Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Outside the conference room, the hallway at Sinclair & Associates feels unusually still.

Erica leans against the cool pane of glass, arms crossed, her gaze focused on nothing in particular - not the corridor lights, not the framed law certificates on the wall.
Her thoughts are with the two women on the other side of that door.

Claire stands a few steps away, silent, giving her boss space but not distance.
Her usual crispness is softened now, she feels the weight of what’s happening beyond the glass.

Erica checks her Rolex.
Fifteen minutes.
Then twenty.

Neither speaks.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.
Just a sliver at first.
Lucy peers out, her voice no more than a hush.
“Ms. Sinclair… we have something to say.”

Erica straightens, exchanges a quick look with Claire, then walks through the door.

Inside, the room is quiet.
The chairs haven’t moved.
The mugs still sit on the table - one now empty, the other untouched.

But the energy is different.
Tangibly different.

Lucy and Christine sit side-by-side.
Their hands are clasped, resting between them on the polished surface - not desperate, not performative.
Just steady.
Connected.

Christine lifts her chin, eyes finding Erica’s with something close to courage.
“I’ll do it,” she says. Her voice wavers slightly, but she pushes forward. “I’ll testify. I’ll tell them what he did to me. Everything. Two weeks before he… before he went after Lucy.”

A quiet beat.

Erica exhales, something deep in her chest loosening.
She doesn’t smile - not yet - but her posture softens.
Something inside her unwinds.
“Thank you, Christine,” she says. “That takes strength. Real strength.”

Christine shrugs one shoulder. “I’m still scared. But… if I don’t speak now, he wins. Even in death. And I’m done letting him win.”

Erica nods slowly. Then gestures toward Claire, who’s stepped just inside the door.
“This is Claire Messner. She’s my assistant. If you’re comfortable, I’d like her to take down your statement - everything you remember. That way, we have a record. Something to blow the DA out of the water with.”

Christine looks to Lucy. Lucy gives her a small nod, eyes glassy but proud.
“I’ll stay with you,” Lucy says quietly. “If that’s okay.”

Christine lets out a long breath. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Erica turns toward Claire, who already has her legal pad and pen in hand.
“Take your time,” Erica says gently. “No pressure. Just the truth, in your words.”

Christine nods again, then sits up straighter in her chair. Lucy doesn’t let go of her hand.
As Claire moves to sit across from them and opens her pad, Erica quietly backs out of the room, her hand resting for a moment on the doorframe before she lets the door ease shut behind her.

She stands there for a long moment, exhaling slowly.
Then she whispers, almost to herself:
“One more piece on the board.”
The game is far from over.
But the tide?
It just started to turn.


~~~


The hallway outside the conference room hums with the low buzz of noontime activity.
Erica walks with steady strides toward the reception desk, her moccasins soft against the polished floor, her thoughts still lingering behind - with Lucy and Christine, with all they’ve endured, and what they’ve just begun to reclaim.

At the reception desk, Holly Beck slips off her headset the moment she spots her boss approaching.
She straightens, her smile practiced but never insincere.
“Yes?” she asks, already sensing this isn’t about scheduling or files.

Erica stops in front of her, voice low but deliberate. “Do me a favor and order something for our guests to eat. Pizza, I think. Everybody likes pizza.”

Holly perks up immediately. “Of course.”
She pulls open the top drawer of her desk and retrieves a folded, slightly worn menu - Mario’s Pizza Palazzo, a local standby known for both speed and comfort food perfection.
“They’ve got a great selection,” Holly offers. “Thin crust, deep dish, even gluten-free, if we’re feeling health-conscious.”

“Just go with what you think the ladies might enjoy,” Erica says over her shoulder, already turning to walk away. “They’ve had a hard day.”

Holly nods, flipping open the menu like a seasoned operator. “Yes, ma’am,” she says under her breath, already reaching for her headset as she dials the number from memory.

A soft chime rings out as she connects.
“Mario’s Pizza!”

“Yes,” Holly chirps, voice as bright as the sunlight spilling across her desk. “This is Sinclair & Associates. We’d like to place an order for two very special guests…”


~~~


A soft chime from the elevator echoes through the quiet lobby of Sinclair & Associates, followed by the faint shuffle of sneakers on marble.
Holly glances up from her notes at her desk, already knowing what it is.

Pizza.

From further down the hallway, Erica strides toward the front, passing the glass-walled conference room where Lucy and Christine still sit.
Their silhouettes are visible through the blinds - heads tilted close, a quiet murmur between them.
Not broken anymore, but not whole yet either.
Just beginning to rebuild.

At the reception desk, Holly is already standing, her headset looped around her neck, a twenty-dollar bill in hand. “That was fast,” she says as the delivery boy - a teenager in a red Mario’s Pizza jacket - holds out two stacked boxes.

“Smells good,” Erica murmurs.

“Large margherita and mushroom with extra cheese,” Holly says. “I figured that was safe.”

Erica pulls a bill from her blazer pocket, handing the boy cash and a tip that makes his eyes widen slightly. “Thanks,” she says.

“Anytime, ma’am. Have a good one.” He’s gone before the door finishes swinging shut.

Erica balances the boxes, one arm curled beneath them, and walks back down the hall. As she reaches the conference room, she knocks lightly with her elbow and nudges the door open.

The scent hits first - warm basil, melted cheese, crust toasted just right.
Both Lucy and Christine glance up.
Their eyes widen in near unison.

“I figured you two could use something to eat,” Erica says, her tone light but full of care. “You’ve done more than enough heavy lifting today.”

Christine lets out a soft, surprised laugh.
Lucy just blinks, then offers a small smile that’s more real than anything Erica’s seen on her face yet.
“I… yeah,” Lucy says. “That smells amazing.”

As Erica sets the boxes down on the table and opens the top one, the warmth escapes like a breath.

