
The officer doesn’t move from her post.
Erica turns and steps outside, leaving Candice to face this moment alone. Her client doesn’t need more humiliation.
The door clicks shut behind her.
~~~
Erica stands at the back of the crowded courtroom, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. The air hums with muffled voices and the shuffling of papers, but beneath it all, there’s an undercurrent of tension she can feel pressing against her ribs.
This isn’t a routine bail hearing.
Most of the time, the gallery would be half-empty, occupied only by a few reporters, students or uninterested law clerks. But today - every seat is filled.
Journalists. Onlookers. Rivals.
They’ve all come to see how Candice Summers - once a respected journalist, now an accused felon - fares in front of Judge Alan “Rosie” Rosenberg.
The prosecution is ready for a fight.
But so is Erica.
She’s been in this exact spot more times than she can count, in courtrooms just like this one, facing prosecutors just like the one seated across the aisle.
Her gaze flicks to Assistant District Attorney Lauren Calloway, the “Ice Queen”.
She’s young, ambitious and dangerous in her relentlessness to secure victory.
At least it’s not Sophie van Rey, Erica’s old nemesis-turned-occasional-ally. That would have been a whole different battle.
The Court Officer finally calls Candice’s case.
Sitting behind his elevated bench, Judge Rosenberg flips through the thin case file, barely sparing a glance at either table before addressing the room in a gravelly, no-nonsense voice.
“The People of the State of New York versus Candice Summers. Charge: Criminal Possession of a Controlled Substance in the Second Degree with Intent to Distribute.”
The words drop like stones. Heavy. Damning.
A side door creaks open.
Erica watches as Candice steps into the courtroom, flanked by a uniformed Court Officer.
She’s poised, outwardly composed, but Erica doesn’t miss the stiffness in her posture, the slight tremor in her fingers.
The navy-blue suit Holly picked out fits perfectly, its sharp lines reinforcing an image of respectability, but the slight pallor beneath her foundation tells another story.
She’s holding it together. But just barely.
Erica sets a steadying hand on Candice’s shoulder. A silent anchor.
The Court Officer calls the room to order. A hush falls.
Judge Rosenberg adjusts his glasses and shifts his gaze to Calloway. “Counselor Calloway for the People, please.”
Calloway stands, calm and precise, buttoning her jacket one-handed, with an air of practiced superiority.
“Your Honor, during a traffic stop, the defendant was found in possession of two kilograms of cocaine - an amount far beyond personal use. Given its street value and the manner of concealment, this is clearly a case of intent to distribute.”
She pauses for effect, letting the words settle.
“The prosecution requests bail be set at one million dollars.”
A ripple of sound moves through the gallery. One million.
Candice’s fingers tighten around the edge of the defense table, but she doesn’t react.
She’s biting her lower lip, following Erica’s guidance to the letter.
Across the aisle, Calloway isn’t done.
“Miss Summers has extensive financial resources and international connections, making her a clear flight risk. The People urge the court to consider the severity of these charges and the defendant’s means.”
She sits down smoothly, her expression cool. Confident. First Blood has been drawn.
~~~
Erica lets the silence hang for a beat, then, as Judge Rosenberg looks over at her, stands.
“Your Honor, let’s examine the facts before jumping to conclusions.”
Her voice is measured, commanding - just loud enough to reach the farthest seat in the gallery.
She turns slightly, not just addressing the judge, but the room.
“Miss Summers is not a drug dealer. She is a respected journalist with an unblemished record. No evidence ties her to distribution - only possession. And the car where the narcotics were found?”
She lets that sink in for a second. Controlled silence is just as powerful as words.
“A vehicle she does not always keep in her direct control.”
Judge Rosenberg leans forward.
“Counselor, are you arguing the drugs were planted?”
Erica takes a step closer, positioning herself squarely between Candice and the bench, a shield protecting her client with her own body.
“Your Honor, this case raises serious concerns. The arrest report states the police acted on an anonymous tip - an anonymous tip against a journalist known for exposing corruption. Miss Summers parks her vehicle in a semi-public parking lot for the night.”
She lets the weight of that settle as well.
“Doesn’t that seem a little convenient?”
From the corner of her eye, she catches Calloway’s posture shift. Arms folding. A flicker of irritation and disapproval.
Good.
“Miss Summers cooperated fully with law enforcement.” Erica continues. “She did not object to her car being searched nor did she resist arrest. She is not a danger to society, and she is not a flight risk. Treating her as though she is some cartel lieutenant would be punitive.”
Time to make the offer. Lowball it.
“We request bail be set at seventy-five thousand dollars. Or, in the alternative, that Miss Summers be released on her own recognizance with an ankle monitor.”
The gallery holds its breath.
Judge Rosenberg leans back in his chair. His fingers drum against the case file. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then he adjusts his glasses and gives his ruling.
“Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars, cash or bond. The defendant is to surrender her passport and remain within the state of New York pending trial.”
His gavel comes down. A decisive crack.
The room erupts in hushed voices.
Candice sags in relief, exhaling sharply.
A quarter-million is a lot, but given the circumstances it could be called reasonable.
She turns slightly, just as the Court Officer taps her arm, motioning for her to leave.
Before she’s led away, Erica meets her gaze. A steady smile.
“I’ll see you in two hours. Stay frosty.”
Candice manages a small, almost imperceptible nod before being escorted out.
At the prosecution’s table, Calloway stacks her papers, methodical, controlled.
But as Erica turns to leave, Calloway’s voice reaches her - low, even. Measured.
“Nice argument, Sinclair. But if you think this is going away, you’re mistaken.”
Erica doesn’t miss a step.
She just smirks faintly, her voice just as quiet.
“We’ll see.”
She keeps walking.
~~~
At the front desk, Sergeant Kowalski barely lifts his head from his paperwork. The overhead light reflects off his balding scalp, deepening the tired creases in his face.
“Hello Sergeant.” Erica greets him with a polite but purposeful nod. She places the neatly folded packet of clothes on the counter. “Erica Sinclair to see Candice Summers. I brought fresh clothes for her bail hearing - some basics to make her presentable in court.”
Kowalski grunts, wiping a hand over his jaw before tugging the package closer. With calloused fingers, he shakes down the garments, searching for anything sharp, illicit, dangerous with practiced efficiency. It’s a routine - mechanical, impersonal. To him, Candice Summers is just another case number.
Erica waits, her expression neutral. It’s all part of the process.
Finally, Kowalski gives a low grunt of approval. “All clear.” He picks up the phone, speaking in clipped tones before setting the receiver down. “They’ll bring her up. Interview Room Two. You know the way.”
