Erica Sinclair - Code of Silence (M/F)

[LunaDog]

Maybe Erica has poked the hornet's nest here.

As seems to be her 'role' in life!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, she seems to have a talent for that.

[Jenny_S]

Erica moves with practiced efficiency, pouring two scoops of her favorite chocolate-flavored protein powder into the tall cup. Warm almond milk swirls around it as she snaps on the lid, the familiar motion a brief moment of calm amid the storm brewing in her mind.
Sasha Lambert’s case is going to be a battle, and she needs to be at her sharpest.

Exiting the break room, she takes a sip of her protein shake, her mind already sifting through the next steps in Sasha’s case. The hearing. The missing evidence. The Dean’s evasions. Her phone vibrates - who’s calling?

But before she can check it…
“Where the hell is she? I want to see her NOW!”

Erica freezes mid-step, pulse quickening. The firm is a place of order, control. Nobody raises their voice here - certainly not like that.
She glances toward Claire, who looks up from her desk, eyebrows raised in confusion. A silent question: Who is that? Claire shrugs, just as clueless.

Then another voice - Holly Beck’s, their young receptionist. Strained. Nervous. “Sir, please lower your voice. If you have an appointment…”

“I don’t NEED a damn appointment!” the man bellows.

Erica’s jaw tightens. Her heels click sharply against the polished floors as she strides down the hallway, Claire trailing close behind.

The scene that greets her is enough to make her blood simmer.

A massive man looms over Holly’s reception desk, his broad shoulders heaving with barely restrained fury. His face is flushed, veins bulging at his temples, and his hands press into the desk as if he’s about to turn green and rip the furniture in half.
Holly, usually composed, grips the edge of her chair, looking like she might dive under the desk at any second. Her fingers tremble, her face is pale but determined. The way the massive man looms over her - fists planted, shoulders squared - makes it clear that he’s one word away from violence.

Erica doesn’t hesitate. Her voice, cool and razor-sharp, slices through the commotion like a gavel striking a courtroom bench.
“What is going on here?”

The man’s head snaps toward her. His dark eyes blaze, but he hesitates just a fraction of a second - enough to tell Erica that, despite his fury, he recognizes authority when he hears it.
A tense silence stretches between them.

She squares her shoulders, gaze unwavering. “I suggest you lower your voice and explain why you’re terrorizing my receptionist. Before I throw you out myself!”

The man exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. He straightens, towering over Erica by at least a foot, but she doesn’t flinch.
“I’m here to talk about that little skank Sasha Lambert,” he says, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