“You didn’t have to…” Christine begins.

“I know,” Erica replies. “But there’s no law that says you have to testify on an empty stomach.”
She gestures to the spread. “Enjoy.”

For a moment, the room shifts - not away from what they’ve shared, but forward from it.
Two women, survivors, lifting a slice of pizza like it’s the first thing they’ve tasted in years.

“We’re done with the testimony.” Claire says as she stands, notepad under her arm.
She knows when to fade into the background.

Erica nods in acknowledgement. “We’ll be back with espresso when you’re done eating.”
She steps back, Claire follows.
Erica lets the moment breathe.
At the moment there’s no need to say anything more.

The women are talking.
They’re eating.
And that, right now, is everything.

Erica watches a moment longer before gently pulling the door closed behind her.
One step at a time.
That’s how healing begins.
She exhales and her jaw unclenches slightly.


~~~

[Caesar73]

The Picture capture the Atmosphere of this Meeting perfectly.

To summarize this Chapter one Line is enough: "The Tide stared to turn." Christina´s Testimony might be a Gamechanger. Even if the Battle is far from over. Nice Choice of Pizza by the Way! I would have opted for Mushroom!

What I do like about your writing is that every Piece of the Puzzle fall into place effortlessly.

[LunaDog]

'Mighty meat' is my pizza of choice, whilst my wife, Diane loves a good Hawaiian!

The girls are forming a REAL bond between them, which is great to see, and might well be useful in the case.

However, i feel that what Lucy really needs is somehow to get Giovanna on board. Which means her retracting her original statement, condemning the young girl. Not going to be easy, and i'm sure that there are people determined to prevent this.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'm so happy to see how sincerely you are invested in this story.
Yes, Christine may be a Godsent (by courtesy of Detective Ruiz), but is her testimony enough to turn the ship around?
We will see later, I promise.

[Jenny_S]

Claire flips open her notepad, filled with tight, looping shorthand.
Erica leans over her shoulder, squinting.
The page might as well be in Cyrillic.
“You remember I can’t read hieroglyphics, right?” she says, drily.

Claire blinks, then gives a sheepish laugh. “Oh…sorry. I forget not everyone was raised by court reporters. I’ll transcribe it ASAP.”

Erica offers the ghost of a smile and nods. “Please. Once it’s typed, send it to my private inbox.”

She taps gently on the conference room door, then opens it and steps inside.
Christine and Lucy sit at the far end of the table.
The pizza boxes are pushed aside now - only one slice left, half-forgotten.
They look up in tandem, not startled but watchful.

Erica stops at the window, hands clasped loosely in front of her.
The early afternoon sun streaks in, catching dust motes that dance in the air between them.
“I want to thank you,” she begins. Her voice is calm, low. “Both of you. If it weren’t for your courage - your willingness to speak - this case would look very different.”
She steps closer now, gaze sweeping across their tired but resolute faces.
“I’ll keep you informed of every step from here on out. But I need to be very clear about one thing: from now on, not a word leaves this room unless it goes through me. Not friends, not family, not the police, not the press. Not even the DA, should they start asking questions.”

Christine nods quickly, understanding without needing more.
Lucy hesitates. “Even Giovanna?”

Erica’s eyes soften, but her head shakes. “That includes Giovanna. I’ll talk to her. Try to remind her what loyalty looks like. But for now - silence.”

Lucy’s lips press into a thin line, the grief of losing a friend layered over everything else.
“I know,” she whispers. “Okay.”

Erica scans their faces one more time. “Is there anything else I can do? You want me to drop you somewhere? A quiet café, maybe?”

They exchange a glance.
Then Christine nods. “That... actually sounds nice.”


~~~


The elevator chimes. Erica leads the way down to the garage, heels striking soft echoes off concrete.
She unlocks her Volvo with a soft beep.
Lucy and Christine slide into the back seat together, the door shutting with a muted thud.
Erica catches them in the rearview mirror - buckled in, and quietly holding hands.
Not romantic.
Something deeper.
Solidarity.

“Next stop, Old Town Café,” she says, turning the key.
The engine hums to life as she pulls onto Park Avenue.

The café is a quiet haunt uptown - tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookshop that’s barely clinging to business.
Red-brick façade, handwritten menu taped to the window, coffee that smells like something from childhood.
Not classy, but discreet.
Erica parks at the curb and turns in her seat. “I’ll be out of town for the day. But you have my number. Use it. Anytime.”

Both women nod.
They step out, casting one last look back.
Their hands are no longer joined, but something between them is unbroken now.

Raising one hand to them as she turns, she doesn’t wave, but she promises them: I’m still here.
Erica shifts into gear, turns back into traffic, and disappears northbound - toward Scarsdale.
Toward Aunt Elisa.


~~~


The Volvo hums along the parkway, its engine steady beneath Erica’s hand.
Just outside the city, she veers off the highway toward a small gourmet market tucked between a gas station and a strip mall.
According to the internet, it’s the best spot within fifty miles for authentic Middle and South American groceries.

She steps inside and is immediately hit by the scent of chili, cumin, and tropical fruit.
There’s color everywhere - brightly packaged spices, jars of guava paste, rows of plantain chips.
She moves quickly through the aisles, focused.

At the refrigerated section, she selects two packets of seedless dates - one soaked in golden honey, the other wrapped in thin ribbons of Serrano ham. A quiet indulgence.
Something sweet.
Something a little salty.
A reminder of the past, perhaps, for her aunt.
Back in the car, she sets the bag on the passenger seat and merges back into traffic, her mind already shifting gears.

By the time she reaches Taunton Road, the sun is beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the front lawn.
Erica slows as she approaches the house.
The front door is wide open.
Inside, she glimpses the flicker of movement - workers hauling in drywall, the high-pitched shriek of an angle grinder, the rhythmic percussion of hammers on wood.
Progress.
Tangible.
Loud.

Over the hedge, her neighbor Frank Ellis peers at her like a curious squirrel.

She lifts a hand in a brief, amused wave, not bothering to stop.
The man has probably memorized the blueprints of the house by now.

She rolls past the place and continues toward the quiet parking lot of Sunrise Manor.