“I do.” Erica folds the clothes, smoothes the crumpled edges, stacks them up. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
She moves down the familiar hallway, her heels clicking softly against the worn tile. The air grows colder, the walls narrowing as she approaches the row of interview rooms.
Through the grimy, reinforced-glass window, she spots Candice inside.
Her shoulders are slumped, her hands resting in her lap—palms down, fingers slightly curled. A defensive posture.
A uniformed female officer stands against the wall, arms crossed.
Erica knocks once before stepping inside.
Candice lifts her head instantly, and for the first time, there’s something in her eyes other than sheer exhaustion. Hope.
“Miss Sinclair.” she breathes, her voice dry and papery from a night in holding.
Erica reaches out, and Candice clasps her hand like a lifeline.
“How are you holding up?” Erica asks, keeping her voice even.
Candice lets out a brittle laugh. “It’s been… an experience.”
Translation: Hell.
Erica doesn’t press. She’s seen it before - the mix of disbelief, humiliation, and frustration. Here Candice is not the celebrated journalist. For the cops she is just another detainee. Maybe they even regard her as the opposition.
Her voice is strained, like she hasn’t spoken much in hours. She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t have to. The fluorescent light makes the shadows under her eyes more pronounced, her blouse slightly wrinkled, hair tangled at the ends. It’s clear the night hasn’t been kind to her.
Erica nods once. “I brought you fresh clothes. You’ll look your best at the bail hearing this afternoon.”
She sets the neatly folded bundle on the cold metal table. “After lunch, the Paddy Wagon will take you to the court and back here after the hearing. Once the judge grants bail, my bail bondsman will get things moving. During the hearing, all you have to do is to follow my lead and don’t speak unless the judge asks you anything. If you are required to answer, address him as Your Honor, be polite and to the point. That’s all there’s to it.”
Candice listens intently, then nods. “Understood.”
The uniformed officer steps forward slightly, arms still folded. Erica meets her gaze, already anticipating the next step.
“The Desk Sergeant already searched everything.” Erica gestures at the bundle. “Would you like to check again?”
The officer shakes her head. “Not necessary. But I stay while she changes.”
Candice’s mouth parts slightly, a flicker of irritation sparking in her eyes, but Erica raises a hand - a silent signal to let it go.
She exhales, then nods. It’s compliance, not consent.
Erica notices the way Candice’s fingers grip the edge of the table for a fraction of a second before letting go.
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t protest.
She just accepts.
Because at this moment, she has no choice.
Erica meets Candice’s gaze, giving her the only reassurance she can.
“This will be over soon. Tonight, you’ll be back home.”
Candice nods again, then slowly reaches for the clothes.
The officer doesn’t move from her post.
Erica turns and steps outside, leaving Candice to face this moment alone. Her client doesn’t need more humiliation.
The door clicks shut behind her.
~~~
Erica stands at the back of the crowded courtroom, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. The air hums with muffled voices and the shuffling of papers, but beneath it all, there’s an undercurrent of tension she can feel pressing against her ribs.
This isn’t a routine bail hearing.
Most of the time, the gallery would be half-empty, occupied only by a few reporters, students or uninterested law clerks. But today - every seat is filled.
Journalists. Onlookers. Rivals.
They’ve all come to see how Candice Summers - once a respected journalist, now an accused felon - fares in front of Judge Alan “Rosie” Rosenberg.
The prosecution is ready for a fight.
But so is Erica.
She’s been in this exact spot more times than she can count, in courtrooms just like this one, facing prosecutors just like the one seated across the aisle.
Her gaze flicks to Assistant District Attorney Lauren Calloway, the “Ice Queen”.
She’s young, ambitious and dangerous in her relentlessness to secure victory.
At least it’s not Sophie van Rey, Erica’s old nemesis-turned-occasional-ally. That would have been a whole different battle.
The Court Officer finally calls Candice’s case.
Sitting behind his elevated bench, Judge Rosenberg flips through the thin case file, barely sparing a glance at either table before addressing the room in a gravelly, no-nonsense voice.
“The People of the State of New York versus Candice Summers. Charge: Criminal Possession of a Controlled Substance in the Second Degree with Intent to Distribute.”
The words drop like stones. Heavy. Damning.
A side door creaks open.
Erica watches as Candice steps into the courtroom, flanked by a uniformed Court Officer.
She’s poised, outwardly composed, but Erica doesn’t miss the stiffness in her posture, the slight tremor in her fingers.
The navy-blue suit Holly picked out fits perfectly, its sharp lines reinforcing an image of respectability, but the slight pallor beneath her foundation tells another story.
She’s holding it together. But just barely.
Erica sets a steadying hand on Candice’s shoulder. A silent anchor.
The Court Officer calls the room to order. A hush falls.
Judge Rosenberg adjusts his glasses and shifts his gaze to Calloway. “Counselor Calloway for the People, please.”
Calloway stands, calm and precise, buttoning her jacket one-handed, with an air of practiced superiority.
“Your Honor, during a traffic stop, the defendant was found in possession of two kilograms of cocaine - an amount far beyond personal use. Given its street value and the manner of concealment, this is clearly a case of intent to distribute.”
She pauses for effect, letting the words settle.
“The prosecution requests bail be set at one million dollars.”
A ripple of sound moves through the gallery. One million.
Candice’s fingers tighten around the edge of the defense table, but she doesn’t react.
She’s biting her lower lip, following Erica’s guidance to the letter.
Across the aisle, Calloway isn’t done.
“Miss Summers has extensive financial resources and international connections, making her a clear flight risk. The People urge the court to consider the severity of these charges and the defendant’s means.”
She sits down smoothly, her expression cool. Confident. First Blood has been drawn.
~~~
Erica lets the silence hang for a beat, then, as Judge Rosenberg looks over at her, stands.
“Your Honor, let’s examine the facts before jumping to conclusions.”
Her voice is measured, commanding - just loud enough to reach the farthest seat in the gallery.
She turns slightly, not just addressing the judge, but the room.
“Miss Summers is not a drug dealer. She is a respected journalist with an unblemished record. No evidence ties her to distribution - only possession. And the car where the narcotics were found?”
She lets that sink in for a second. Controlled silence is just as powerful as words.
“A vehicle she does not always keep in her direct control.”
Judge Rosenberg leans forward.
“Counselor, are you arguing the drugs were planted?”
Erica takes a step closer, positioning herself squarely between Candice and the bench, a shield protecting her client with her own body.
“Your Honor, this case raises serious concerns. The arrest report states the police acted on an anonymous tip - an anonymous tip against a journalist known for exposing corruption. Miss Summers parks her vehicle in a semi-public parking lot for the night.”
She lets the weight of that settle as well.
