Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing (M/F)

[LunaDog]

I hope Erica and the kittens will have a peaceful time.

Could you please tell her that Diane and I will, as usual, be seeing the children and grandchildren, after i've taken Luna for a Christmas day walk, of course.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, absolutely. Sometimes I feel as if Erica might be lurking here now and then...

[Jenny_S]

Lucy, Giovanna, and Christine, still close, look at Erica, their faces a mix of exhaustion and dawning belief.

Erica knows they are spent, emotionally and mentally.
"Alright," she says, her voice firm but kind. "You three have done something extraordinary here today. Now, for the rest of the evening, I want you to stick together. Go out, grab some dinner, watch a movie, whatever. But this," she gestures to the conference room table, to the signed affidavits resting there, "stays here. Do not, under any circumstances, discuss any of this with anyone. Not your friends, not your family, not a single soul. Understand?"

Three heads nod, their agreement solemn.
They understand the weight of secrecy.

"Good," Erica says, a small, approving nod. "Lucy, Christine, please take care of Giovanna. You’ve given us the ammunition we need. Now, we need to let the lawyers do their work."
She catches Claire's eye. "Claire will get you an Uber to take you wherever you want to go."

As the three young women gather their things, their movements slow and a little dazed, Erica turns to Claire, who is already packing up her notepad. "Claire, thank you for staying so late. I couldn't have done it without you."

Claire offers a small, tired smile. "Anytime, Erica. I’ll see you in the morning."
Erica offers a curt nod, a subtle acknowledgment of the truth in Claire’s words.
She grabs her briefcase, the weight of the new affidavits a tangible presence inside.


~~~


The overhead lights blink out with a hollow pop, plunging the room into dusk-toned shadow.
Claire heads back to her desk for a final check while Erica walks the familiar path to the lobby.
The office is quiet now, the distant hum of the building a solitary companion.
Erica lingers a beat in the doorway before locking up - each sound echoing louder than it should in the quiet.

Down in the underground garage, the black Volvo waits.
She slides into the driver's seat, the leather cool beneath her.
The tension that had held her ramrod straight all day begins to leach from her shoulders, leaving a dull ache in its wake.
She pulls up the ramp, the city lights beginning to bloom against the deepening twilight.

Her fingers find her phone, dialing Sunrise Manor.
The phone rings for a moment, then a cheerful voice answers. "Sunrise Manor, this is Tiffany."

"Hi, Tiffany. This is Erica Sinclair, Mrs. Teran's niece. How is my aunt doing this evening?"

"Oh, Mrs. Teran is doing splendidly, Ms. Sinclair! She's currently attending our evening reading, just loving it. Such a sweet lady."

A faint smile touches Erica’s lips. "That's wonderful to hear. Could you please tell her I'll be coming to visit her tomorrow?"

"Absolutely! I'll be sure to pass that along. Have a good evening!"

"You too, Tiffany. Thanks." Erica hangs up, a tiny warmth spreading through her chest.
Elisa, safe, engaged, a fixed point in her swirling world.

A few blocks from her apartment, she pulls into the brightly lit parking lot in front of Mr. Leslie's 24/7 supermarket.

The fluorescent hum feels stark after the hushed office.
Inside, she moves through the aisles with practiced efficiency, grabbing milk, fresh produce, and then, most importantly, a packet of prime chicken breast from the meat counter.
She can almost hear Spot’s impatient yowls and Tiger’s throatier, outraged protest.
Dinner can't wait.

Back in her spacious, quiet apartment on West 72nd Street, her sanctuary, smells of wood, leather, and faint lavender.
Two tiny, furry blurs meet her at the door, tails swishing, little bodies rubbing against her legs with insistent purrs.
Spot, the black one, weaves figure eights around her ankles, while Tiger, the striped grey, attempts an ambitious leap onto her knee.

She sheds her skirt, blouse, blazer and heels, exchanging them for the soft, worn grey sweats - her "cat mom" suit. Dropping to the polished hardwood floor, the day's stress dissolves, replaced by the simple, demanding joy of her kittens.
She scratches Spot's ears, then tickles Tiger's fluffy belly, their playful antics a welcome distraction.
For a precious hour, the world shrinks to the purrs, the pounces, the soft, kneading paws, and the undeniable warmth of unconditional affection.

The crushing weight of Wallingham, the 48-hour deadline, the looming plea deal - all recede, held at bay by tiny claws and rumbling contentment.

For the first time all day, she lets her spine uncoil. In the hush of her apartment, beneath the soft paws and warm purrs, she feels it - that aching hollowness fatigue leaves behind. She dares to admit, if only to herself, how utterly drained she truly is.


~~~


The next morning passes in a blur of disciplined routine.
The early alarm, the crisp, cold air of Central Park as her feet pound the familiar five-mile loop, pushing her body until the muscles sing with controlled pain.
Back home, she showers quickly, the hot water washing away the last vestiges of fatigue.
Spot and Tiger are fed, their bowls cleaned, their morning demands met with practiced ease.
She dresses in her sharpest suit, the dark fabric a second skin, her ponytail pulled high and sleek.
This isn't just a workday; it's a battle.
She is setting everything in motion to ensure her allies - Sophie and Calloway - are on program, primed for the fight she's bringing to Loudon and Wallingham.

As she pulls the Volvo out of her building's garage, the city is already a symphony of honking cabs and rushing footsteps. She tunes the radio to a classic rock station and soon a familiar, gravelly voice fills the car.
John Fogerty.

"...Think we need a gunslinger
Somebody tough to tame this town
I think we need a gunslinger
There'll be justice all around..."

She doesn't know the full lyrics, but the chorus resonates deep in her core. Her fingers tapping the steering wheel, she joins in, her voice low, steady, a quiet hum beneath Fogerty's growl.

Gunslinger.
That’s her.
That’s what Lucy Arden needs.
That’s what justice demands.