~~~


Erica kills the engine, shoulders her leather bag, and gently lifts the thin shopping sack from the passenger seat, careful not to crush the dates.
The air smells like budding trees and cut grass, the world just beginning to green again.

Inside the care home’s sunlit lobby, she’s greeted by a pleasant surprise: an older gentleman with snow-white hair and a perfectly ironed button-down shirt.
“Good afternoon,” he says, offering a slight, courtly bow.

Erica’s brows lift, amused. “Good afternoon,” she replies with equal poise, although she’s certain she hasn’t seen him before.

She walks toward Aunt Elisa’s room, still smiling faintly - but when she finds the room empty, her good mood deflates just a bit.
She checks her watch for the time.
Choir practice should be long over.

Not panicked.
Not yet.
But uneasy.

She pivots and makes her way back to the reception desk.
The young caretaker behind the counter - neatly dressed, tapping at the keyboard with efficient strokes - greets her with a nod.
“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my aunt, Mrs. Teran. She’s not in her room, and choir practice is over.”

The caretaker types quickly, his eyes flicking across the screen. “Looks like she’s in the crafting room. Pottery class.”

Erica blinks. “Pottery?”

He smiles. “It’s very good for hand-eye coordination. And memory, too. Fires up both imagination and motor function.”

Erica exhales through her nose, a half-laugh. “She never even liked art.”

“She’s taken to it surprisingly well.” He rises from his chair. “Would you like me to take you there?”

Erica nods, adjusting the bag on her arm. “Please.”

And as they walk through the quiet, sun-dappled corridors, she wonders what other surprises her aunt has waiting today.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Well it seems thar Aunt Elisa has another string to add to her bow. Good for her.

In the meantime Erica's advice to the young girls is total and utter sense. Speak to NOBODY about the case, except her of course.

[Caesar73]

What I like especially about this Chapter? The Part when Erica does Visit her Aunt and learns about her "Extracurricular Activities"

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, Aunt Elisa is having a good time at Sunrise Manor. I promise, we'll see her again in the next stories. She seems to have become a favorite character of my readers.

[Jenny_S]

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with framed watercolors and pastel drawings - student work, most likely, or maybe therapeutic exercises dressed up in dollar-store frames.
Soft instrumental music filters from the ceiling speakers, too faint to place.
Something classical.
Safe.
Familiar.

The young caretaker walks beside Erica in silence until they reach a frosted glass door marked Creative Studio – Crafts.
He pauses, resting his hand lightly on the handle.
“She’s in here,” he says. “We don’t usually suggest visits during class, but I’m sure Mrs. Teran won’t mind.”

Erica offers a quiet thank-you, and the caretaker dips his head and retreats down the hallway.
She adjusts the strap of her handbag, shifts the paper bag with the dates in her other hand, and opens the door.

Warm air greets her, laced with the earthy scent of wet clay and a faint bite of disinfectant.
The room is bright – afternoon sunlight pouring in through broad windows that overlook the care home’s small courtyard garden.
Tables are spaced in a rough horseshoe, each equipped with water cups, tools, and spinning wheels.
Aprons hang from hooks on the far wall.
Shelves hold rows of misshapen bowls and mugs in every imaginable hue.

And there, near the back, hunched slightly over a spinning wheel, is Aunt Elisa.

Erica stops in the doorway.

Her aunt is wearing a smock two sizes too big, her sleeves rolled up, fingers caked in clay.
She works slowly, hands shaping the wet form with an odd sort of grace - tentative, yet deliberate.
The beginnings of a small vase rise under her palms.

She doesn’t look frail.
She looks focused.
Engaged.
Alive.

A therapist hovers nearby, offering quiet encouragement to another resident.
Nobody seems to notice Erica at first.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t want to break the spell.

Then Elisa looks up.
It takes a second for her to recognize the figure in the doorway, but when she does, her entire face changes.
Her mouth opens slightly - not in surprise, but delight.
As if she’s just remembered something worth remembering.
“Niña,” she calls softly.

Erica walks over, careful not to disturb the rows of drying pieces on the tables. “Hey,” she says, her voice gentler than it’s been all day. “I didn’t know I’d find you... elbow-deep in mud.”

Elisa smiles, her chin lifting with defiance. “It’s not mud. It’s art.”

Erica chuckles. “I brought you something.” She holds up the small bag.
Elisa peers into it as Erica sets it down beside her. “Dates.”
She smiles, softer now.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the whir of the pottery wheels and the hush of careful hands shaping clay.
Then Elisa looks down at her piece again. “I thought I was too old to learn something new,” she murmurs. “Turns out I was just too afraid.”

Erica crouches beside her, eye-level with the unfinished vase. “You’re not afraid anymore?”

Elisa shakes her head. “Not today.”

Erica’s throat tightens, but she smiles through it. “Well... maybe next time, I’ll join you. See what kind of disaster I can create with clay.”

Her aunt tilts her head. “You? You’re too neat. You’d need a lesson in mess.”

Erica’s laugh is low and warm. “Only if you will teach me.”

The therapist approaches and gives Erica a nod, clearly aware of who she is but choosing not to interrupt.
“She’s got a knack for it,” the woman says. “We’ll be glazing these next week. You should come see the final piece.”

“I will,” Erica replies. “Definitely.”

She stands and rests a hand lightly on her aunt’s shoulder. “Finish your masterpiece. I’ll be in the lounge when you’re done.”

Elisa nods and returns to her spinning wheel.
Her hands are steady now, not trembling.