Erica’s fingers tighten around her shaker. The pieces click into place.
Of course.
She lifts her chin slightly. “And you are?”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Steve Lonnegan’s father.”


~~~


Erica meets Ernest Lonnegan’s seething glare with an unshaken stare of her own. He’s a man used to getting his way - used to people stepping back when he steps forward. But she’s not intimidated.
This is her office and she will not back down.

“Mr. Lonnegan.” Erica’s voice is measured, calm. But there’s an edge to it, sharp as a scalpel. “You have two options.” She takes a step forward, letting the weight of her words sink in. “One: you take a breath, lower your voice, and we have a civil discussion.” She tilts her head slightly, voice softening just a fraction. “Or two: I show you the door and you can yell at the NYPD instead.”

The words hang in the air like a poised blade.

Lonnegan’s jaw tightens, his face flushed from barely restrained anger. His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to slam a fist onto Holly’s desk. The veins on his forearms bulge beneath the cuff of his tailored shirt.

For a moment, Erica wonders if he’s going to explode after all.

Then, with a visible effort, he exhales through his nose, straightens his shoulders, and smooths a hand over his tie. A businessman collecting himself before a negotiation.
“You’re the lawyer who talked to my son on the training field this morning,” he states. His voice is still edged with aggression, but he’s holding himself back.

Erica nods, crossing her arms over her chest, her stance firm. “Exactly.”
Then, in a deliberate move, she extends a hand. “Erica Sinclair.”

For a second, he hesitates.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. As if deciding to test her, he grips her hand - firm, almost crushing.

But Erica doesn’t flinch.
She meets his eyes, unwavering.
And just as quickly, he releases steam, lips pressing into something that isn’t quite a smile. A new kind of assessment flickers in his gaze.

Erica smiles curtly. The unexpected civility, the gesture, threw him off balance.
Just as she had hoped, instinct takes over.

“Ernest Lonnegan,” he says.
The handshake is brief but telling. He respects strength.

“I was hoping…” he begins, but Erica is already moving on. She turns toward Claire, who’s been watching the exchange with wary eyes.

“Would you please fix some coffee for Mr. Lonnegan and me? We’ll be in the large conference room,” she says, her tone light, as if they’re discussing a simple business matter.
Without missing a beat, she gestures down the hallway. “Second door on the right, Mr. Lonnegan. Our coffee is excellent.”

She doesn’t wait for his reply.
Turning on her heel she walks ahead, fully expecting him to follow.
And he does.

Behind them, Holly leans back in her chair, exhaling a slow, disbelieving breath. “I swear to God, Claire, I thought he was going to snap.”

Claire watches Erica’s retreating figure. “He still might,” she murmurs. “And I think she knows it.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

It's quite easy to see just where young Steve gets his arrogance from. Very much a case of 'like father, like son.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, exactly. He's a chip off the old block. But something tells me that they are going to meet the axe...

[Jenny_S]

The conference room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the HVAC and the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sleek glass and chrome surfaces reflect the tension coiled between the two figures at the table.

Erica moves with composed ease, lowering herself into a chair with practiced grace. She laces her fingers together, resting them lightly atop the table as she watches Ernest Lonnegan.

He doesn’t sit.
Instead, he stands behind the chair across from her, gripping the backrest with both hands, his fingers pressing into the leather. His massive frame is rigid with barely restrained aggression, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

“Have a seat, Mr. Lonnegan,” Erica says smoothly, her voice calm, deliberate. “What can I do for you?”

For a beat, he doesn’t move.
His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and for a moment, it seems as though he’ll refuse out of sheer obstinacy.
But then, with a sharp exhale, he yanks the chair back and lowers himself into it, his movements stiff with tension.

As if on cue, the door whispers open, and Claire steps in, carrying a sleek silver tray with two steaming cups of coffee. She moves with quiet efficiency, setting one in front of Erica, the other in front of Lonnegan.
The rich aroma fills the space, but neither Erica nor Lonnegan acknowledges it.

Claire lingers just a moment longer than necessary - her sharp gaze flicking between them - before retreating silently, the door clicking shut behind her.

The big man doesn’t touch his coffee. His fingers flex against the tabletop, his knuckles still taut.
“My son told me you had him pulled off the field this morning,” he says at last.
His voice is measured now, controlled, but the rage hasn’t dissipated - it’s just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.

Erica tilts her head slightly, an unreadable expression settling over her features.

“You told him,” Lonnegan continues, voice thick with barely contained anger, “that you think he raped that little skank…”

Erica doesn’t blink. She doesn’t react at all, and something in the room shifts.
The silence is charged, stretched tight as a drawn bowstring.

“Mr. Lonnegan,” she says at last, her voice cool, even. “Mrs. Lambert told me that your son threw her onto his bed, forced himself on her and when she struggled and cried for help, he tied her wrists and gagged her.”

She lets the words settle between them, lets them land like stones into still water.
Lonnegan’s jaw tics.
His shoulders rise and fall with the slow burn of his temper.

Erica leans forward slightly, her voice dipping into something softer - too soft. A scalpel, not a hammer.
“How would you react,” she asks, “if you were the father of a young woman, and this happened to her?”

The silence that follows is absolute.
A flicker of something crosses Lonnegan’s face - something quick, almost imperceptible. But just as swiftly, it’s gone, buried beneath cold, rigid anger.
He exhales sharply through his nose, pushing back against the implication. “Ridiculous. This is not the point!”

Erica doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, she leans back, reaching for her coffee with steady fingers, lifting it to her lips.
“If your son did nothing wrong,” she says, her tone light, almost casual, “then he should have no problem stating, on record, exactly what happened that night.”

She takes a slow sip.
The moment stretches.
Lonnegan’s fingers twitch against the tabletop, but he doesn’t speak.
Erica sets her cup down with a soft, deliberate click.

“After all,” she adds smoothly, watching him carefully, “if no crime was committed, then he has nothing to fear, hasn’t he?”

The weight of her words settles in the air like an unseen force.
And for the first time since stepping into the room, Ernest Lonnegan has nothing to say.


~~~


Erica watches as Ernest Lonnegan pushes his coffee cup away, his thick fingers splaying over the tabletop as if claiming reign over the room.
A small power move - transparent and juvenile.
"The whole thing was investigated by the school," he growls, his voice a low rumble of barely restrained aggression, laced with warning. "They confirmed that nothing happened - at least nothing worth following up on. And that’s the way it is." His eyes narrow. "So you can stop stirring the shit."