The Volvo purrs through the morning traffic, the City Hall building rising, stark and imposing, against the clear sky. She pulls the car to the curb, parallel parking with a practiced, seamless motion. As she cuts the engine, the sudden silence inside the cabin is almost deafening.
She slides out, the low heels finding purchase on the gritty pavement, and locks the Volvo with a soft beep.
Taking a deep breath, she steels herself, the adrenaline beginning to hum in her veins, making her feel pumped up, ready. She crosses the street, her silhouette sharp against the morning sun, walking directly into the eye of the storm.

“I think we need a gunslinger…”


~~~

[LunaDog]

I should imagine that Erica would probably make for a crack shot. She has all the necessary attributes, calm under pressure, steady, and successful military heritage. She'd be quite a 'gunslinger.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, as we've learned in story #17 "Erica Sinclair - Family Ties", her dad taught her to shoot his old .45 when she was 13 - to use it as her final option, telling her that it's better to be judged by twelve than to be carried by six.
In the same story, Erica used the pistol to defend herself against Scarsdale drug dealer Julio Ramos who exploited Aunt Elisa and used the house to stash coke in the basement.

Here's the song Erica heard on the radio. Enjoy!

[LunaDog]

Yes, so she did, i remember now.

Must admit i'm not familiar with the name, and works of John Fogerty at all. The only person of this name that i do know of, and even then it's actually in the form of FogArty is former multiple World Superbike Champion Carl Fogarty. Who those of us in the U.K. might remember was 'King of the Jungle' in Ant & Dec's T.V. show 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!' in 2014.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I'm not an expert on the musician, he belonged to CCR - Creedence Clearwater Revival - and was, I think, their frontman and main songwriter. I got acquainted with his music through my dad. I guess, it's what you would call Oldies. Or Classics. However, my fav radio station, WDR 4, plays their songs all the time.

[LunaDog]

C.C.R. i HAVE heard of, although 'Bad Moon Rising' is the only song of theirs that i really know. And being well into my 60s myself, i guess that you could call me an 'oldie.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, that would put you into the same age group as my parents.

[Jenny_S]

The subtle thrum of the elevator car vibrates beneath Erica’s feet as she ascends.
She still hums the melody of the Fogerty song, a low, private battle cry.
The polished mirrors lining the cabin reflect a formidable image: a woman carved from steely resolve - calm, cool, collected.

Her tailored blazer hangs flawlessly, the cuffs crisp.
She allows herself a brief, almost imperceptible smirk at her reflection, a quiet acknowledgment of the armor she wears.
Her fingers, ever so lightly, brush across the cool steel of the Rolex dive watch, its weight familiar.
And with that touch, the creed, the promise she gave her father - and herself - surfaces, clear and unwavering: "Stand for something or fall for anything."
His voice, deep but warm, echoes in her mind, grounding her, centering her for the fight ahead.

With a soft chime, the elevator door slides open.
Erica steps into the hushed hallway without hesitation, her heels making no sound on the floor.
The air here, even at this early hour, holds the scent of quiet power.
She knocks on Sophie’s door, a measured rap that speaks of purpose, not impatience.
“Come in!” Sophie’s voice, clear and efficient, calls from within.

Erica pushes the door open fully. "Good morning, Sophie," she says, her voice as polished as her appearance, as she steps forward to shake van Rey’s hand. Sophie's grip is firm, a silent acknowledgment of the stakes.

Moments later, the outer door swings open again.
ADA Jennifer Calloway steps in, her presence a subtle chill in the room's already cool air.
Her eyes, sharp with suspicion, cut directly to Erica, assessing, dissecting. Her body language is a rigid, unyielding shield that says: convince me.
And it better be good.

“Have a seat, Jen,” Sophie offers smoothly, gesturing to a chair, her tone a practiced balm. “Let’s hear what Erica has to say. She seems to have something substantial.”

Calloway offers a curt nod, her gaze never leaving Erica.
“Well, Counselor," she drawls, the word edged with a challenge, "enlighten us.”

Erica unclasps her briefcase slowly, the sound of the latch a quiet punctuation mark in the tense room.
Her movements are deliberate, a magician preparing a reveal.
The neatly stacked documents slide out with a faint whisper of paper on paper.
She lays them down on the polished table, each one a card dealt in a high-stakes poker hand.

“As it stands,” Erica states, her voice calm, commanding the attention in the room, “there are two eyewitness accounts that matter: Lucy Arden and Giovanna Versini.”

Jennifer Calloway exhales sharply, a puff of air that speaks of exasperation, and leans back in her armchair, arms crossing. “That is old news, Ms. Sinclair. We have their statements.”

“The new news, however,” Erica counters, her voice unwavering, “is that both Arden and Versini now say the exact same thing about what really went down the moment Gary Loudon opened the door to his home.”

Calloway’s eyes narrow, a vein pulsing faintly at her temple.
She reaches across the table, her hand snatching at one of the folders Erica presented.
She pulls out Giovanna’s affidavit, scanning it rapidly. “Impossible,” she rasps, the word thin with disbelief. “In her original statement, Versini was clear: Lucy Arden shot Loudon in cold blood. She saw it happening from the top of the stairs. There’s no ambiguity.”

“Her sworn affidavit,” Erica states evenly, tapping the top document in the stack, “now directly contradicts that initial, traumatized recollection. And I trust a document signed in my office far more than a hurried statement given at a chaotic crime scene.”

Calloway looks up from the documents, her face etched with disbelief, a flicker of genuine shock in her eyes. “And who is this… Christine Allison?” she demands, holding up the second affidavit.

“Christine,” Erica replies, her voice like cold, polished glass, “is not a stranger to this. Loudon did the exact same thing to her. Predatory behavior, power games, sexual assault, the deliberate cultivation of trauma. The pattern is unmistakable.”
She leans forward, her gaze locking onto Calloway’s. “Her statement doesn't just corroborate Lucy’s version of events; it confirms my theory: that Gary Loudon was a predator who systematically picked up vulnerable young women at bars, lured them into his apartment, and then played his cruel, twisted games with them.”
Erica clears her throat, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. “And if you allow me to say this: I’m positive that with a proper investigation, we can find more cases just like these three - where Loudon abused a young woman, they pressed charges, and then, under threat, they withdrew them.”

“How did you learn about Christine Allison?” Calloway presses, her voice still sharp, clutching Christine’s affidavit like a lifeline.

Erica offers a slight, dismissive shrug. “Does that really matter, Counselor? The evidence speaks for itself.”

“Jen,” Sophie interjects, her voice carefully measured, but with an underlying steel.
She places her file folder down with a decisive thud.
Her eyes, suddenly alive with strategic calculation, flick from Erica to Calloway. “This changes things. Big time.”