As Erica steps back through the door and into the hallway, the emotion hits her in a way she doesn’t expect - a mix of pride, sorrow, and a deep-rooted gratitude that her aunt still has this fight in her.
Still has new chapters left to write.


~~~


Erica settles into the lounge, the soft rustle of her coat the only sound as she places a small paper bag on the low table.
The faint scent of dates and honey drifts up, sweet and familiar.
Outside, the spring light is fading into amber, filtering through the tall windows with a hush that makes everything feel gentler.
She doesn't have to wait long.

A shuffle of steps.
Then Elisa enters - shoulders square, her new cardigan buttoned, eyes alert - but with that slight pause in her gait.
Like she’s double-checking where she is.
Her expression flickers for a beat - uncertainty passing like a shadow behind her eyes - then smooths when she sees Erica.
“You came,” Elisa says, relieved.

“I told you I would.” Erica smiles as she stands. “And I brought you something.”

She opens the bag, revealing two small boxes of dates - one golden and sticky with honey, the other wrapped in thin ribbons of Serrano ham.
Elisa gasps softly, reaching out with reverence, as if the contents stir a memory just beneath the surface.

“These…” She trails off, blinking. “Did I... did I use to eat these with...?”

Erica doesn’t fill the silence.
She just offers the box.
Letting her aunt chase the thread.

Elisa’s fingers tremble slightly as she lifts one date and places it carefully into her mouth.
Her expression softens, her eyes closing. “Yes. Yes, I remember now. At the market... in Cochabamba.”

A beat.
Then:
“My father used to buy them.” Her voice is stronger now. “He always said the sweet ones reminded him of us. Even when your mother was small, always such a serious little face.”

Erica laughs gently.
In the few photos she has of her mother, she’s always smiling, never serious.

They sit, side by side on the sofa.
The quiet wraps around them like a blanket.

“I worry sometimes,” Elisa says, her voice now uncertain again. “I think I’ve forgotten important things. Sometimes I go looking for them... and they’re just not there.”

Erica leans forward, her tone steady. “The important things are still with you, Aunt Elisa. You remember the people who matter. That’s what counts.”

They sit for a few more minutes until the soft shuffle of steps reaches them again.
The older gentleman Erica met earlier reappears – Charles Bancroft, crisp in his slacks, shirt and now topped by a navy blazer, his smile as warm as ever.
“Mrs. Teran,” he says gently, “they’re serving dinner in the Dining Room. I thought perhaps you’d let me escort you again?”

Elisa hesitates.
Her eyes move between Charles and Erica, confusion edging into her gaze for a beat.
Then she straightens slightly. “That would be nice,” she says. She turns to Erica. “Will you wait here for me? Or are you… leaving already?”

“I’ll be right here,” Erica assures her softly, reaching out to clasp her aunt’s hand. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Elisa nods, visibly comforted.
She rises carefully and takes Charles’s offered arm.

“Your niece has a good heart,” Charles says, glancing back at Erica.
Beaming, although her words get tangled, Elisa softly says: “She… she’s helping people.”

Charles nods as if he understands perfectly.
As they walk off together, Elisa murmurs something to him - maybe a memory, maybe something born from the moment.
But her steps are steady, and her fingers curl gently around Charles’s arm.

Erica watches them go.
Still.
Grateful.
And just a little sad.

She leans back into the armchair, eyes misting - not because of her aunt’s condition, but despite it, Elisa is still finding connection.
Still finding joy.
That, Erica thinks, is the kind of strength she wants to carry into the courtroom.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Aunt Elisa is having a good time at Sunrise Manor. I promise, we'll see her again in the next stories. She seems to have become a favorite character of my readers.

Very much including myself here. We know that this story is going to turn nasty at some stage, as Loudon throws his money around in order to try to make the world believe his late, scumbag son was an angel, whose life was terminated by some evil girl, who has to pay the heaviest price possible for her outrage. But it's nice to enjoy a bit of pleasant interaction beforehand. Just gives some extra dimension to this, already superb, story.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I'm really happy to see how much you enjoy this story. The slice of life scenes are an important part of the Ericaverse.
I believe that they give the characters more depth and make them more relatable.

[Jenny_S]

The Hudson glimmers dark beside the road, rippling under the faint light of the moon.
The sun has long dipped behind the jagged skyline of Manhattan as Erica guides her black Volvo back to her apartment on 72nd Street.
The dashboard is aglow in cool blues, the soft purr of the engine and the rhythmic sweep of the wipers against the windshield fill the car like a lullaby - but her mind refuses rest.

She exhales slowly, her eyes briefly scanning the rearview mirror before hanging a right into Riverside Drive.
It’s been a quiet run so far, but her thoughts hum like power lines: sharp, charged, relentless.

Aunt Elisa’s voice echoes in her memory - low and amused as she’d thanked Charles for walking her back from the dining room.
His hand gentle on Elisa’s elbow, his goodbye laced with warmth and a little old-world charm.

Erica had watched them from the lobby, a quiet witness to something rare and almost tender.
Maybe he’s what she needs, Erica thinks.
Someone who speaks her rhythm.
Not just care, but company.

And yet even in that warmth, her mind circles back.
Always back.
Lucy Arden.

The truth still fights to surface, and one woman might stand in its way - Giovanna Versini, the prosecution’s top witness.

Erica taps the dash-mounted phone cradle, then scrolls until the screen reads “Kimball’s Market - Rhinelander Ave”.
She hits Call, putting the device on speaker.
One ring.
Two.

“Kimball’s Market, this is Deke speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hi Deke,” Erica says, her tone casual, smooth as polished steel. “This is Erica. I’m trying to catch Gio - Giovanna Versini. Is she working tomorrow?”

There’s a pause.
She can hear movement - a chair scraping, the faint rattle of paperwork.
A door creaking open in the background, the hushed voice of someone else.

“Hang on... Lemme check the schedule.”
The rustling continues.
Then: “Nope. Gio’s off tomorrow. All day.”

“Thanks, Deke. Appreciate it.”

“Sure thing.”

The line clicks dead. Erica leans back in her seat, one hand tapping the steering wheel lightly.
“So, her home it is,” she whispers.

It’s better this way, she tells herself.
Not at the market, not at work where she has seen Giovanna wear her customer-service smile like armor.
But at home.
In her space.
No audience.
No mask.

Still, Erica knows this can go sideways.
Fast.
She's not walking into neutral territory.
She's walking into Lucy’s former friend’s guarded world - one built on what?
Guilt, denial, greed, or worse: belief in a lie.
She flicks her blinker on, turning into West 72nd.

Sometimes she marvels at how trusting people are.
Like Deke.
Giving up schedules. Names. Times.
All with just a pleasant voice on the other end of a phone.
As if she couldn’t be anyone.

But tonight, she’s not just anyone. She’s exactly who she needs to be.
Erica Sinclair, attorney at law.
Relentless.