“Doesn’t that seem a little convenient?”
From the corner of her eye, she catches Calloway’s posture shift. Arms folding. A flicker of irritation and disapproval.
Good.
“Miss Summers cooperated fully with law enforcement.” Erica continues. “She did not object to her car being searched nor did she resist arrest. She is not a danger to society, and she is not a flight risk. Treating her as though she is some cartel lieutenant would be punitive.”
Time to make the offer. Lowball it.
“We request bail be set at seventy-five thousand dollars. Or, in the alternative, that Miss Summers be released on her own recognizance with an ankle monitor.”
The gallery holds its breath.
Judge Rosenberg leans back in his chair. His fingers drum against the case file. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then he adjusts his glasses and gives his ruling.
“Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars, cash or bond. The defendant is to surrender her passport and remain within the state of New York pending trial.”
His gavel comes down. A decisive crack.
The room erupts in hushed voices.
Candice sags in relief, exhaling sharply.
A quarter-million is a lot, but given the circumstances it could be called reasonable.
She turns slightly, just as the Court Officer taps her arm, motioning for her to leave.
Before she’s led away, Erica meets her gaze. A steady smile.
“I’ll see you in two hours. Stay frosty.”
Candice manages a small, almost imperceptible nod before being escorted out.
At the prosecution’s table, Calloway stacks her papers, methodical, controlled.
But as Erica turns to leave, Calloway’s voice reaches her - low, even. Measured.
“Nice argument, Sinclair. But if you think this is going away, you’re mistaken.”
Erica doesn’t miss a step.
She just smirks faintly, her voice just as quiet.
“We’ll see.”
She keeps walking.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
GAME ON! This is where Erica Sinclair is at her best, this is her battleground.
Dear @LunaDog, yes, Erica is not a pushover in court. Let's see how the story continues.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The moment Erica Sinclair steps into the marble-floored lobby of the courthouse, the air erupts.
A wall of bodies surges toward her - reporters, cameramen, flashing lights.
A swarm.
Microphones are thrust into her face. Camera lenses gleam under the harsh fluorescent lighting. They are all waiting for the promised press-statement.
From all sides, voices fire questions like bullets.
“Miss Sinclair! What’s your response to the DA’s accusations?”
“Does Candice Summers have ties to the cartel?”
“Do you deny the evidence found in her car?”
“Is this an elaborate cover-up?”
Erica doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she lifts a hand - steady, commanding.
A lull spreads through the press corps, a fraction of silence amidst the chaos.
Then, her voice cuts through - clear, confident.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins.
The cameras roll. The notepads scribble.
It’s game on.
“The NYPD acted upon an anonymous tip,” she states, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “Someone called 911, reporting that Miss Summers would be transporting two kilos of cocaine in her car.”
Murmurs ripple through the press pool.
She holds steady.
“The vehicle in question could have been accessed by practically anyone the night before the arrest. The drugs were placed in the trunk, and Miss Summers had no idea she was driving a ticking time bomb.”
A beat of silence.
The reporters latch onto it.
“Is that why she allowed the police to search her vehicle?”
Erica tilts her head, just slightly. The kind of movement that makes people lean in.
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” She lets the moment hang, then delivers the blow.
“Because she had nothing to hide.”
A flash bulb pops. A murmur spreads.
“Because she had no idea that two kilos of cocaine were sitting in her trunk - wrapped in a picnic blanket.”
The words land like a grenade.
One reporter lunges forward. “Miss Sinclair, are you suggesting…”
She cuts him off without breaking stride.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do - finding out who the real culprit is and ensuring that justice is served.”
She turns, pushing through the throng, unfazed.
They call after her - shouting, demanding, prying - but she’s already moving. Already three steps ahead.
By the time she reaches the courthouse steps, the cameras are still rolling.
The February air is sharp against her skin, but she doesn’t slow.
At the curb, her black Volvo waits, sleek and practical.
She pulls out her phone, thumb scrolling to Greg Eastman’s contact.
Bringing it to her ear, she speaks just as she slides into the driver’s seat.
“It’s a go. Get her out for 250.000.”
She hangs up.
And with a smooth turn of the key, she peels away from the courthouse, leaving it to the press to spin their headlines.
~~~
Erica parks behind the Precinct, the Volvo’s engine humming softly as she scans the rear exit.
This is where they bring the perps in, where handcuffed suspects are dragged through metal doors, past the stale scent of sweat, fear, and regret.
But now, one is leaving.
She kills the engine and leans back in her seat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. A glance at her Rolex – 4:20 PM
Come on.
The rear door finally buzzes open.
A detention officer steps out first, followed by a pale, hollow-eyed Candice Summers.
She’s clutching a brown paper bag - the one with her personal effects.
Her fingers dig into the crumpled edges like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality.
Erica steps out of the car, waiting. Watching.
Candice stops just outside the door. For a moment, she just stands there, frozen, as if the world outside the walls of the precinct is too big, too loud, too real.
The detention officer - a thickset man with tired eyes - grunts.
“Sign here.” He shoves a clipboard at her.
Candice hesitates, then scrawls her name.
He rips off the carbon copy, slaps it on top of the bag, and mutters, “You’re free to go.”
The words seem to hit her like a slap.
Her grip on the bag tightens. Her chest rises, falls - too fast, too shallow.
Erica notices the tremor in Candice’s hands before she even looks up.
Her voice is calm, steady, not too loud.
“Candice.”
Candice’s head snaps up. Her wide, glassy eyes meet Erica’s, and for a split second, she looks lost.
Like she doesn’t believe she’s free.
Like she expects someone might yank her back inside any moment.
Erica doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t tell her it’s okay - because it’s not. Not yet.
Instead, she steps forward, extends a hand - offering an anchor.
Candice swallows hard, then moves.
Her heels click against the pavement as she steps toward the black Volvo, the brown paper bag held to her chest like a shield.
The detention officer disappears back inside. The metal door clangs shut behind him with a tough finality.
As soon as it does, Candice exhales - a sharp, shaky breath.
She grips the edge of the car door, fingers pressing into the metal.
“Jesus.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “That was…”
She trails off, unable to find the words.
Erica opens the passenger door for her client. “Let’s get out of here.”
Candice nods, but doesn’t move just yet.
Instead, she glances one last time at the door she just walked through. She realized that there is a difference reporting about criminals and law enforcement and being treated like a criminal herself.
Then, without another word, she slides into the car.
Erica closes the door behind her, rounds the front, and gets behind the wheel.
As she pulls away from the precinct, Candice finally speaks.
“I don’t ever want to go back in there.”
Her voice is quiet, but there’s steel in it.
Erica’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“Then let’s make sure you don’t have to.”