~~~


“However, with the evidence now squarely before you, we have more than enough to talk about dropping the murder charge against Lucy Arden,” Erica presses forward, her voice resonating with an unshakeable confidence. “The prosecution’s key eyewitness has signed her affidavit, corroborating Lucy’s self-defense claim. All that remains now is possession of an illegal firearm - the pistol Lucy bought in Vermont. We’ll stand trial for that, and given these special circumstances, I’d call our chances of securing a sentence of two years on probation better than average.”

Sophie van Rey rises abruptly, her movements sharp, decisive, snatching up her folder.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she states, her gaze sweeping over the affidavits, then locking with Calloway’s for a shared, tense moment.
She leaves her office, the unspoken urgency of her mission palpable: she is updating her boss, the Mayor, on these explosive new developments.

The "few minutes" stretch into a taut silence.
Erica, outwardly unconcerned, pours herself a cup of coffee from the sleek machine by the sitting area, its hum a low counterpoint to the sudden tension.
She glances at ADA Calloway, the Ice Queen, who is already hunched over her phone, her thumbs flying across the keypad.
Doubtlessly, a text message is already speeding its way to her boss, DA Charles Vickers, ensuring he is kept, however unwillingly, in the loop.
The air is thick with unspoken political fallout.


~~~


When Sophie returns, her steps are lighter, and the subtle tension that had etched itself around her eyes has visibly eased.
Despite her mask of professional calm, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of relief plays around her lips.
She settles back into her chair, a new confidence in her posture.

“Alright, Erica,” Sophie announces, her voice clear and decisive. “I am pleased to inform you that - given the compelling insight we now have through these affidavits - City Hall is fully on board with your proposal.”

Erica takes a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, her gaze never leaving Jennifer Calloway.
She watches the ADA over the rim of her cup, a silent challenge in her eyes.
“What’s the DA’s office’s take, Counselor?” she asks, the question cutting through the residual tension like a sharp blade.

Calloway’s thumbs fly across her phone screen, scrolling through a fresh message that has just arrived.
Her jaw, previously set in granite, seems to relax by a millimeter, almost imperceptibly.
She finally looks up, her gaze now devoid of its earlier suspicion, replaced by a grudging acceptance of a new reality.
She nods, a curt, professional gesture. “DA Vickers accepts the new evidence.” Her words are clipped, official, but there’s an undeniable edge of capitulation in her tone.
She slides her phone into the inside pocket of her blazer, a gesture of finality.
Then, she meets Erica’s gaze. “The murder charge is off the table. Effective immediately. A weapons charge it is.”

A long-held breath, previously trapped deep within Erica’s chest, escapes in a silent, profound exhale.
The knot of tension that had resided in her shoulders for days, a constant, physical burden, finally unravels, leaving a phantom ache in its wake.
This is it.
The biggest hurdle cleared.

Her mind, already shifting gears, begins to construct the new path forward.
The strategy for Lucy will be clear: pleading guilty on possession of an illegal weapon, arguing that it was carried solely for self-defense.
Of course, the threat of the legal system remains; if everything goes sideways, a Class F felony could still mean a maximum of four years in prison, perhaps even five if Calloway pushes for aggravation.

But a deep confidence settles over her.
She feels it in her gut: the jury will take Lucy’s terrifying history with Loudon, now backed up by two powerful affidavits into sympathetic consideration.

Erica nods, her voice steady and professional. “I’ll talk to my client,” she says, her gaze sweeping between Sophie and Calloway. “And I’ll get back to you with her decision. After all, it’s her call.”

“You may want to get yourself ready for a full-blown rocket strike from Cord Wallingham, though,” Sophie suggests, her lips curving into a tight, knowing smile. “He won’t be doing cartwheels for joy when he hears about these sudden changes. He'll be spitting bricks."

“I bet he will,” Erica agrees, a matching, grim smile touching her own lips.
The words are a quiet acknowledgment of the storm still brewing, but now, she feels far more prepared to face it.


~~~


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[LunaDog]

“You may want to get yourself ready for a full-blown rocket strike from Cord Wallingham, though,” Sophie suggests, her lips curving into a tight, knowing smile. “He won’t be doing cartwheels for joy when he hears about these sudden changes. He'll be spitting bricks."

Just going to show that, despite this apparent 'victory,' this fight is FAR from over. It may even be just beginning.

Although, perhaps Messmore Loudon might want to reflect upon one thing here. If he had acted like a PROPER parent upon the first occasion of Gary's disgusting antics, and by now i'm pretty certain that he knew of them, even if he didn't go the whole way and allow justice to take its course, and i won't argue with ANYBODY who suggests that he SHOULD have, if he didn't quite go that far, having prevented Gary from being charged he'd then told his animal son, 'THIS STOPS RIGHT THIS MOMENT!' Well then young Gary would probably still be alive now. His son may well have not pulled the trigger of the gun within Lucy's hand, but his vile behaviour is what had directly led to that happening.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're so right. Loudon Sr. might not have been directly a part of the crap his son pulled, but to some extent, he must have known about it and covered for it. As a businessman, he can't have been so blind as to not have seen a pattern in what was going on.

[Jenny_S]

Erica strides away from City Hall, the morning air brisk but no longer biting.
The earlier tension, replaced by the quiet triumph of the meeting, lends a lightness to her step.
She feels the lingering energy of "Gunslinger" humming in her veins, a private, victorious anthem.
The black Volvo, a familiar extension of herself, gleams at the curb, a silent sentinel.