~~~


Morning sunlight spills across the hardwood floors of Erica’s apartment, warm and lazy, like a cat stretching its limbs.
Spot bats at a felt mouse while Tiger sprawls in a shaft of light, his paws twitching as if dreaming of something wild.

Erica sits cross-legged in the middle of the living room, dressed in her grey “cat mom” sweat suit.
Both kittens have taken up residence in her lap, and for now, she lets them.
One hand strokes Tiger’s soft fur while the other balances her phone, unlocked but forgotten.

“You wouldn’t believe the mess I’ve stepped into this time,” she murmurs in a voice reserved only for cats and ghosts. “Lucy Arden, a grocery store clerk with a haunted stare and a murder charge hanging over her like a stormcloud. And the key witness? A girl who used to be her best friend.”

Spot lets out a curious little mrrp, blinking up at her.
“Yes, you’re right,” Erica replies, mock-serious. “It is messy.”

She chuckles to herself, shaking her head.
She’s a lioness in the courtroom, a scalpel in negotiation - and here she is, telling legal war stories to two purring fuzzballs like some tragic Disney princess.
The spell breaks when Tiger tries to chew on her sleeve.
“Okay, that’s enough cross-examination for one morning,” she says, scooping them off her lap. “Time to get dressed.”

She rises, barefoot on the hardwood floor floorboards, and heads into her walk-in closet.
The piece of bedroom furniture she loves - and the one she’s making damn sure the Scarsdale contractor puts into the remodeled changing room.
Sliding hangers aside, she selects a navy-blue skirt suit: crisp, tailored, formal enough to remind anyone who she is, but softened by a pale blue silk blouse and low heels.

Not a threat. Not a pushover.
Just enough.

A mist of her lavender perfume kisses her collarbone.
Then she shrugs into her taupe trench coat, grabs her handbag, and glances back at the kittens now tumbling over each other like drunken acrobats.
“You two be careful, okay?” she says. “I’ll see you tonight.”


~~~


Morris Park Avenue hums with its usual morning grit - buses roaring past, a food cart sizzling at the corner, the faint metallic grind of the train rattling over in the distance.
Erica pulls her Volvo to the curb in front of a reddish-brick walk-up, its windows shaded by awnings that have seen too many summers.
Above a narrow beauty salon – Henna tattoos, Waxing, Threading - the fourth floor is her target.
The shop door is propped open with a brick, the stairwell beside it shadowy but clean.
No key needed.
Just walk in like you belong.

She climbs slowly, counting each flight.
Fourth floor, just below the roof.
Hallway. Four doors.
The one she wants is the only one without a name.
Anonymous. Just like she expected.

She exhales slowly. Her pulse is steady, but her jaw is tight.
This isn’t a confrontation.
Not yet.
But it’s a pressure point - and she knows exactly how challenging those can be.

Another beat before she presses the buzzer.

Nothing.
No tone, nothing.

Erica frowns and tries again. Still dead. She raises her hand and knocks instead - three firm raps, echoing like a gavel in the quiet corridor.

A shuffle of footsteps. A metallic rattle. The sound of a chain being drawn taut. Then the door opens just a crack.
Giovanna Versini peers out.

She’s wearing a hoodie, hair pulled back hastily, face washed clean but tired. Her sleeves are tugged over her hands, her weight shifting like she wants to close the door but can’t quite do it.
“Yes?” she asks, guarded.

“Good morning, Ms. Versini,” Erica says, her voice measured. Respectful. But confident. “My name is Erica Sinclair. I’m working on the case of Loudon versus Arden. I’d really appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

Giovanna’s grip on the door tightens.
“I’ve told you everything a dozen times or more.”

“I understand,” Erica replies calmly. “But I’m not the DA. I’m not here to intimidate you or twist your words. I’m here to understand. That’s all.”

A tense pause stretches between them.

Erica keeps her posture relaxed, unthreatening.
Her eyes don’t challenge; they ask.
Sometimes it is better not to push too hard, to let silence do the talking.

Giovanna exhales slowly.
Then - just slightly - the door creaks open a few more inches.
“Okay. Come in…”


~~~

[LunaDog]

Well it's an opening. Nothing more at this stage, admittedly, but it's a possible. And it appears to me, from the manner in which this girl has acted here that a certain degree of pressure has been applied in her direction in order to ensure what she has been told by certain people to say, rather than what she really saw.

[Caesar73]

Well it's an opening. Nothing more at this stage, admittedly, but it's a possible. And it appears to me, from the manner in which this girl has acted here that a certain degree of pressure has been applied in her direction in order to ensure what she has been told by certain people to say, rather than what she really saw.