She accelerates and pulls the Volvo into the early evening traffic.
~~~
A wall of bodies surges toward her - reporters, cameramen, flashing lights.
A swarm.
Microphones are thrust into her face. Camera lenses gleam under the harsh fluorescent lighting. They are all waiting for the promised press-statement.
From all sides, voices fire questions like bullets.
“Miss Sinclair! What’s your response to the DA’s accusations?”
“Does Candice Summers have ties to the cartel?”
“Do you deny the evidence found in her car?”
“Is this an elaborate cover-up?”
Erica doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she lifts a hand - steady, commanding.
A lull spreads through the press corps, a fraction of silence amidst the chaos.
Then, her voice cuts through - clear, confident.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins.
The cameras roll. The notepads scribble.
It’s game on.
“The NYPD acted upon an anonymous tip,” she states, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “Someone called 911, reporting that Miss Summers would be transporting two kilos of cocaine in her car.”
Murmurs ripple through the press pool.
She holds steady.
“The vehicle in question could have been accessed by practically anyone the night before the arrest. The drugs were placed in the trunk, and Miss Summers had no idea she was driving a ticking time bomb.”
A beat of silence.
The reporters latch onto it.
“Is that why she allowed the police to search her vehicle?”
Erica tilts her head, just slightly. The kind of movement that makes people lean in.
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” She lets the moment hang, then delivers the blow.
“Because she had nothing to hide.”
A flash bulb pops. A murmur spreads.
“Because she had no idea that two kilos of cocaine were sitting in her trunk - wrapped in a picnic blanket.”
The words land like a grenade.
One reporter lunges forward. “Miss Sinclair, are you suggesting…”
She cuts him off without breaking stride.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do - finding out who the real culprit is and ensuring that justice is served.”
She turns, pushing through the throng, unfazed.
They call after her - shouting, demanding, prying - but she’s already moving. Already three steps ahead.
By the time she reaches the courthouse steps, the cameras are still rolling.
The February air is sharp against her skin, but she doesn’t slow.
At the curb, her black Volvo waits, sleek and practical.
She pulls out her phone, thumb scrolling to Greg Eastman’s contact.
Bringing it to her ear, she speaks just as she slides into the driver’s seat.
“It’s a go. Get her out for 250.000.”
She hangs up.
And with a smooth turn of the key, she peels away from the courthouse, leaving it to the press to spin their headlines.
~~~
Erica parks behind the Precinct, the Volvo’s engine humming softly as she scans the rear exit.
This is where they bring the perps in, where handcuffed suspects are dragged through metal doors, past the stale scent of sweat, fear, and regret.
But now, one is leaving.
She kills the engine and leans back in her seat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. A glance at her Rolex – 4:20 PM
Come on.
The rear door finally buzzes open.
A detention officer steps out first, followed by a pale, hollow-eyed Candice Summers.
She’s clutching a brown paper bag - the one with her personal effects.
Her fingers dig into the crumpled edges like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality.
Erica steps out of the car, waiting. Watching.
Candice stops just outside the door. For a moment, she just stands there, frozen, as if the world outside the walls of the precinct is too big, too loud, too real.
The detention officer - a thickset man with tired eyes - grunts.
“Sign here.” He shoves a clipboard at her.
Candice hesitates, then scrawls her name.
He rips off the carbon copy, slaps it on top of the bag, and mutters, “You’re free to go.”
The words seem to hit her like a slap.
Her grip on the bag tightens. Her chest rises, falls - too fast, too shallow.
Erica notices the tremor in Candice’s hands before she even looks up.
Her voice is calm, steady, not too loud.
“Candice.”
Candice’s head snaps up. Her wide, glassy eyes meet Erica’s, and for a split second, she looks lost.
Like she doesn’t believe she’s free.
Like she expects someone might yank her back inside any moment.
Erica doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t tell her it’s okay - because it’s not. Not yet.
Instead, she steps forward, extends a hand - offering an anchor.
Candice swallows hard, then moves.
Her heels click against the pavement as she steps toward the black Volvo, the brown paper bag held to her chest like a shield.
The detention officer disappears back inside. The metal door clangs shut behind him with a tough finality.
As soon as it does, Candice exhales - a sharp, shaky breath.
She grips the edge of the car door, fingers pressing into the metal.
“Jesus.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “That was…”
She trails off, unable to find the words.
Erica opens the passenger door for her client. “Let’s get out of here.”
Candice nods, but doesn’t move just yet.
Instead, she glances one last time at the door she just walked through. She realized that there is a difference reporting about criminals and law enforcement and being treated like a criminal herself.
Then, without another word, she slides into the car.
Erica closes the door behind her, rounds the front, and gets behind the wheel.
As she pulls away from the precinct, Candice finally speaks.
“I don’t ever want to go back in there.”
Her voice is quiet, but there’s steel in it.
Erica’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“Then let’s make sure you don’t have to.”
She accelerates and pulls the Volvo into the early evening traffic.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Let's hope so!
So the legal battle has begun. Calloway and Erica crossed Blades. With the better End for Erica in the first Round. Calloways Remark at the End makes we wonder if the DA is one Arm of the Kraken, or just doing her Job?
Fine description of how the Night in the Holding Cellm the Circunstances of the whole Situation rattled Candice´s Cage. No Wonder. A law abiding respected Citizen in one moment, a Crime Suspect in the next.
The Press Conference? Nicely done by Erica. Whoever targeted Candice: He won´t sit comforably reclined in his Arm Chair watching the Show and munching Popcorn. Not anymore.
I do admire your laconic Style @Jenny_S - not one word too much. Every Sentence precise and clear.
Fine description of how the Night in the Holding Cellm the Circunstances of the whole Situation rattled Candice´s Cage. No Wonder. A law abiding respected Citizen in one moment, a Crime Suspect in the next.
The Press Conference? Nicely done by Erica. Whoever targeted Candice: He won´t sit comforably reclined in his Arm Chair watching the Show and munching Popcorn. Not anymore.
I do admire your laconic Style @Jenny_S - not one word too much. Every Sentence precise and clear.
Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for your compliments. Coming from you, this means a lot to me.
ADA Calloway might be right, though: the two kilos of cocaine aren't going away and without hard evidence that they were planted... the charges are going to stick.
ADA Calloway might be right, though: the two kilos of cocaine aren't going away and without hard evidence that they were planted... the charges are going to stick.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The sun hangs low in the sky as Erica steers the Volvo onto the expressway, the city unfurling in streaks of gold and shadow.
Candice sits in the passenger seat, silent, staring out the window, her hands still clutching the paper bag from lockup.
Erica doesn’t press her.
She knows the weight of the past 24 hours is still settling, the aftershock of a night in a jail cell crawling under Candice’s skin. It’s like a ghost she hasn’t shaken off yet.
So, Erica lets the silence breathe.
The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on the asphalt.
By the time they reach Queens, the streets are bathed in amber light. The Volvo’s tires crunch over loose gravel as Erica pulls into the parking lot of a nondescript brick apartment complex.
Candice shifts, eyes scanning the lot.
“That’s where I parked.” She lifts a hand, pointing to a space near the far end, just outside the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Right there. When I came down in the morning, the car was still locked. Or at least, I thought it was.”
Erica cuts the engine. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies the space.
It’s tucked away enough that someone could break into a car without drawing much attention.
Not ideal for a quick smash-and-grab. But for someone with the right skills…?
Entirely possible.
Candice presses her lips together. “Anyone could’ve gotten to it in the dark.”
Erica steps out of the car, scanning the area.
She imagines it.
A shadow moving in the night. A quick flick of a lockpick or a cloned key fob. A trunk popping open, a package slid inside.
And then - the call to the police to set the wheels of justice in motion.
In the morning, Candice would drive off, unaware that she’s carrying two kilos of cocaine.
Her gaze lifts.
Four security cameras overlook the lot and the entrance to the building.
She feels a sharp flicker of hope as her mind shifts into strategic mode.
If they were recording, if the footage still exists…
This could be their first real lead.
“These cameras - who controls them?”
Candice follows her gaze, then exhales. “Building management runs the security. They don’t like tenants asking questions, though. I doubt they’d just hand over footage.”
Erica’s lips press into a thin line. That’s not a problem. She knows how to get her hands on footage if it exists. “Let me take care of that,” she says.
For the first time since they left the precinct, Candice looks at her directly.
“Would you…” She hesitates, then sighs. “Would you walk me up? Maybe have a cup of coffee? I just…”
She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I don’t feel like being alone right now.”
Erica studies her for a beat.
Candice isn’t the type to admit when she needs someone. But right now, her eyes… still tired, still shaken… say it all.
Erica nods. “Sure. Let’s go.”
She steps out of the car. Candice follows, and together, they head toward the building entrance - past the cameras, past the empty parking spot, past the knowledge that someone, somehow, put those drugs in her trunk for a reason.
And Erica intends to find out who.
~~~
The soft click of the deadbolt locking behind them feels like a thin barrier between Candice and everything she just endured.
For a moment, she just stands in the entryway, exhaling slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself she’s really home.
Erica takes it all in.
The studio apartment is modern and meticulously designed - a clear reflection of someone who appreciates comfort, order, and a touch of understated luxury.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the Queens skyline, the evening glow casting warm reflections on sleek hardwood floors. The open floor plan flows seamlessly - a compact yet stylish kitchen at the far end, leading into a spacious living area furnished with a low-profile gray sofa, a glass coffee table, and carefully curated art on the walls.
Definitely not cheap.
This is the home of a woman who has worked hard to get where she is.
Candice shrugs off her blazer, tossing it over the armrest of the couch. She gestures vaguely toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee started.”
But Erica doesn’t sit.
She unbuttons her trench coat, slips it off, and drapes it neatly over a chair by the counter. Her handbag follows. Instead of retreating to the couch, she follows Candice into the kitchen.
Candice doesn’t question it.
She moves on autopilot, pulling out a French press, ground coffee, and a kettle. But Erica watches closely - noticing the small tremor in Candice’s hands as she pours the water, the way her movements are just slightly off-rhythm.
It takes a full two minutes before Candice finally pauses, hands gripping the counter’s edge.
She blinks, then lets out a small, shaky breath.
“Jesus. I’m home.”
She shakes her head like she still can’t quite believe it.
Erica leans against the counter, arms folded. “You are.” A beat. Then, gently “It’s going to take a second to feel real.”
Candice lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No kidding.”
She presses down the plunger on the French press and grabs two mugs from the cabinet.
Erica doesn’t take her eyes off her.
“We have a good shot at proving the coke wasn’t yours.”
Candice stills. Turns. “You think so?”
Erica nods. “Two kilos is a lot. That’s weight. Dealers don’t usually sit on product like that unless they’re moving it. The way it was found - an anonymous tip, wrapped in a picnic blanket? In my book, that practically screams setup.”
She watches Candice absorb this, processing the logic in Erica’s words. A small thread of tension eases in her posture, but there’s still a storm behind her eyes.
The coffee is ready. Candice pours them both a cup, hands one to Erica. She takes it but doesn’t sip.
Instead, her gaze sharpens.
“Who benefits from this?”
Candice’s fingers tighten around her mug. “What?”
“Your downfall. Your arrest.” Erica steps closer, her voice even, measured. “The first thing we ask in lawyering is Qui Bono. It’s Latin and means “Who stands to gain from this?” Any rivals in the newsroom? Someone you’ve crossed? A story you’re working on that’s ruffling the wrong feathers?”
Candice looks away, biting her lower lip.
For a long moment, she says nothing.
Then, finally… “Yeah.”
She exhales, shaking her head.
“More than one.”
Candice grips her coffee mug with both hands, her fingers curled around the ceramic like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. The warmth doesn’t quite reach her. She stares into the dark liquid, as if it holds answers she’s not ready to voice.
Across from her, Erica leans against the counter, taking a slow sip of her coffee. It’s very smooth, an expensive gourmet roast. Candice might be rattled, but she has good taste.
“And most recently?” Erica prompts, her voice calm but insistent.
There’s no need to spell it out - whoever set her up could be an old enemy or someone she pissed off recently. Candice knows that. But admitting it out loud is a different thing entirely.
She looks up, meeting Erica’s gaze for half a second before glancing away.
In her line of work, secrets are currency.
You don’t give them away - not even to people who claim to be on your side.
“You can trust me, Candice.” Erica’s voice is softer now, carrying just a hint of something persuasive. “Right now, I’m probably your only friend.”
Candice swallows.
She knows that.
And yet…the words don’t come easily.
She lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding, fingers tightening around the mug before she finally says it.
“I’m working on exposing an illegal gambling ring.”
A silence stretches between them. Erica doesn’t react - not visibly - but Candice knows she’s just given her something valuable.
There’s no taking it back now.
Candice exhales sharply, as if saying the words has forced out all the air in her lungs.
“One of the key players is a bookie, Sue Cline. Word is, she’s got a lot of people in the red - people who work for the city, some of them in influential positions.”
Erica sets her mug down on the counter.
Her fingers tap once against the ceramic, a barely-there motion, but Candice doesn’t miss it.
A sign of interest. Calculation.
“That’s a hell of a story,” Erica says, tilting her head. “And a dangerous one.”
Candice almost laughs. But it’s bitter. Dry.
“You don’t say.”
She finally meets Erica’s eyes, and there’s something raw there - something like fear, something like defiance.
She’s a journalist. She knew the risks. But this? This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Could she have cops in her pocket?”
Erica’s question is quiet. Not accusatory. Just… leading.
Candice hesitates.
Does she?
She suspected. Maybe.
But she hadn’t gotten that far yet.
And now, someone’s tried to take her out of the equation.
She sets her coffee down, crossing her arms, trying to regain some sense of control.
“Can't say for sure. I was working my way up to that.”
A muscle in Erica’s jaw flexes slightly.
“Guess someone didn’t want to give you the chance.”
Erica empties her mug, then sets it gently down on the steel and glass coffee table.
“I know how hard this is on you and I might sound very cliché, but try to get some sleep.” She stands, reaching for her coat and her handbag. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Believe me.”
Candice gives a dry, humorless chuckle. “Sleep. Right.”
Erica doesn’t push. Instead, she gives a brief nod. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Stay here and avoid the news. Don’t talk to anybody who’s not me or my staff. If you need anything, I’ll have my assistant handle it.”
She walks toward the door, then halts briefly and gives Candice an encouraging smile. “Good night, Candice.”
Then she’s gone, moving down the hallway with purpose.
Behind her, Candice closes the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silence.
~~~
Candice sits in the passenger seat, silent, staring out the window, her hands still clutching the paper bag from lockup.
Erica doesn’t press her.
She knows the weight of the past 24 hours is still settling, the aftershock of a night in a jail cell crawling under Candice’s skin. It’s like a ghost she hasn’t shaken off yet.
So, Erica lets the silence breathe.
The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on the asphalt.
By the time they reach Queens, the streets are bathed in amber light. The Volvo’s tires crunch over loose gravel as Erica pulls into the parking lot of a nondescript brick apartment complex.
Candice shifts, eyes scanning the lot.
“That’s where I parked.” She lifts a hand, pointing to a space near the far end, just outside the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Right there. When I came down in the morning, the car was still locked. Or at least, I thought it was.”
Erica cuts the engine. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies the space.
It’s tucked away enough that someone could break into a car without drawing much attention.
Not ideal for a quick smash-and-grab. But for someone with the right skills…?
Entirely possible.
Candice presses her lips together. “Anyone could’ve gotten to it in the dark.”
Erica steps out of the car, scanning the area.
She imagines it.
A shadow moving in the night. A quick flick of a lockpick or a cloned key fob. A trunk popping open, a package slid inside.
And then - the call to the police to set the wheels of justice in motion.
In the morning, Candice would drive off, unaware that she’s carrying two kilos of cocaine.
Her gaze lifts.
Four security cameras overlook the lot and the entrance to the building.
She feels a sharp flicker of hope as her mind shifts into strategic mode.
If they were recording, if the footage still exists…
This could be their first real lead.
“These cameras - who controls them?”
Candice follows her gaze, then exhales. “Building management runs the security. They don’t like tenants asking questions, though. I doubt they’d just hand over footage.”
Erica’s lips press into a thin line. That’s not a problem. She knows how to get her hands on footage if it exists. “Let me take care of that,” she says.
For the first time since they left the precinct, Candice looks at her directly.
“Would you…” She hesitates, then sighs. “Would you walk me up? Maybe have a cup of coffee? I just…”
She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I don’t feel like being alone right now.”
Erica studies her for a beat.
Candice isn’t the type to admit when she needs someone. But right now, her eyes… still tired, still shaken… say it all.
Erica nods. “Sure. Let’s go.”
She steps out of the car. Candice follows, and together, they head toward the building entrance - past the cameras, past the empty parking spot, past the knowledge that someone, somehow, put those drugs in her trunk for a reason.
And Erica intends to find out who.
~~~
The soft click of the deadbolt locking behind them feels like a thin barrier between Candice and everything she just endured.
For a moment, she just stands in the entryway, exhaling slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself she’s really home.
Erica takes it all in.
The studio apartment is modern and meticulously designed - a clear reflection of someone who appreciates comfort, order, and a touch of understated luxury.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the Queens skyline, the evening glow casting warm reflections on sleek hardwood floors. The open floor plan flows seamlessly - a compact yet stylish kitchen at the far end, leading into a spacious living area furnished with a low-profile gray sofa, a glass coffee table, and carefully curated art on the walls.
Definitely not cheap.
This is the home of a woman who has worked hard to get where she is.
Candice shrugs off her blazer, tossing it over the armrest of the couch. She gestures vaguely toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee started.”
But Erica doesn’t sit.
She unbuttons her trench coat, slips it off, and drapes it neatly over a chair by the counter. Her handbag follows. Instead of retreating to the couch, she follows Candice into the kitchen.
Candice doesn’t question it.
She moves on autopilot, pulling out a French press, ground coffee, and a kettle. But Erica watches closely - noticing the small tremor in Candice’s hands as she pours the water, the way her movements are just slightly off-rhythm.
It takes a full two minutes before Candice finally pauses, hands gripping the counter’s edge.
She blinks, then lets out a small, shaky breath.
“Jesus. I’m home.”
She shakes her head like she still can’t quite believe it.
Erica leans against the counter, arms folded. “You are.” A beat. Then, gently “It’s going to take a second to feel real.”
Candice lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No kidding.”
She presses down the plunger on the French press and grabs two mugs from the cabinet.
Erica doesn’t take her eyes off her.
“We have a good shot at proving the coke wasn’t yours.”
Candice stills. Turns. “You think so?”
Erica nods. “Two kilos is a lot. That’s weight. Dealers don’t usually sit on product like that unless they’re moving it. The way it was found - an anonymous tip, wrapped in a picnic blanket? In my book, that practically screams setup.”
She watches Candice absorb this, processing the logic in Erica’s words. A small thread of tension eases in her posture, but there’s still a storm behind her eyes.
The coffee is ready. Candice pours them both a cup, hands one to Erica. She takes it but doesn’t sip.
Instead, her gaze sharpens.
“Who benefits from this?”
Candice’s fingers tighten around her mug. “What?”
“Your downfall. Your arrest.” Erica steps closer, her voice even, measured. “The first thing we ask in lawyering is Qui Bono. It’s Latin and means “Who stands to gain from this?” Any rivals in the newsroom? Someone you’ve crossed? A story you’re working on that’s ruffling the wrong feathers?”
Candice looks away, biting her lower lip.
For a long moment, she says nothing.
Then, finally… “Yeah.”
She exhales, shaking her head.
“More than one.”
Candice grips her coffee mug with both hands, her fingers curled around the ceramic like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. The warmth doesn’t quite reach her. She stares into the dark liquid, as if it holds answers she’s not ready to voice.
Across from her, Erica leans against the counter, taking a slow sip of her coffee. It’s very smooth, an expensive gourmet roast. Candice might be rattled, but she has good taste.
“And most recently?” Erica prompts, her voice calm but insistent.
There’s no need to spell it out - whoever set her up could be an old enemy or someone she pissed off recently. Candice knows that. But admitting it out loud is a different thing entirely.
She looks up, meeting Erica’s gaze for half a second before glancing away.
In her line of work, secrets are currency.
You don’t give them away - not even to people who claim to be on your side.
“You can trust me, Candice.” Erica’s voice is softer now, carrying just a hint of something persuasive. “Right now, I’m probably your only friend.”
Candice swallows.
She knows that.
And yet…the words don’t come easily.
She lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding, fingers tightening around the mug before she finally says it.
“I’m working on exposing an illegal gambling ring.”
A silence stretches between them. Erica doesn’t react - not visibly - but Candice knows she’s just given her something valuable.
There’s no taking it back now.
Candice exhales sharply, as if saying the words has forced out all the air in her lungs.
“One of the key players is a bookie, Sue Cline. Word is, she’s got a lot of people in the red - people who work for the city, some of them in influential positions.”
Erica sets her mug down on the counter.
Her fingers tap once against the ceramic, a barely-there motion, but Candice doesn’t miss it.
A sign of interest. Calculation.
“That’s a hell of a story,” Erica says, tilting her head. “And a dangerous one.”
Candice almost laughs. But it’s bitter. Dry.
“You don’t say.”
She finally meets Erica’s eyes, and there’s something raw there - something like fear, something like defiance.
She’s a journalist. She knew the risks. But this? This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Could she have cops in her pocket?”
Erica’s question is quiet. Not accusatory. Just… leading.
Candice hesitates.
Does she?
She suspected. Maybe.
But she hadn’t gotten that far yet.
And now, someone’s tried to take her out of the equation.
She sets her coffee down, crossing her arms, trying to regain some sense of control.
“Can't say for sure. I was working my way up to that.”
A muscle in Erica’s jaw flexes slightly.
“Guess someone didn’t want to give you the chance.”
Erica empties her mug, then sets it gently down on the steel and glass coffee table.
“I know how hard this is on you and I might sound very cliché, but try to get some sleep.” She stands, reaching for her coat and her handbag. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Believe me.”
Candice gives a dry, humorless chuckle. “Sleep. Right.”
Erica doesn’t push. Instead, she gives a brief nod. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Stay here and avoid the news. Don’t talk to anybody who’s not me or my staff. If you need anything, I’ll have my assistant handle it.”
She walks toward the door, then halts briefly and gives Candice an encouraging smile. “Good night, Candice.”
Then she’s gone, moving down the hallway with purpose.
Behind her, Candice closes the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silence.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Now i don't blame the 'ordinary' officer who made the arrest. He was just doing his job, at the end of the day, i mean the drugs WERE in Candice's car. However, her genuine surprise should have been within his report.
And should have made more senior officers, like the detectives in this case, start asking the sort of questions that Erica has in her mind. Maybe not to a degree as to actually drop the case against Candice yet, but they should have been asking themselves whether this is just TOO convenient. Or maybe they are 'in on it,' maybe they are in the 'pocket' of just who has set this up.
And should have made more senior officers, like the detectives in this case, start asking the sort of questions that Erica has in her mind. Maybe not to a degree as to actually drop the case against Candice yet, but they should have been asking themselves whether this is just TOO convenient. Or maybe they are 'in on it,' maybe they are in the 'pocket' of just who has set this up.
Dear @LunaDog, maybe Candice was getting a little too close to some people's doings? After all, she's an investigative journalist and some people prefer to stay in the shadows.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Fair enough, i'm sure they do. I'm possibly suggesting that these people may be powerful and rich enough to have police officers on their 'payroll.' That would surely help their perverted aims of framing an innocent person. Or maybe they're not that influential and the detectives here are just incompetent. Or as mentioned before, blindsided by the fact that Candice Summers is a well-known 'celebrity.'Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Dear @LunaDog, maybe Candice was getting a little too close to some people's doings? After all, she's an investigative journalist and some people prefer to stay in the shadows.
Please, i'm NOT trying to suggest there's anything wrong with your writing or story telling skills here, which are as outstandingly supreme as normal.
Dear @LunaDog, I love it when my readers speculate what's behind a plot. There are so many possibilities what could be at play here, it's really wild. Please, keep up the discussion, I'm happy to see that you enjoy the story and that you take the time to discuss it.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Both Scenarios are interesting - veryLunaDog wrote: 1 week ago
Fair enough, i'm sure they do. I'm possibly suggesting that these people may be powerful and rich enough to have police officers on their 'payroll.' That would surely help their perverted aims of framing an innocent person. Or maybe they're not that influential and the detectives here are just incompetent. Or as mentioned before, blindsided by the fact that Candice Summers is a well-known 'celebrity.'
My best guess at the Moment? Candice Summers is the Thorn in someone´s Side. They want discredit her, stopping her from following the Story.Dear @Caesar73, for a first-time offender like Candice, the possession of 2 kilos of coke could get her behind bars for a minimum of 8 years up to 20 years, plus fines and if the jury recognizes the intent to sell Federal charges would be triggered as well. This anonymous call has the potential to ruin her day in a major way.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica steps out of the apartment complex, the chill of the evening air hitting her. The parking lot is quiet, with most of the commuters still on the roads. The security shack sits at the edge of the lot, a squat, windowed structure bathed in the pale glow of a buzzing fluorescent light.
Inside, a bored-looking security guard - a stocky guy in his mid-50s with a coffee cup in one hand - leans back in his chair, flipping through a magazine.
Erica doesn’t bother knocking. She pushes the door open and steps inside.
The guard looks up, mildly irritated but not surprised. He’s seen her type before - people who walk in like they own the place.
“We’re not supposed to have visitors in here, lady.”
Erica smiles faintly - but it’s not friendly. It’s the kind of smile that lets people know she’s about to get what she wants. And in the case of Candice she needs results pronto.
Reaching into her coat, she pulls out her card and sets it on the desk.
“Erica Sinclair. Sinclair & Associates.”
The guard barely glances at it. “That supposed to impress me?”
Erica leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “No. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
That gets his attention.
Playing it cool, she casually pulls out her phone, absentmindedly scrolling through the screen.
“Let me guess, Rick?” she says, glancing at his name tag. “You’ve been working here, what, ten years? Good benefits and a pension, right?”
Rick squints at her. “What’s your point?”
Erica tilts her head. “My point is…I’d hate for you to lose your job and that pension. Does obstruction of justice and conspiracy sound bad enough or do you need more charges?”
Rick freezes.
The threat is real and coming from someone who seems to know exactly what she’s doing."
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Lady, I don’t want trouble. What do you want?”
Erica smiles mildly. She doesn’t like using strongarm tactics, but maybe – in this case – the ends might justify the means.
“I have good reason to believe that two nights ago, someone has been in this parking lot, manipulating the vehicle of one of your residents. I need the surveillance video, Rick.”
The demand makes the guard sit upright. This could get him into big trouble with his employer.
“But management doesn’t just hand over security footage to whoever asks.”
“I’m not whoever,” Erica says, her voice now edged with steel.
She opens her handbag and with a practiced move, she pulls out a crisp hundred-dollar bill from her purse, placing it on the desk.
“This is for your time. Not a bribe, Rick - just a favor for a favor.”
Rick stares at the bill. He knows better.
But he also knows a hard woman when he sees one – and this woman could cost him his job, one way or the other.
Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he swivels his chair toward the computer, clicking through the recorded footage.
“What night?”
“Two nights ago. 8 PM to 7 AM.”
Erica puts an USB stick on top of the bill. Without looking, Rick reaches for both, pocketing the money and, grumbling, plugs the USB stick into his computer and starts copying the files.
Erica leans against the wall of the guard shack, watching.
The booth smells like stale coffee, cold cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, the hum of the hard drive filling the silence as the video transfers.
Finally, Rick yanks the USB out and holds it out to her.
“If anyone asks, you never got this from me.”
Erica takes it and drops it into her coat pocket. “No one will ask.”
She flashes a cool smile and walks out.
“Thanks Rick. Have a good evening,” Erica does not wait for Rick to answer.
~~~
Outside, Erica forces herself not to run toward her black Volvo but to walk in measured paces.
She pulls out her phone and scrolls down to that one number she needs for specific situations.
On the second buzz, the familiar, gruff voice of John Dance, former CIA operative, now independent security consultant, comes through.
“Erica! I’ve just seen you on TV. I knew you’d be involved. Candice Summers… good gravy.”
“Hello John!” That’s all it takes. She knows that Dance is not one to beat around the bush.
“Say it, Erica. What do you need?”
She smiles. Of course, he knows that she’d not be calling to see how he’s doing.
“John, I need a name check.”
“Shoot,” He says clipped, his voice gruff as ever.
“Sue Cline, a bookie.”
For a moment there’s silence. Erica has reached her car, unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat. She hears John Dance exhale… “Sue Cline? You sure you want to dig there?”
“Positive. I’d very much like to talk to her, John.”
~~~
Inside, a bored-looking security guard - a stocky guy in his mid-50s with a coffee cup in one hand - leans back in his chair, flipping through a magazine.
Erica doesn’t bother knocking. She pushes the door open and steps inside.
The guard looks up, mildly irritated but not surprised. He’s seen her type before - people who walk in like they own the place.
“We’re not supposed to have visitors in here, lady.”
Erica smiles faintly - but it’s not friendly. It’s the kind of smile that lets people know she’s about to get what she wants. And in the case of Candice she needs results pronto.
Reaching into her coat, she pulls out her card and sets it on the desk.
“Erica Sinclair. Sinclair & Associates.”
The guard barely glances at it. “That supposed to impress me?”
Erica leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “No. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
That gets his attention.
Playing it cool, she casually pulls out her phone, absentmindedly scrolling through the screen.
“Let me guess, Rick?” she says, glancing at his name tag. “You’ve been working here, what, ten years? Good benefits and a pension, right?”
Rick squints at her. “What’s your point?”
Erica tilts her head. “My point is…I’d hate for you to lose your job and that pension. Does obstruction of justice and conspiracy sound bad enough or do you need more charges?”
Rick freezes.
The threat is real and coming from someone who seems to know exactly what she’s doing."
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Lady, I don’t want trouble. What do you want?”
Erica smiles mildly. She doesn’t like using strongarm tactics, but maybe – in this case – the ends might justify the means.
“I have good reason to believe that two nights ago, someone has been in this parking lot, manipulating the vehicle of one of your residents. I need the surveillance video, Rick.”
The demand makes the guard sit upright. This could get him into big trouble with his employer.
“But management doesn’t just hand over security footage to whoever asks.”
“I’m not whoever,” Erica says, her voice now edged with steel.
She opens her handbag and with a practiced move, she pulls out a crisp hundred-dollar bill from her purse, placing it on the desk.
“This is for your time. Not a bribe, Rick - just a favor for a favor.”
Rick stares at the bill. He knows better.
But he also knows a hard woman when he sees one – and this woman could cost him his job, one way or the other.
Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he swivels his chair toward the computer, clicking through the recorded footage.
“What night?”
“Two nights ago. 8 PM to 7 AM.”
Erica puts an USB stick on top of the bill. Without looking, Rick reaches for both, pocketing the money and, grumbling, plugs the USB stick into his computer and starts copying the files.
Erica leans against the wall of the guard shack, watching.
The booth smells like stale coffee, cold cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, the hum of the hard drive filling the silence as the video transfers.
Finally, Rick yanks the USB out and holds it out to her.
“If anyone asks, you never got this from me.”
Erica takes it and drops it into her coat pocket. “No one will ask.”
She flashes a cool smile and walks out.
“Thanks Rick. Have a good evening,” Erica does not wait for Rick to answer.
~~~
Outside, Erica forces herself not to run toward her black Volvo but to walk in measured paces.
She pulls out her phone and scrolls down to that one number she needs for specific situations.
On the second buzz, the familiar, gruff voice of John Dance, former CIA operative, now independent security consultant, comes through.
“Erica! I’ve just seen you on TV. I knew you’d be involved. Candice Summers… good gravy.”
“Hello John!” That’s all it takes. She knows that Dance is not one to beat around the bush.
“Say it, Erica. What do you need?”
She smiles. Of course, he knows that she’d not be calling to see how he’s doing.
“John, I need a name check.”
“Shoot,” He says clipped, his voice gruff as ever.
“Sue Cline, a bookie.”
For a moment there’s silence. Erica has reached her car, unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat. She hears John Dance exhale… “Sue Cline? You sure you want to dig there?”
“Positive. I’d very much like to talk to her, John.”
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Clever played by Erica. Sometimes the Sledgehammer is necessary. I wonder who that Sue is - and what role she plays ....
And so the 'fightback' begins.