She slides into the driver's seat, the leather cool and welcoming beneath her.
The world outside, a blur of yellow cabs and rushing pedestrians, fades as she pulls the door shut, plunging the interior into a hushed cocoon.
The silence allows her to process the true weight of what just transpired: the murder charge, a sword hanging over Lucy's head, is gone.
It's an immense victory, one she fought tooth and nail for.

Her phone feels heavy in her hand as she pulls it from her pocket.
Lucy's contact name glows on the screen.
This call.
This is the one.
She presses the button, the dial tone a faint, insistent hum.
It rings twice. Then, Lucy's voice, hesitant, fragile, answers. "Hello?"

"Lucy," Erica says, her voice low, measured, but unable to completely hide the underlying satisfaction.
She takes a breath, making sure the words land with the full force of their meaning. "It's Erica Sinclair. I've just left a meeting with Deputy Commissioner van Rey and ADA Calloway."

A beat of anxious silence from Lucy’s end, punctuated by a shallow intake of breath.
Erica can almost hear the hope and dread battling within her client.
"I have some news," Erica continues, letting the words unfold slowly, deliberately. "The DA is dropping the murder charge."

The line goes utterly silent.
Not a breath, not a rustle.
For a terrifying second, Erica wonders if the call ended apruptly.
Then, a sound, small at first, escapes Lucy.
A choked gasp, then a raw, ragged sob that quickly escalates, tearing through the phone line.
It’s not just a cry, it’s an uncontrollable, guttural release of weeks of terror, of despair, of suffocation.
It's the sound of a person whose very existence has been under a death sentence suddenly granted a reprieve.
Lucy’s sobs rack her small frame, shaking the phone, shaking Erica herself.

"Oh... oh my God... oh my God..." Lucy’s words are fragmented, drowned out by the force of her weeping.
The relief is a tidal wave, overwhelming her, shattering the fragile composure she'd desperately maintained.

Erica grips the steering wheel, her knuckles white.
A lump forms in her own throat, a sharp pang of empathy.
She closes her eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over her.
She has rarely allowed herself such an overt emotional display, but Lucy's raw, unbridled grief-turned-relief pierces her professional armor. "Lucy," she says softly, her voice firm but laced with a compassion she rarely shows. "Lucy, I need you to breathe. Take a deep breath."

Lucy gasps, trying to pull air into her lungs, the sobs still tearing through her.
"Listen to me, Lucy," Erica continues, her tone now more directive, pulling Lucy back to the present. "I know this is huge, but this is only the first step. It's not over yet. We still have work to do. We need to talk about the next steps. The weapons charge."

Another raw sob from Lucy, but it's beginning to subside, replaced by shaky, shuddering breaths.
"I need you to come in," Erica states, her voice gentle but firm. "As soon as you can. Can you come to my office? Now? We need to discuss the plea bargain, what this means for you, and how we proceed from here. We'll go over everything."

A wet sniffle. "Yes," Lucy whispers, her voice hoarse, broken but laced with an emerging thread of hope. "Yes, Ms. Sinclair. I'll be there. Thank you. Thank you."

"Good," Erica says, a deep, quiet satisfaction settling in her chest. "I'll be waiting."
After the call ends, she sits for a moment, the echo of Lucy's sobs still vibrating in the air around her, a clear reminder of the human cost of her fight.

The gunslinger has fired her first decisive shot, and a life has just been given a chance to breathe again.


~~~


The low hum of the air conditioning whispers in the background, as if filling the silence Lucy is too scared to break.
She sits motionless across from Erica, her hands laced tight, knuckles pale.
Her eyes, rimmed in red, are locked on her lawyer’s face like it’s a lifeline.

Erica speaks slowly, deliberately, her voice calm and authoritative, yet laced with a deep empathy.
“The murder charge is gone, Lucy.” Erica’s voice is soft, direct. “It’s off the table.”
The words hang for a beat - impossibly light and impossibly heavy.
Lucy stares, as if waiting for a catch.
But there isn’t one.

"Still," Erica continues, shifting a folder on the polished table, "we are now looking at a charge of possession of an illegal weapon. The pistol you bought in Vermont. Here in New York, this is still a Class F felony." She lays out the facts, dispassionately, but with a gaze that promises unwavering support. "The maximum sentence for that, if everything went sideways, could be up to four years, maybe five. It's serious enough."

Lucy's breath hitches.
The new fear, cold and sharp, cuts through the euphoria of the dropped murder charge.
Prison.
Even a day in prison.
The word hangs in the air, heavy and terrifying.

"But," Erica interjects, her voice firm, pulling Lucy back from the precipice of despair, "that's the worst-case scenario. And it's not what we're aiming for. Not by a long shot."
She leans forward, her elbows on the table. "Our strategy will be to plead guilty to the weapons charge, but we will argue self-defense in detail. With Giovanna's and Christine's affidavits, we have powerful corroboration. We have a compelling narrative of a dangerous, predatory individual."

Erica’s voice gains a confident edge. "The DA's office has recognized the pattern, Lucy. And a jury, hearing all of this... I'm highly confident we can bargain for a sentence of probation. No jail time. A chance for you to move forward, to rebuild your life."

Lucy stares at her, the enormity of the shift slowly settling in.
The dark cloud of "murder" has lifted, revealing a difficult, but navigable path.
A path where freedom, albeit constrained, is possible.
Her shoulders slump, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping her lips. "Probation," she whispers, testing the word, still raw, but laced with a dawning sense of relief. It's not a complete exoneration, but it's a lifeline.
She nods slowly, a quiet, fragile acceptance blooming in her eyes. “Okay.”
A pause.
“Thank you.”

The meeting concludes soon after.
Lucy, still pale but with a newfound lightness in her step, walks out of the office.

Erica watches her go - shoulders still a little hunched, but head held higher.
A quiet win.
The kind that matters most.

She finds Claire at her desk, organizing a stack of newly printed documents.
"Claire," Erica says, smoothing the lapels of her blazer. "I'm taking the afternoon off."

Claire looks up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then a knowing smile. "Good. You need it."

"I'm going up to Scarsdale. To visit Aunt Elisa."

"Say hello for me," Claire replies, her smile softening. "I'll hold down the fort. Don't worry about a thing."

Erica offers a rare, genuine smile. "I know you will. Thank you, Claire."