Agreed completely

Morning sunlight spills across the hardwood floors of Erica’s apartment, warm and lazy, like a cat stretching its limbs.
Spot bats at a felt mouse while Tiger sprawls in a shaft of light, his paws twitching as if dreaming of something wild.

I do love those little Gems Dear @Jenny_S

Meeting Giovanna is - as @LunaDog points out - an Opening, a Start. If Erica can get Giovanna to change her Testimony will be Key. If she does not? Erica´s Battle is a lost Cause in my Assessment.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, Erica is definitely fighting an uphill battle here.
Can she find out what Gio really saw? Or maybe Lucy did shoot Loudoun in cold blood?

[Jenny_S]

Giovanna steps aside, motioning Erica through the narrow entryway.
The hallway is dim but clean, lit by the soft glow of a single wall sconce with a lace-trimmed shade.
Faint music filters in from a neighbor’s apartment - saxophone jazz, distant and a little sad.

Erica follows her host down the corridor, eyes sweeping across the little details that say more than words might.
The living room is small, neat, lived-in.
A crocheted throw hangs over the back of the couch.
A bookshelf holds paperbacks, framed photos, and a ceramic Madonna with a prayer card propped delicately against her feet.
On a low sideboard, several glass bottles sit in a row, each filled with sand and labeled by hand - Myrtle Beach, Cape May, Rockaway.

Home, Erica thinks.
Not a rich one.
But a rooted one.

“Sit, please,” Giovanna says, gesturing toward a well-loved armchair whose cushions sink slightly at the corners.

Erica lowers herself into the plush seat, her coat folding neatly across her lap.
She notes the barstool Gio claims across from her - metal legs, faded cushion, maybe vintage thrift.
The space between them is narrow.
But emotionally, it feels like miles.

“Thank you for letting me in, Ms. Versini,” Erica says, voice soft but even. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Giovanna’s fingers toy with the edge of her hoodie sleeve.
Her mouth forms a tight line. “So, what is it you need to know?”

This is it - the moment to push without pressing.
Erica takes a breath.
“I’ve been asked to look into the case. Lucy Arden is my client,” she says, meeting Giovanna’s eyes. “According to the case file, you’re listed as the key eyewitness to what happened that night.”

Giovanna’s eyes drop instantly.
She doesn’t answer.
Just nods.
Once.

Erica leans forward, her voice gentle but firm. “Your testimony could be the deciding factor. The DA is seeking a first-degree murder conviction. They want Lucy to spend the rest of her life behind bars.”

A long pause.
Silence thickens in the room like fog.

Gio reaches up slowly and pulls a thin necklace from beneath her sweatshirt.
A delicate gold cross glints against her collarbone.
She touches it with two fingers.

“If you stand by what’s in your statement,” Erica says carefully, “Lucy may never walk free again. Is that what you want?”

Giovanna’s throat works hard around the words. “I saw what I saw…”

Erica doesn’t flinch. “Then tell me what you saw. Please.”

Giovanna exhales, shaky.
Her shoulders rise, then fall.
“If I say the wrong thing, people are going to think I helped her,” Gio whispers.
She grips her cross like a lifeline, like it might absolve her of whatever comes next.


~~~


“I was on the stairs,” she says at last. “The landing, inside Gary’s apartment. I followed Gary when we heard the bell. I thought maybe it was the food delivery.”
Her hands twist together in her lap. Knuckles white.
“I saw Gary open the door. Lucy was standing there. She… looked upset. Like… wound up. They talked. I don’t know what she said. I couldn’t hear from where I was.”

Erica nods once. Calm. Encouraging.
“Then what?”

Giovanna’s eyes glaze a little. “There was this… movement. Like Gary stepped toward her. Like… fast. I don’t know what he was going to do, but his shoulders tensed. And then…”
She winces, blinking.
“The gunshot. So loud. It echoed - bounced off the walls. My ears rang for minutes.”

A beat of silence.

“Then I saw Lucy run. She just turned and bolted.”

Erica’s voice lowers to a near whisper. “You saw Gary step toward her?”

“I think so. I don’t know.” Gio shakes her head. “It happened so fast. One second he was there, and the next…” She breaks off. Her voice cracks.

Erica lets the silence stretch a moment longer. Then, quietly:
“Is it possible… just possible… that Gary lunged at her?”

Giovanna doesn’t answer.
Not yet.


~~~


Erica leans forward slowly, deliberately, and reaches out - not forcefully, not abruptly, just a gentle movement across the space between them.
Her fingers brush the back of Giovanna’s hand, resting on her knee.

“You say she ran,” Erica murmurs, her voice as soft as it is steady. “Not that she gloated. Not that she stood over him like it was some kind of victory. She ran.”

Giovanna doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch.
Her fingers tremble faintly under Erica’s, but she doesn’t pull away.

“That means something, doesn’t it?”

The silence is heavy now.
Not just between them, but inside the room.
A silence born of reckoning.

“You two were best friends for how long?” Erica asks. “Three years? Four?”
Gio nods faintly, still chewing the inside of her cheek.
“You know her,” Erica continues. “Better than most people ever will. So, ask yourself: is Lucy Arden a cold-blooded killer?”

A sharp breath escapes Giovanna.
She bites her bottom lip hard - too hard.
A bead of blood blooms where teeth meet skin.
She doesn’t even seem to notice.

Erica softens her tone. “I know what it’s like to be caught off guard. To see something so fast and loud and terrifying that your brain grabs one thread and pulls it tight. Then someone in a suit sits you down, tells you what you saw. And maybe - just maybe - you start to believe it.”

“I’m…” Giovanna’s voice breaks, a ghost of a sound. “I’m scared.”

Erica’s hand closes gently over hers.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Just there.
Steady.
Grounding.

“I know,” she says. ““You were just trying to make sense of something that didn’t make sense. That’s why I’m here.”