Across from him, Erica Sinclair remains perfectly composed.
The slight lift of her brow is the only indication she even acknowledges the veiled threat.
She takes a slow sip of her coffee - two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk, just the way she likes it. The warm sweetness grounds her, but more importantly, it gives her time to observe Lonnegan and unnerve him.

The contrast between her composed demeanor and his barely contained anger couldn’t be more apparent. His posture, the muscle clenching in his jaw, the restless tap of his fingers.
He wants to dominate her, thumping his chest like a gorilla.
She refuses to give in.

"Mr. Lonnegan," Erica says at last, setting her cup down with a soft clink, "I’m not in this business to “stir the shit” as you so eloquently put it. Here, we deal with justice and truth."
She meets his glare head-on. "And if your son were in Mrs. Lambert’s place, I imagine you’d want someone to look into his case just as thoroughly."

A muscle jumps in Lonnegan’s jaw, but he says nothing.
Erica leans back, crossing one leg over the other in a way that suggests absolute confidence. "We can also agree, I think, that a teachers’ roundtable assessing whether a crime occurred and whether disciplinary action is warranted is not the same as a court deciding the matter."

Her voice remains measured, almost casual, but there’s a blade beneath it.
Erica watches him closely. She knows when to push and when to let a battle rest. The truth is, she doesn’t know if she has enough to bring Steve Lonnegan to trial. And the thought of him walking free, unscathed, gnaws at her - a slow-burning itch she cannot yet scratch.

Lonnegan exhales sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. He shifts in his chair, the leather creaking under his bulk, and then - as she expects - he rises, looming over the table while Erica remains seated.
Calm.
Unbothered.
He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, vicious and deliberate. "If you drag this into court, Mrs. Sinclair, if you drag my boy’s name through the mud, my lawyers will bury you and that little skank in it."

Silence lingers, thick and charged.
The air in the room tightens.

Erica finally stands, moving with grace and smoothness.
Not hurried.
Not rattled.
Just… done.

She adjusts the sleeve of her blazer and fixes him with an icy, unwavering stare.
"I believe we’re done exchanging messages, Mr. Lonnegan." She gestures toward the door. "You may leave now."

Irritated by being directed by this woman, his nostrils flare again, but she’s already turned away, reaching for her coffee as if he’s of no more importance than an inconvenient client running five minutes late.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "And before you go - feel free to apologize to Miss Beck for trying to intimidate her. That would be the civilized thing to do, wouldn’t it?"

She doesn’t look at him, but she can feel the weight of his anger filling the room like a storm cloud.
Lets him simmer.
Lets him choke on his own arrogance.

For another moment, Lonnegan doesn’t move.
Not immediately.
He’s assessing, recalculating.
This is not how these conversations usually go for him.

Finally, with a barely contained huff, he turns and stalks toward the door.
He doesn’t slam it behind him, but the force of his exit leaves a faint tremor in the glass paneling.
Erica watches the ripples in her coffee cup settle.
Good. Let the bastard stew.

As he steps into the elevator, Claire glances at Erica, then back at the retreating form of the man who thought he could strong-arm his way through this law firm.

She exhales softly, then reaches for Erica’s coffee mug. “I’ll get you a fresh cup,” she murmurs.

Erica doesn’t look away from the door that just shut behind Ernest Lonnegan.
“No need,” she says. “I enjoyed that one.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

Obviously this is a man who is used to steamrolling situations to his own advantage. But Round One to Erica, i believe. And she showed her REAL class in her 'invitation' to apologise to Holly. Which a proper gentleman would do of course, but maybe on reflection i've got that wrong, a proper gentleman wouldn't need to.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Ernest "Hulk" Lonnegan is quite a piece of work, but I don't think, his huffing and puffing got him anywhere except one step closer to a heart attack.

[LunaDog]

Although i'd NEVER wish that upon anybody, in this case it'll be entirely self-inflicted if it does occur.

[Jenny_S]

Five minutes later, Claire Messner steps into Erica’s office, shutting the door behind her with quiet deliberation.
“Sorry to intrude, Erica,” she says, her voice laced with concern. Her usual poised demeanor is absent - there’s tension in her shoulders, in the way she grips the file in her hands as if bracing for impact. “I’d like to ask…”

Erica waves her in before she can finish. “Please sit,” she says simply.

Claire hesitates for only a second before lowering herself into the chair across from Erica’s desk. She doesn’t want to hear what she already suspects, but she needs to.

Erica exhales, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the polished mahogany wood. No sugarcoating. Claire deserves the truth - not just because Sasha is her niece, but because she trusted Erica enough to bring the girl to her in the first place.

“Truth be told, Claire, things don’t look good.” Her voice is steady, factual, but there’s a weight behind it. A heaviness that settles into the space between them.

Claire’s fingers tighten around the armrests. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke with Steve Lonnegan this morning and confronted him.” Erica continues, watching her assistant’s expression carefully. “He didn’t even bother denying it. Told me, word for word, that he did what all the girls want him to do.”

Claire’s breath catches.

Erica presses on. “His bottom line was: no cops, no witnesses, no crime.”

Silence.

For a long moment, Claire doesn’t move. Then - her hands fly up, palms pressing against her temples as she sucks in a sharp breath. The disbelief, the anger, the sheer horror of those words settling into her like a lead weight.
Erica lets the reaction sit.
Some things can’t be softened.

“The ugly fact of the matter is,” she continues, voice unwavering, “We have nothing. No evidence, no physical proof. Lonnegan knows it. His father knows it. And that Dean?” Her lips press together. “She knows it too.”

Claire shakes her head, eyes burning with frustration. “But the torn and bloody clothes - Sasha said…”

“Gone,” Erica says flatly. “If they even existed, they’ve probably been destroyed. Without them, we have no leverage. And unless we find a witness…” She lets the words trail off, leaving Claire to complete the thought herself.

If they can’t flip the script, Steve Lonnegan walks.
That is what terrifies even a battle-hardened lawyer like Erica Sinclair. She knows exactly how easily she would tear this case to pieces in court if she defended Lonnegan.

Claire lets out a slow, uneven breath, her face tight with barely restrained fury.
“What exactly did his father tell you?” she asks.

Erica’s lips curve, not a smile, but something colder.
“He told me to stop stirring the shit.” She leans back, folding her arms. “His words, not mine. But looking at this objectively? That might be our only option - unless we can find a way to turn this ship around.”

Claire doesn’t answer right away. She stares at the desk, her jaw tight, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
Then, slowly, she nods.
“I understand.” she says, though the words feel like sandpaper in her throat. She swallows, steels herself. “Shall I call Sasha in? She has a right to know.”

Erica inclines her head. “Please do. Maybe she can think of someone who could help.”

Claire rises, but there’s something different about her now - a quiet, seething determination beneath the despair.

And as the door clicks shut behind her, Erica watches the city skyline beyond her window, hands clasped before her. She needs a witness.
She just hopes Sasha can give her one.


~~~


The office is quieter at this hour, the usual hum of phones and conversations replaced by the faint rustle of papers and the occasional click of a keyboard.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the New York skyline glows against the deepening blue of the evening sky, headlights snaking through the gridlocked streets below.

Holly greets Sasha at the reception desk with a small, sympathetic smile and leads her to the smaller of the two conference rooms.
It’s a cozy, professional space - low lighting, sleek glass table, plush leather chairs. Yet, despite the warmth of the setting, Sasha, still wearing her pleated skirt and an oversized maroon hoodie emblazoned with the Liberty College logo, sits stiffly, hands folded in her lap, her knees bouncing anxiously.

A few minutes later, the door opens, and Erica steps inside, Claire following close behind.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Sasha,” Erica says, setting her leather-bound legal pad on the table.
Claire offers Sasha a small bottle of water, which she accepts with shaky fingers.

“I appreciate you making time for me,” Sasha murmurs, avoiding their eyes.

Erica leans forward slightly, lacing her fingers together. “Sasha, I’m going to be completely honest with you. Right now, things don’t look good.”

Sasha’s breath catches, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I spoke with Steve Lonnegan this morning.” Erica’s voice is calm, measured. “I confronted him, and while he didn’t outright deny that something happened, he made it clear he doesn’t believe he did anything wrong. I also met with Dean Childers. The torn and bloody clothes you said you gave her? They are most likely gone.”

Sasha’s knuckles whiten around the water bottle.

Erica sighs, her gaze steady. “That means if we don’t find a witness - someone who saw or heard something – someone who can back up what you told us - it’s your word against his. And in a case like this, the DA’s office may not want to move forward.”

Silence.

Sasha bites her lip, trembling. “I told you… I drank. I felt tipsy. I followed him to his dorm.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t agree to being tied up. Or gagged. Or…” She stops, squeezing her eyes shut. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

Erica’s expression doesn’t waver, but inside, her frustration builds - not at Sasha, but at the system, at the reality of cases like this. The system doesn’t support claims – even of this caliber – without hard, unshakable evidence.

“I know it’s painful, Sasha,” she says gently. “But if you remember anything else, even something small - someone who saw you leave the party in those torn clothes, someone who might have heard something - I need you to tell me. Even the tiniest detail could change everything.”

Sasha nods stiffly, but the defeated slump of her shoulders says it all.

After the girl leaves, Erica exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. Claire watches her for a moment before speaking.
“You think we can win this?”

Erica doesn’t answer right away. The truth is, she doesn’t know.
“I think we need something more,” she finally says. “And right now, we don’t have it.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

As said before there appears to be no real evidence. So, things don't look too good at this precise moment. As Erica seems, however reluctantly, to have accepted. Will some good news turn up in time?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, after three months there's not a lot to be brought forward as evidence and it's Sasha's word against Lonnegan's. It would take a small miracle to flip this script.

[Caesar73]

Well, looks like this Case will be difficult. At the Moment Sasha seems to have not very good Cards. But she has Erica

I do like Erica´s Picture above dear @Jenny_S !!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for your comment. The case might be a hard nut to crack, but sometimes...

[Jenny_S]

The soft click of the door unlocking is met with an immediate response - Spot and Tiger, Erica’s two kittens, streaking toward her, tails high.
Spot meows loudly, demanding attention, while Tiger circles her feet, rubbing against her legs.

“Alright, alright, I missed you too,” she murmurs, setting her bag down and crouching to scratch their heads.

She moves through her usual routine - switching on the under-cabinet lighting in the kitchen, rinsing out the kittens’ food and water bowls, filling them with fresh kibble and water.
These mundane tasks are grounding, a welcome reprieve from the weight of the evening.

As the critters devour their dinner and Erica hangs her skirt and blazer out to air and she unbuttons her blouse, ready to swap it for her well-worn grey sweat suit - the one she jokingly calls her “cat mom” uniform - her phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It’s a text message from an unknown number signed Hannah Eastman.

I need to talk to you.
It’s about Sasha Lambert.
Meet me at McCandless.
It’s important.

Erica’s eyes narrow slightly. With a few practiced touches on her preferred search engine, she finds out that McCandless is a bar in Queens, not too far from Liberty College.
She has no idea who Hannah Eastman could be and how she might be connected to this case, but maybe this is the witness she needs.

Taking a deep breath, she considers the danger that might await her. Messages like these have lured her into a trap before and Sasha or no Sasha, she is not inclined to walk into one tonight.

Still, she types her reply:

On my way

She pulls on a pair of fitted blue jeans, sneakers and slips into her brown leather jacket, the one which still bears the marks of her confrontation with Tony Maze, the man who shot her in the back that one night.

Besides a small flashlight, she pockets her phone, purse and keys and heads for the door.


~~~


The underground parking garage hums with low fluorescent lighting as Erica strides toward her black Volvo.
A touch on the button on her key fob, unlocks the doors and she slides into the driver’s seat. She keys the address for McCandless Bar & Grill into the car’s GPS and turns the ignition, hearing the smooth hum of the engine in the still of the garage.

She pulls the Volvo up the ramp and, merging into traffic, navigates the chaos of Manhattan with practiced ease.
Even at this hour, the streets are alive - horns blaring, pedestrians weaving between yellow cabs, neon signs flickering overhead.

She takes the Queensboro Bridge, her fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel as she considers the text.

Who the hell is Hannah Eastman? And more importantly - what does she have to say?


~~~


Erica pulls her black Volvo into a parallel parking spot on Kissena Boulevard, shifting into park. Before cutting the engine, she takes a slow breath and scans her surroundings. Experience tells her that checking her surroundings might not be a bad idea.

The boulevard hums with typical evening life. Streetlights cast long, golden streaks onto the pavement, the glow of neon signs flickering in reflections on wet asphalt from an earlier drizzle. A group of men lingers outside a nearby bodega, sharing cigarettes, their voices blending with the occasional distant honk of a cab. Across the street, an old man walks his dog, muttering to himself.

Erica watches the rearview mirrors for a full minute. No obvious tails. No parked cars with silhouettes that seem too patient.

Still, she slides her hand into her jacket pocket and wraps her fingers around the small flashlight she brought along. It’s not much, but in the right hands, it could be a blinding distraction - just enough time to turn the tables if this is a setup.

With a final glance around, she steps out, locking the Volvo behind her.


~~~

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for your comment. The case might be a hard nut to crack, but sometimes...

At least Erica is a good Nutcracker