~~~


Minutes later, Erica is back in the underground parking garage, in the hushed confines of her black Volvo.
The engine hums to life, and she eases up the ramp, into traffic, turning north.
The dense canyons of Manhattan begin to thin, the glass and steel towers gradually replaced by more open skies, tree-lined parkways, and the promise of quiet suburban roads.

As the skyline softens, Erica’s grip on the wheel loosens.
The quiet isn’t empty - it’s earned.
She allows herself to breathe, deeply, the scent of the city air giving way to the faint, cleaner smell of growing things.
Just as the last high-rise recedes in her rearview mirror, the silence of the Volvo's cabin is abruptly shattered.
Her phone buzzes, a sharp, insistent vibration against the dashboard. She glances at the screen.

Claire’s name flashes. Erica frowns. Claire doesn’t call unless it matters.
Her thumb taps the screen.

“Claire.”

"Sorry to bother you, Erica," Claire’s voice is slightly flustered, unusual for the unflappable assistant. "Holly has Cord Wallingham on hold. He's asking to speak to you. Urgently."

That’s fast.
Very fast.

Wallingham must have heard the news already, or at least the rumblings of it.
His sources are clearly impeccable.

A flicker of something akin to admiration, quickly suppressed, crosses her mind.

Erica's lips curve into a thin, confident smile.
The peace of the drive north instantly evaporates, replaced by the familiar hum of battle.
She glances at the open road ahead, then back to the city she's leaving behind.
The fight, it seems, has followed her.

"That’s alright, Claire. Tell Holly to put him through," Erica says, her voice crisp, every trace of weariness gone. "I’ll talk to him."


~~~

[LunaDog]

The fight, it seems, has followed her.

Hasn't it just! Time to find out Loudon's reaction to this development, even if not directly but through his 'lapdog,' because even with all his legal credentials, not to mention his high standing within the legal community, that is ALL Wallingham is. Despite his haughty high opinions of himself, he is just following his boss's orders here.

The sort of lawyer who fully justifies the extremely unfavourable opinion that the general public has of such people, more than willing to act despicably, in the FULL knowledge that the case they are being paid to obtain a result in is completely wrong and immoral, unlike Erica who is GENUINELY seeking the interests of REAL justice.

Because i truly believe, that if Ms Sinclair had really thought that Lucy was guilty, then she wouldn't have agreed to take her case on.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, in tomorrow's episode, we will see what Wallingham has to say. Is he following orders or is he possibly ill-advising Loudon Sr. because Erica put a dent in his pride?
But you're right, Erica is guided by what her father told her when he gifted her with the Rolex dive watch on the day of her graduation from Harvard Law School: "Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it."

[LunaDog]

You're absolutely right, of course @Jenny_S , maybe Wallingham has the final say in the details of how he's pursuing this matter. But what i meant was, he's still acting under the general orders of Messmore Loudon, an order like, "make sure that my son's murderer is punished to the MAXIMUM degree here!" After all, attending to the small details of just how to go about this general command is precisely what he is paying Wallingham for, at the end of the day.

My apologies if i implied otherwise at all.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're absolutely on point - as always. Messmore Loudon will have told Wallingham something like "Finish her. I want that girl to suffer." and with a carte blanche like that, Wallingham went to work.
This extends to the woman who dares to defend Lucy Arden.
By the way, let's see what he has to tell Erica.

[Jenny_S]

The line clicks.
“Erica Sinclair.”

Smooth, with an unctuous purr, Cord Wallingham’s voice fills the car.
"Sinclair. I heard you had quite the morning down at City Hall." His tone is light, almost conversational, but underneath it, Erica detects the faintest tremor of suppressed rage, like ice cracking just beneath the surface.

"Mr. Wallingham," Erica replies, her voice cool, composed, giving nothing away.
She keeps her eyes on the road ahead, watching the city skyline shrink in her rearview mirror.
The peaceful drive North is now officially over.

“Cutting quite the swath, aren’t we?” His tone is silk over razors. “Turning witnesses. Stirring up old ghosts. Pretty textbook, really - for someone defending a lost cause.”

"Lucy Arden is not a lost cause," Erica states, her voice sharp, no longer bothering with pleasantries. "And Giovanna Versini's affidavit is the truth. A truth that the DA's office, and even City Hall, seems to agree is rather inconvenient for your client."

A sharp, audible intake of breath from Wallingham, a distinct hiss of fury.
"Inconvenient?" His voice drops, losing all pretense of charm, becoming a low, dangerous growl. "You think you're clever, Sinclair. But you've just signed your own professional death warrant. That little show you put on for Calloway and van Rey? That's going to make this very personal."

Erica grips the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white.
She anticipates the blow.

"Messmore Loudon has friends, Sinclair," Wallingham rasps, his voice now a venomous whisper, cold and cutting. "Friends in places you can't even imagine. Friends who can make sure that little firm of yours dries up faster than a puddle in the desert heat. Your name, your reputation... everything you have worked for… will be tainted. Every judge will suddenly be too busy. Every potential client will find another attorney. Your phone will stop ringing, Sinclair. And when it does, it won't be because you're winning Arden’s case."
He pauses, letting the threat hang, heavy and suffocating, over the phone line. "You want to play hardball? Fine. But remember, the bigger the ball, the harder it hits. You think you’re a tough bitch, do you? You’re walking into a warzone, and you’re vastly outgunned."

Erica's jaw clenches.
The words are a brutal echo of his past threats, now magnified by the stakes.
Her heart pounds a fierce rhythm against her ribs, but her mind remains clear, focused.
She sees her father's face, hears his warm, deep voice: Stand for something or fall for anything.

This is it.
The creed.
This is the moment to stand by it.

"We'll see about that, Wallingham," Erica replies, her voice shockingly calm, imbued with a quiet, unshakeable resolve that surprises even herself. “You think this is intimidation? You sound like desperation. And it tells me I’m exactly where I should be.”

She doesn't wait for his reply. With a swift, decisive motion, Erica presses the end call button.
The line goes dead, but the echo of his threats lingers, a chilling promise of the battle yet to come.

The Volvo continues north, carrying her toward a brief respite, but the war for Lucy Arden's freedom has just escalated dramatically.


~~~


Even though she has ended the call, Wallingham's threat hangs in the air, cold and menacing, echoing in the quiet car.
Erica doesn’t seem to be able to loosen her grip on the steering wheel even slightly, but she wills her breath to even.

One.
Two.
Three.

Her breath returns in quiet defiance.
The fear lingers, yes - but beneath it, steel.
Coiled, tense, unyielding.

His words, designed to destabilize, instead crystallize her inner strength.
She didn’t engage in a shouting match.
She didn’t descend to his level of personal attack.

She'll hit him where it matters: the foundation of his power, which relies on controlling information and public perception.

She knows that threats are the last refuge of a losing argument.
The murder charge against Lucy Arden off the table wasn't her doing alone. It was a decision made by the District Attorney's office, with the full backing of City Hall.
They've seen the affidavits.
They understand the truth.

Erica releases a breath, letting the thought sink in.
But to fight off Loudon and his chain dog Wallingham, she needs more.

Wouldn’t it be convenient to have every single complaint against Gary Loudon, every suppressed accusation, every unpleasant encounter with a woman?
Everything connected with his name, even an unpaid parking ticket.

Wallingham, so full of himself, might not fully comprehend the implications yet, but he will.
This isn't just about Lucy anymore, it's about exposing a pattern, a predator protected by power and money.
He said he’d be adjusting the climate.

Erica's voice is infused with a quiet, dangerous confidence. "Well, that climate is about to change very dramatically for you and your client.”

When the press gets hold of a story about a powerful family shielding a serial abuser, when more women start coming forward - and she knows they will, no amount of influence will be able to scrub that clean.

As if Wallingham was standing before her, she says: "Threaten my career all you want. Try to isolate me. But understand this: I am not alone. And the truth, once it's out, has a way of tearing down even the most carefully constructed empires. We are not outgunned. We are simply fighting for justice, and that, Counselor, is a force you cannot suppress indefinitely."

Erica changes lanes to take the exit to Scarsdale, but her path is now squarely aimed at the heart of Wallingham's carefully constructed world.


~~~


As Erica glides by the rolling hills, ancient trees, and houses set back on manicured lawns, the air feels cleaner, lighter.

Despite the soothing rhythm of the road, Wallingham's words echo in Erica’s mind, a venomous hum beneath the purr of the engine. “Judges don’t return calls. Clients dry up. Your phone will stop ringing.”

His threats had been a direct assault on the very foundation of her professional life.

Her jaw tightens.
For herself, the fear is fleeting, quickly dismissed.
She’s Harvard Law, top of her class.
Her bar license is valid nationwide.

If Wallingham manages to make New York impossible, she could pack her bags, open an office in Chicago, or L.A., or even a quiet town in Colorado, and rebuild.
She could take Aunt Elisa, the kittens and Lea with her.
She doesn’t have to be afraid of starting over, not for herself.
Her talent, her intellect, her sheer tenacity – those are hers, and they are portable.

But then, the faces of her employees start flashing through her mind: Claire, with her quiet efficiency and unwavering loyalty, Holly, her cheerful receptionist, Kathy Weymouth, their lead paralegal, who relies on Sinclair & Associates to pay her mortgage and plans to send her kids to college. The junior associates, fresh out of law school, brimming with ambition, who see Erica as a mentor, a leader, a gateway to their futures.

They couldn't just pack up and move.
They didn't ask to fight this war - but they’ll bleed if she fails them.
Their livelihoods, their stability, rest squarely on the success of her firm.

Wallingham wasn't just threatening her. He was threatening them as well.
The thought suddenly sends a cold spike of dread through her.
That’s where the pressure point lies, the Achilles' heel in her otherwise unbreachable resolve.

Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
This isn't just about Lucy, or Gary Loudon.
This has become a brutal, personal chess match with Wallingham, Messmore Loudon’s attack dog, and he's not just targeting her king; he's aiming for her pawns, her knights, her entire loyal army.

On autopilot, Erica sets the turn signal for Taunton Road.
Moments later, she slows the Volvo as she approaches her childhood home.

The house is a hive of activity.
Scaffolding still clings to one side, a tarp shrouds a section of the roof, and a dumpster overflows with debris in the front yard.
The sounds of hammers and power tools pierce the suburban quiet. She sees a crew working, men moving with purpose.

Erica stops the car for a moment, just observing.
Once, she’d watched her father repaint the porch in that same golden afternoon light.
That house had seen joy.
Pain.
Now it is scaffolding and sawdust - and the future built with bare hands.

Still filled with the ghosts of her parents and the echoes of her youth, the house is now being resurrected, transformed.
It’s a project she pours herself into, a symbol of rebuilding, of creating something new from the past.
Just like she's trying to do for Lucy.
Just like she needs to do for her firm.

The noise of the construction is a blunt reminder: rebuilding is messy.
It's loud.
And it attracts attention.
She clenches her jaw.

Wallingham may be trying to burn her down, but she is busy building, reinforcing.
The question is, which force is stronger?

With a final, lingering look, Erica presses the accelerator, leaving the construction behind and continuing the short drive to Sunrise Manor.

She carries the weight of Wallingham's threat, not for herself, but for the lives tethered to hers, a quiet, fierce determination burning in her gut.
She will not let them down.

No retreat, no surrender.


~~~

[LunaDog]

"That's going to make this personal."

As if it isn't already?

No retreat, no surrender.

Atta girl! For the sake of proper justice this is a fight that Erica just HAS to win!

Although she does have a weapon in her armoury here. Messmore Loudon's desperation for his son's, rather dark, secret to remain just that. For if his 'lapdog' does succeed in getting the murder charge against poor Lucy reinstated and this goes to full trial here, then this piece of offal will be fully exposed for the total monster he had become. All with his father's full knowledge of course. I shouldn't imagine that the aforementioned father will want that information within the public domain.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Erica can't give up.
And she won't.
Now that Wallingham is declaring total war on her, she needs to defend not only Lucy.
Tomorrow, we'll see if she can come up with something clever.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica pulls into the parking lot of Sunrise Manor, she reaches for her phone.
The number she needs is not in her list of contacts, it’s one she knows by heart.

She was eight when she had met Andrea Santos for the first time – the new girl at school.
Here in Scarsdale.
Andrea stood out: petite, with black-rimmed thick glasses and an oversized, colorful T-Shirt of her favorite SciFi series – and she had immediately become the target of choice for Tommy Shoemaker and his gang of bullies.
That day Erica had stepped in, put herself between Tommy and the new girl, and they had become friends.
Best friends even.

Although their professional paths led them into different directions, they had stayed in touch throughout those years.
Andrea had become Erica’s go-to advisor in all things computer technology and she knows that there is basically nothing her friend can’t do when it comes to machines chewing on bits and bytes.
She can do what even Detective Ruiz can't.

The phone buzzes only twice.
“Ricky! How are you doing?”

"Drea," Erica replies, her voice dropping to a low, urgent tone.
She glances at the empty passenger seat, ensuring privacy. "I’d be better if I wouldn’t have to ask you for a favor. A big one.”

A beat of silence from Andrea’s end. "You know my rate for “off the books” work is astronomical, even for you." But there’s a flicker of humor in her voice.
When Erica calls, food is the price for the admission to her lab.
Despite her tiny physique, Andrea’s appetite is beyond description.

"I’ll fly you to Paris so you can dine in a gourmet temple of your choice,” Erica says, her voice low and almost pleading. “I’ve got a client, Andrea, a young woman. Lucy Arden. She’s been prosecuted for murder, but it was self-defense against a man named Gary Loudon. We've managed to get the murder charge dropped to a weapons charge, but there's more to him. I know of two women he kidnapped and sexually assaulted, then, after they filed charges against him, withdrew under pressure from Loudon or his lawyers. I’m certain that there are other victims. This guy was a predator if I’ve ever seen one."

"Loudon," Andrea muses, a hum of recognition. "The real estate mogul's son? What do you need me to do?”

"Listen," Erica says, relief washing over her that Andrea already has a baseline. "I have affidavits from two women detailing his predatory behavior. But I need more. In the NYPD’s system there must be digital breadcrumbs like dropped charges for abuse and coercion. I need everything with his name on it that might point to a pattern."

"You know that’s not public information, Ricky,” Andrea states, not a question, but a confirmation. "I’d have to hack into their system. They’ll come after me if I get caught.” She is not angry. Just stating physics. “This isn’t cracking Netflix. This is federal.”

"I need you to find everything," Erica stresses, her voice raw with conviction. "Every piece of evidence that paints him as the predator he was. And I need the names and contact data of the women who filed charges against him. His father has his troops lined up against me and without the undeniable proof that this wasn't an isolated incident, that he systematically targeted and abused women, and that his family covered it up... I can close the shop. Loudon’s family lawyer isn’t just barking. He bites and has the means to take me down."

Andrea is silent for a moment, the faint static on the line the only sound.
She knows Erica too well, knows the slight timbre in her voice when she is dead serious.
Erica can almost picture her, already running algorithms in her brilliant mind.

"Let me look into this, okay?” Andrea finally says. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“I know.” Erica stares ahead, her gaze hardening. "I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t have my back in a corner, Drea. They are coming after my employees, not just after me."
Her voice drops, laced with a fierce, protective edge. "Find me the truth, the undeniable truth, and I will bury them under it.”

“Hey, it’s just a little extracurricular activity, Ricky. A walk in the sun. I’ll call you.”
Andrea takes a slow breath.

"Thank you, Andrea," Erica says, the words imbued with huge gratitude and relief. "Saving the world in between jobs.”

"Bring pizza.” The world-class computer forensics expert and hacker genius chuckles and ends the call.

Erica drops her phone into her pocket.
With Andrea Santos on the ball, a new kind of resolve settles over her.
Wallingham wants a war?
She’ll bring one.
And now, she has a wonder weapon.


~~~


The soft crunch of gravel under her moccasins is the only sound Erica hears as she makes her way through the meticulously tended gardens of Sunrise Manor.
Late afternoon light filters through the dense canopy of maple and ash, casting long, golden threads over the winding path.
Birds chirp lazily, their songs sweet and untroubled, and a gentle breeze stirs the leaves – creating a tranquil, almost idyllic tableau that feels a world away from Wallingham’s venomous threats.

She finds Aunt Elisa sitting alone on one of the wooden benches near the pond.
A plaid wool shawl is wrapped carefully around her knees, and despite the warm air, she wears her new, soft cardigan.
Her eyes are open, not looking at the rippling water or the vibrant flowering shrubs, but at some unseen point in the far distance, her gaze utterly devoid of focus.

Erica stops a few steps away, studying her for a moment.
Her aunt’s fine grey hair is pinned up in its usual careful twist, and her posture is still regal, as if some unyielding echo of the dignified woman she once was remains etched in her bones.
But today, her expression is empty of recognition, a blank slate where memories once danced.

“Hello Aunt Elisa,” Erica says softly as she approaches, her voice a gentle caress in the quiet air.
She crouches beside the bench and takes Elisa’s hand – cool, bird-boned, but familiar, a lifeline to their shared past.

But Elisa Teran doesn’t react.
Her gaze shifts slightly, unfocused, her lips twitch with the beginning of a smile - or maybe a faint, unreachable memory - but no words come.
Her fingers remain lax in Erica’s grasp.

Erica knew this might happen.
Dr. Parker had warned her. “Lucidity is unpredictable,” he had said.
Sometimes her aunt’s mind is a well-kept room, everything in its place, shining with sharp, intelligent clarity.
Then, at times, it’s clouded by a dense fog, disturbed by flickering shadows, by whispers from unseen corners.

Today is one of the foggy days.

She doesn’t try to force conversation.
There's no point in pulling at threads that won't give.
She simply sits, their hands still linked and turns her gaze toward the pond.
The koi glint beneath the surface, their movements fluid, meaningless, mesmerizing in their silent grace.

What might it look like in Elisa’s mind now?
A collection of broken mirrors, shattered light, images with no names or connections?
Or is it softer – a benevolent dream where nothing hurts because nothing is quite real?

Erica’s throat tightens.
A vivid, unwelcome memory surfaces: the day Elisa had first appeared at their doorstep – dressed in shabby clothes, a worn suitcase clutched in her hand, and a rehearsed sob story about Owen and her being the only family she had left tumbling from her lips.
Her father, ever kind, had asked her in, offered the guest bedroom for as long as she wanted.
And Elisa had stayed, even after Owen Sinclair died.

Erica had despised her from the moment they first met, a possessive, jealous 18 year old, convinced this woman had only come to steal her father’s heart and take her late mother’s place.

Little did she know.
Not about stealing, not about malicious intent.

Little did she know about the violence that had erased Elisa Teran’s own family in Cochabamba, Bolivia - the sadness, the fear, the sheer, crushing loneliness Elisa must have carried, the massive desperation that had driven her to their door, seeking not to take, but simply to belong, to be seen, even if just by her late sister's husband.

Although Elisa Teran has forgiven her, the realization, years too late, still pricks at Erica’s conscience.

Minutes pass, maybe more. Neither of them speaks. It feels like the kind of silence that deserves reverence, a sacred space where the unspoken truths of a life unfold.

Then, the soft crunch of footsteps behind them draws Erica’s attention.
She turns to see Charles Bancroft approaching, a worn leather-bound book in hand.
As always when she has seen him, he’s dapper, today dressed in a crisp shirt, a neatly tailored blazer, and perfectly pressed slacks.
He’s the old gentleman who, through his kindness, had befriended Aunt Elisa and kept her company in this twilight of her life.

“Ms. Sinclair,” he greets her with a warm, kind smile and a slight tilt of his head.
His eyes, crinkling at the corners, convey immediate understanding. “I didn’t expect you today.”

“I had a little time,” Erica replies, rising smoothly from her crouch. She gestures toward Elisa, her voice hushed. “My aunt’s… not quite herself today. The fog is thick.”

Charles glances at Elisa, a gentle, knowing sadness in his own eyes, and nods with understanding. “Yes. Sometimes she’s off wandering in some other time, some other place entirely. But she always enjoys being read to, even if she doesn’t quite remember who I am while I’m doing it.”

Erica’s heart aches with a fierce, unexpected pang of gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Bancroft. Truly. For being here. For being so endlessly kind to her. I’m sure it means the world to her, even if she can’t express it. She has been such a loner for so long.”

Charles chuckles softly, his fingers gently brushing the worn edges of his book cover. “She’s a wonderful lady, Ms. Sinclair. Sharp as a blade when she’s with us.”
His eyes then grow thoughtful, pausing on Erica. “You, Ms. Sinclair,” he says, a direct, perceptive gaze, “you seem to carry that same steel in your spine. A quiet strength.”

Erica smiles, though her throat is thick with emotion, a rare crack in her carefully constructed composure. “I try my very best,” she murmurs, the words imbued with the weight of Wallingham’s threats and her unwavering determination.

She stands, softly laying a hand on her aunt’s shoulders, a silent promise. “Aunt Elisa, I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”
With one last glance at her aunt, still adrift in whatever unseen place she’s floating through, Erica turns and begins walking back toward the parking lot, the crunch of gravel now a firmer, more resolute sound beneath her moccasins.

Behind her, Charles Bancroft takes her place on the bench. He opens his book, adjusts his glasses, and begins to read in a clear, gentle voice, the words a soft current flowing over Elisa.
And though Elisa gives no sign, Erica dares to believe that her aunt is listening, pulled into the current of a story, tethered to the kindness of a man who cares about her.


~~~

[LunaDog]

I seem to remember Andrea from before, wasn't she the apparent 'target' when the demented Tony Maze tried to lure Erica into his devious trap for revenge?

Maybe i shouldn't admire Erica for 'breaking the rules' here, in using Andrea's skills to hack the Police system, but i truly believe that, in this case, the end fully justifies the means. And it's not as if Wallingham is above 'playing outside the box,' is it?

As you rightly say here, he is trying to destroy everything that Erica holds dear here, even if, as you pointed out, she herself could rebuild her life if he succeeds. But, let's hope he doesn't.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, correctamundo. Andrea is Erica's friend whom Tony Maze kidnapped to lure Erica into his trap in story #5 "Erica Sinclair - Shadows of the Past".
Asking Andrea to apply her hacking skills to dig deep into Gary Loudon's past is - shall we call it "unconventional" - and definitely a question if the ends sometimes justify the means.
As much as Erica would like it to be different, she knows that life is not black and white, but more than 50 shades of grey.

[LunaDog]

50 shades of grey.

A more than relevant reference on this particular forum, thinks I!

[Caesar73]

Truly a wonderful Chapter, one of many.

To me this is a Chapter of Contrast:

In Part one we witness Erica reaching out to Andrea for Help to breach the Walls her Opponent and his Father have errected around them. If anyone can succeed it is Andrea. This Part reveals much about the Connection between Erica and Andrea. Dear @Jenny_S you have any Idea what kind of Pizza Andrea favours?

In Chapter two, Erica visits Elisa. It is good to see that Elisa is comfortable at Sunrise Manor and that she has Charles around. The Picture that closes this Chapters speaks Volumes.