Gio’s eyes flick downward.
Her other hand reaches up and touches the cross hanging from her neck.

“You wear that cross for a reason, right?” Erica says calmly. “If you can hold onto your faith, then you can hold onto the truth, too. Not the fear. Not the pressure. Just what you really saw.”

She stands now, slow and measured, and slips a business card into Giovanna’s hand.
“Call me anytime - day or night. If you want to talk... Or if you want to get something off your chest.”

Giovanna’s fingers close around the card as if it’s a lifeline.

Erica doesn’t say goodbye.
She just meets the younger woman’s eyes with one last look of quiet trust.
Then she turns and walks out, heels tapping against the old floorboards, leaving a silence in her wake.

Behind her, the apartment door closes with a soft click.
There’s a decent chance that Giovanna might flip her testimony in court, but in this case nothing should be taken for granted.
Only the future will tell which side of the truth the young woman will stand on.


~~~

[LunaDog]

So maybe now we're getting an accurate picture of just what DID happen. Giovanna WAS there, but under Erica's gentle coaxing she basically admits that this wasn't the cold-blooded murder that her statement claims it was. The trouble is, how does Erica ensure that THIS is the version that the jury is presented with. It's crystal clear now that this poor girl has been subjected to REAL pressure to just say what she's told to, and by very rich and powerful people, who she's, quite understandably, terrified of getting on the wrong side of.

This one's going to need all of Erica's skill and experience to handle correctly.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, we will see if gentle coaxing gets Erica (and Lucy) some results. However, now it's time to bring on the heat...

[Jenny_S]

Erica slides into her black Volvo, casting one last glance at the red-brick apartment building.
For a moment, she thinks she sees Giovanna at the kitchen window - a shadow, or maybe a stare.
Then the moment’s gone.
She starts the engine and pulls into the slow, indifferent crawl of traffic.

Back on Park Avenue, as she steps out of the elevator and into the lobby of Sinclair & Associates, she is greeted by Holly Beck, their receptionist and Claire Messner, Erica’s personal assistant.

“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair,” Holly chirps, cheerful as ever.

“Good morning, everyone,” Erica replies.
Claire straightens, smooths the front of her skirt. “You had a call from Mr. Wallingham of Wallingham, Esterhaus & Partners,” she says.

The phone system on Holly’s reception desk buzzes.
“That’d be him again,” she says.

Erica raises an eyebrow.
She doesn’t know Cord Wallingham personally but is well aware of his status as the senior partner of one of New York’s leading law firms.
He's not only that, though.
Wallingham is a man with pull - mentor to half the bar, on a first-name basis with most judges, and consigliere to the city’s wealthiest families.
He doesn’t call – repeatedly - just to say hello.

"I'll take the call in my office, Holly. Please put him through."

"Yes, Ms. Sinclair."

Erica walks down the hallway, gets a passing glance from Claire, then closes the door of her office behind her.
She takes a deep beath and releases it as she lifts off the receiver of her desk phone.

"Erica Sinclair," she says, voice even, unhurried.

The voice on the line is silk wrapped around granite.
“Ms. Sinclair. Cordell Wallingham. I trust I’m not interrupting anything critical.”

She lowers herself into her chair, gaze sharpening.
“That depends on your definition of critical.”

Wallingham chuckles - low, measured, elegant.
The kind of laugh designed to suggest he’s in control, always has been.
“I admire your work,” he says. “You’re building quite a reputation. Clean wins, strategic filings. Integrity with teeth - that’s rare these days.”

She doesn’t respond to the compliment.
Not yet.

“I’m calling,” he continues, “because I’ve recently been retained by the Loudon family. Naturally, they’re distressed. A son dead. A name dragged through the press. A trial looming. Grief can make people... reach for leverage.”

Erica closes her eyes briefly.
There it is.
Leverage.
She knows it wouldn't have taken long for Loudon's father to get notified that - somehow - Lucy Arden's public defender got replaced and his course of action would be to bring in a legal heavyweight like Wallingham.

“I’m very sorry for their loss,” she says coolly. “I’m sure your client understands that charges of sexual violence tend to complicate public sympathy.”

Another chuckle. “Of course. But that’s the thing about legacy, Miss Sinclair. It resists defamation. The Loudons have spent decades building theirs. The firm of Wallingham, Esterhaus & Partners exists in part to protect it.”

A pause.

Then he drops it.
“Your client - Miss Arden - doesn’t belong in this arena. She’s a retail worker with a record of going out to pick up men. In my book, that puts her right next to any cheap hooker, isn’t that right?”

Erica’s grip on the phone tightens.
“You’re out of line, Mr. Wallingham.”

“No, Miss Sinclair,” he says smoothly, “I’m being candid. I’m offering you a golden parachute. Before this gets... difficult.”

Erica's hand braces against the edge of her polished mahogany desk.
Her voice doesn’t rise - but the temperature behind it plummets.
“If this is the part where you threaten to destroy my career unless I abandon Lucy Arden…”

“I don’t threaten,” he says, voice like velvet. “I advise. And my advice is this: you’re too sharp to stake your career on someone like Lucy Arden.”
Silence crackles between them.
Then he adds, soft as a whisper:
“Men like me don’t come after lawyers. We simply change the climate around them. Judges stop returning calls. Clients disappear. Press leaks appear. Your license doesn’t get revoked - it just becomes… irrelevant.”

Erica exhales slowly, like she’s pushing the chill out of her lungs.

She looks up at the framed diploma on the wall: Harvard Law School, summa cum laude.
Below it, the photo: graduation day. Erica in her gown, mortarboard tilted, grinning beside her father.
His arm around her shoulder.
Her arm around his waist.
Pride radiating from both.
This photo was taken an hour before he gave her the Rolex dive watch, before she promised him - herself - that she would always honor the creed engraved into the caseback of the watch: Stand for something or fall for anything.

"Mr. Wallingham, that is a risk I'm willing to take," she says coolly.

Wallingham’s tone shifts, just slightly.
Amusement gone.
Still smooth, but colder now.

“Then, I suppose we’ll see how firm you really are.”

She doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t flinch.
“I suppose we will,” she says.
And hangs up.

The silence in the office returns, but it’s not peaceful now.
It is heavy with heat, like the moment before a summer storm breaks open.

She looks out over the skyline, jaw tight.
She’s just made a very dangerous enemy.

But Lucy Arden still has someone in her corner.

And Erica Sinclair?
She doesn’t scare easily.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Let's face it, this sort of threat was almost inevitable. Her late father's motto, 'stand for something, or fall for anything' is about to be severely tested here. Loudon Snr wants Lucy's life utterly destroyed for killing his son, whether said son deserved it or not, and is prepared to go to any lengths to achieve it. Wallingham's threat is crystal clear here, 'stand aside or i'll break you and your reputation totally.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, yes, Loudon Sr. would not sit on his hands and watch Erica build a defense for Lucy. In today's episode you will see how far his reach really goes.

[Jenny_S]

Erica leans back, tapping the top of her desk with a manicured nail.
Despite having made her point clear to Cord Wallingham, she will not – cannot – let him threaten her, however nicely packaged it was delivered, she’s mulling the situation over in her mind.

Then, she reaches for her smartphone and scrolls down the list of her contacts.


~~~


The security checkpoint at City Hall is faster than she remembers – a brief, almost dismissive hum as her bag passes through the scanner, the cold touch of the metal detector against her blazer.
She clips the visitor's badge to her lapel, the cheap plastic a jarring contrast to the tailored wool beneath.
Her pulse, a disciplined rhythm, has already begun to slow, even as her thoughts knife forward with the cold precision of a surgeon's blade.

The receptionist, a young woman with a meticulously coiled bun, offers a too-bright, practiced smile, waving her towards the elevators.
"Deputy Commissioner van Rey's expecting you, Ms. Sinclair."

Erica carries a flicker of grim amusement in her eyes as she rides up to the top floor of the building.
On the chime, the elevator doors sigh open, revealing a corridor that stretches long and silent.
The marble floors gleam under recessed lighting, reflecting the framed mayoral portraits that line the walls like solemn sentinels of power.
The air here hums with a potent blend of lemon polish and the unspoken weight of politics.
This is the upper echelon of City Hall, the hushed domain rarely seen by the public, where true influence is wielded.

When she reaches Sophie's office, the door stands ajar, an invitation that feels more like a summons.
Sophie van Rey stands ramrod straight behind her vast, uncluttered desk, her jaw set with an unfamiliar rigidity.
Her espresso-colored suit is, as always, flawless, but the subtle strain in her shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in her usually steady hand resting on the desk, gives her away.
"Erica," she says, her voice an even, carefully neutral tone. "Thanks for coming over."

Erica offers the Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety a small, almost imperceptible curve of her lips. "Thanks for seeing me, Sophie."

Van Rey gestures toward the seating area.
A plush leather armchair, inviting yet formal, waits across from a low coffee table.
Beside it, another chair is already occupied.
By Jennifer Calloway.
The Ice Queen.


~~~


Clad in a suit the precise shade of administrative grey, Calloway is as perfectly composed as a display mannequin.
No hint of a smile touches her lips.
No warmth softens her gaze.
Just eyes that track Erica's every move with the predatory focus of a hawk.

"I wasn't aware this was going to be a three-way conversation," Erica states, her voice cool, like water running over river stones.

"You weren't supposed to be," Sophie replies, beginning a slow, deliberate circle around her desk. "But the rules changed the moment you called."
Her eyes flicker to Calloway, then back to Erica. "Or, more accurately, the moment Wallingham started making calls."

Calloway offers a crisp nod – a gesture almost courteous, yet entirely devoid of genuine welcome. "Counselor," she drawls, her voice a low, even hum. "You're always early to the show."

"I try to read the terrain," Erica replies, settling into the leather armchair.
She crosses one leg over the other, the movement fluid, almost languid, then smooths the impeccable line of her skirt. "So what exactly am I walking into today?"

Sophie leans against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, the posture less defensive now, more measured, almost weary.
"My dear colleagues," she begins, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur, "let's be clear: this meeting never happened. Not officially."
She looks pointedly at Erica, who makes a conscious effort to radiate an unshakeable calm, a granite composure. "As you've no doubt noticed, Erica, Cord Wallingham has made or is making some calls," she states, her words stark in their simplicity. "And not quiet ones."

Erica's jaw tightens, a muscle in her cheek jumps subtly.
Wallingham and his client must have more leverage than she'd initially feared; a deeper, more insidious reach.

Calloway, for her part, simply blinks, her expression unreadable. "On behalf of Messmore Loudon," she recites, a hint of disdain creeping into her otherwise flat tone, "he threatens the DA's Office as well as the top floor of City Hall. Full-spectrum pressure, as he terms it."

"Why?" Erica rasps, her voice edged with a fine, dangerous clarity. "Because I dared to represent a woman his son brutalized?"

"Because his son's image is more important in death than it has ever been in life," Sophie answers, her gaze steady, unflinching. "And he wants to keep it that way, possibly to keep his connection to D.C. intact. He doesn’t care who gets crushed, whose lives are ruined, in the process of protecting that illusion."

Calloway folds her hands precisely in her lap. "Let me say this: I didn't ask for this case. I didn't champion for it. They gave it to me because I have a record. A reputation." Her voice holds a thin, brittle edge of resentment.

"As executress?" Erica suggests, her voice like glass shards crunching under her heel.

Calloway's lips twitch – something unsettling, a flicker between a smirk and a sneer. "A willingness to win – not unlike yourself, