Erica Sinclair - Code of Silence (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

They silenced a student and buried the evidence to protect their image.
But when Erica Sinclair steps in, the battle for justice begins.
Can she expose the truth - or will power and corruption win again?
Find out in this gripping tale where a wild party turns into a nightmare - and a young woman fights to be heard.

[Jenny_S]

A firm, familiar knock.
Even before she looks up, Erica knows who it is. Claire Messner - her assistant, her right hand, the closest thing to a friend in the world of Sinclair & Associates.

She glances at the Rolex dive watch clasped snugly around her wrist: 5:07 PM. Claire is wrapping up her day.

Outside, the golden afternoon light slants through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk in her office. The hum of the firm is fading - muted voices in the hall, the sharp click of heels against marble, the distant chime of the elevator.

"Yes, please," Erica says, setting down her pen.

The door creaks open an inch. Claire peers inside. "Erica?"

Something in her voice - hesitant, careful - makes Erica sit up a little straighter.
"What can I do for you?"

Claire exhales. Then, she opens the door wider.
"I wonder if you can spare me and my niece Sasha a minute."

Erica blinks. Niece?

Claire is married to Richard - happily, as far as Erica can tell - but she’s never mentioned a sibling. Never talked about family beyond the occasional comment about her husband. Then again, Erica keeps her private life to herself. It’s no surprise others do the same.
Her curiosity flickers, but her expression remains even.

"Sure. Why not?"

Claire steps aside. A teenager hesitates in the doorway.

Sasha Lambert.
The girl is young - late teens, maybe eighteen. Shoulder-length wavy brown hair, deep brown eyes, pretty in a soft, unassuming way.
Her pleated skirt and maroon sweatshirt mark her as a Liberty College student.
But it’s the way she carries herself that Erica notices first.

She grips her bag like it’s the only solid thing in the room, knuckles bone-white.
Her eyes flick around the office, taking in the imposing bookshelves, the framed diplomas, the sleek mahogany desk.
But she won’t meet Erica’s gaze. Not for more than a second.

The stiff posture. The shoulders, slightly hunched - bracing for impact. The way she barely breathes, as if any moment, the walls might close in on her.

Fear. And maybe shame too.
Erica recognizes it instantly and a cold feeling settles in her chest.

Claire touches Sasha’s arm - a silent reassurance - before nodding toward the chairs across from the desk.

"Have a seat." Erica’s voice is calm, measured. The quiet authority of a woman who commands courtrooms.

Sasha hesitates. Then, slowly, she sinks into the chair.

Erica leans forward, folding her hands on the desk, eyes locked onto the girl’s.
No judgment. No rush. Just waiting.
"And tell me" she says, her tone softer now, "what I can do for you."


~~~


Sasha swallows hard. She opens her mouth - but nothing comes out.

A whisper.
A breathy rasp.
Too quiet.

Claire doesn’t speak. Just rises, crosses the room to the crystal decanter on the coffee table by the window. The faint gurgle of water fills the silence.
She sets the glass in front of her niece. “Drink some water, Sasha. Mrs. Sinclair will understand.”

Sasha hesitates.
Then, fingers trembling, she grips the glass. Takes a slow sip. Breathes.
"I’m…I have…"
The words catch in her throat. Like she’s choking on them.

Erica doesn’t press. She waits.

Sasha inhales shakily. "I’m a student at Liberty College." Her voice is thin, fragile. "Three months ago… I… I was at a party. A frat party, you know…"

Yes. Erica knows.

Fraternities. Brotherhoods wrapped in hyper-masculine bravado, famous for raucous parties where alcohol flows freely - too freely.
Underage girls lured in with drinks disguised as harmless. Made to go down easily. Until the world tilts.

She nods, quietly waiting.
"Just tell me what happened."

Sasha grips the glass tighter. "There was alcohol, Mrs. Sinclair."
A pause.
"I… didn’t want to drink, but… Coke with rum. Coke with… I don’t know what."

Of course.
The usual.
Hard liquor mixed with soda.
The taste masked. The effect creeping up - until there’s no fight left.

"Steve… he’s kind of cute. He’s the Quarterback of the football team…"
She falters.

Claire squeezes the girl’s shoulder. "Just tell her, like you told me."

Sasha nods. "I kind of liked him. I mean… all the girls like him."
She stops. Her grip on the glass so tight Erica expects it to break.
"He took me to his room. Told me to rest for a minute so I’d feel better."

Erica’s stomach tightens. She has a bad feeling about this.

Sasha swallows, hard - then it spills out.
"I didn’t want it, Mrs. Sinclair." Her voice cracks. "I cried. I struggled. I told him to stay off me."

Erica forces herself to stay still. To breathe slowly.

"He tied my wrists with a scarf… stuffed a sock in my mouth and…"
Sasha chokes.
Tears spill.
The rest doesn’t need to be said.

Erica knows.

Sasha’s voice turns hollow. "When he let me go, he told me how great it was. How much I must’ve liked it." Her jaw tightens. "He even offered me a ride home."

The silence in the room is suffocating.
Claire’s grip on her niece’s shoulder tightens.

Erica speaks carefully. "Did you go to the police or the ER?"

Sasha shakes her head. "No."

A pause.

"I went to the Dean of Students. Mrs. Childers. Gave her my ripped shorts. My…" She swallows. "Bloody underwear."

Erica’s fingers press together. Here it comes.

"She promised to look into it. Said I'd get justice."

Erica can imagine the ending.
"And?"

Sasha lets out a bitter, broken laugh. "They called me to the panel. Said my claims were unsubstantiated. That it was consensual."

Erica closes her eyes for half a second.

Sasha grips the empty glass like an anchor. "She said I should be more careful. That underage girls shouldn’t drink. Like it was all my fault.”
Her voice breaks.

Erica exhales.
The system failed Sasha.
Deliberately.

And someone will have to answer for it.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Yet again, a truly brilliant start here. You've already got me 'hooked!'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, let's see if I can keep you hooked! Shall we continue?

[Jenny_S]

Claire’s voice is quiet but unwavering, her arm still wrapped around Sasha. “Her parents don’t know, Erica. It’s… difficult.”

Difficult. Absolutely.

Erica exhales through her nose, pressing her fingertips together as she weighs the word. “That’s putting it mildly,” she murmurs. “But if it was easy, it would’ve been resolved three months ago.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. There are questions - hard, ugly questions - that need answers before she can even begin to think about justice.
Her gaze drifts back to Sasha.
The girl is gripping the empty glass so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. She looks exhausted - hollowed out by months of carrying this weight alone.
Too long.
“You did the right thing telling your aunt.” Erica keeps her voice steady, deliberate.

The truth is, Sasha should have spoken up sooner - should have gone to the hospital, to the police.
But she doesn’t need to hear that now.
What matters is that she finally has opened up. That someone finally believes her. That someone is finally listening.

Sasha nods, but her posture doesn’t change. Her shoulders remain hunched, braced for impact - disbelief, judgment, another dismissal.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Erica continues. “Do you think you can answer them?”

A flicker of hesitation crosses Sasha’s face. Then she glances at Claire, who gives her a reassuring squeeze.
Sasha swallows, then nods, her voice a little stronger. “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Erica flips open her notepad. The quiet scratch of pencil on paper is the only sound in the dim office.

“You and Steve,” she begins. “Were you alone in his room? Did anyone else see what happened?”

“No.”

That was expected. These things rarely have witnesses.
“Did you say or do anything that he could have taken as a sign that you wanted him to do what he did?”

The reaction is immediate. Sasha stiffens, her entire body coiling like a wound spring. When she speaks, her voice is sharp, almost a snarl. “No!”

Of course not.
She had been tipsy, dressed for a party, and in Steve’s mind, that told him all he needed to know. A frat boy’s entitlement, wrapped in a smirk.

Consent. For crying out loud.

Erica lets the silence settle for a few seconds, giving Sasha space to breathe before asking, “Is there any chance you might be pregnant from what happened?”

Sasha shakes her head, jaw clenched. “No. I tested. Several times.”

One less battle to fight.

She doesn’t drag this out more than necessary. Sasha sees this guy every day. Walks the same campus. Endures the whispers, the stares, the smirks.
Just another girl from just another party, reduced to nothing more than a story swapped over beers and high-fives.
A joke.
A conquest.

Erica closes her notepad and leans forward, meeting Sasha’s eyes.
“Listen to me.” Her voice is steady, certain. “If you want, I’ll look into this. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Sasha nods, lips pressed together, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
For the first time in three months, she looks like she almost believes it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair,” she whispers. “The last few months have been…”

“I can imagine.” Erica’s voice softens. She pushes a business card across the desk. “I’ll get back to you soon. If you remember anything - anyone who saw or heard something - call me.”

Sasha nods. And in that moment, something in her shifts. Small, but real. She knows she’s not alone anymore.

Erica watches as Claire guides her niece to the elevator, her hand a protective weight on the girl’s shoulder. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and then they’re gone.


~~~


Alone again, Erica exhales and turns back to her screen. Her fingers move swiftly over the keyboard.
A few keystrokes bring up the Liberty College website. It’s exactly what she expected - an overly polished, hyper-stylized advertisement. More branding than education.

Videos of bright-eyed students in classrooms, laughing on sunlit quads, victorious athletes hoisting trophies. A perfectly curated illusion.

She clicks through the athletics section until she finds what she’s looking for:
The football team.

The Sons of Liberty.

Erica lets out a dry chuckle. The name alone drips with historical irony.
The original Sons of Liberty - not the sanitized, patriotic version taught in schools - were professional agitators. Thugs in powdered wigs who spread propaganda, incited riots, and beat up anyone who dared remain loyal to the Crown.
Heroes? Hardly.
Brutes who thrived on intimidation and violence? Absolutely.

How fitting for a rapist.

She scrolls through the team’s glossy page.

And there he is.
Steve Lonnegan, Quarterback.

She studies his official portrait. Chiseled jaw, perfect teeth, the right amount of cocky charm in his smile. The kind of guy who’s been told his whole life that he’s special. Untouchable. That the rules don’t apply to him.

The kind of guy who believes it.

A soft knock on her door pulls her attention away from the website.

It’s Claire.
She doesn’t wait for permission to enter. That’s fine. After hours, their relationship shifts. They aren’t boss and assistant any longer. Just two women standing on the same side of a battle.

“Thanks for seeing Sasha,” Claire says, clasping her hands together. “She came to me at lunch today - she didn’t know what to do anymore.”

“She did the right thing,” Erica replies. “And so did you.” She exhales, rolling her pencil between her fingers. “I just don’t know how we can substantiate her claims. It’s been three months. No police report. No hospital visit.”

Claire’s lips press into a tight line. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Erica leans back, fingers steepled, her mind already moving two steps ahead.
Difficult isn’t the same as impossible.

“But we don’t back down, Claire,” she says, meeting her assistant’s gaze. Her voice is steel now. “No retreat. No surrender.”

Claire’s small, knowing smile is instant.
“Right.”


~~~


The drive home is short. But her mind lingers on the frat party Sasha described.

She envisions it.
The pounding bass.
The thick, humid air laced with alcohol and perfumes.
The unspoken rules.
Girls don’t just walk in. They’re let in.

A doorman, likely an upperclassman with a red Solo cup in hand, sizing up every girl at the door. A six out of ten or higher gets a nod.

Sasha - young, pretty, dressed for the occasion? No hesitation. She’s in.

Erica grips the wheel tighter.
She knows the statistics. Women are six times more likely to be raped at a frat party than anywhere else on campus.
Colleges should have put a stop to these parties years ago. But they didn’t.
Because the students throwing them aren’t just random kids.
They’re the sons of the men whose names are engraved on donor plaques in the administration building.
And the system keeps protecting them.

She pulls into her underground parking garage, the black Volvo humming as she eases into her reserved space.


~~~

[LunaDog]

No police report. No hospital visit.

In other words, no evidence.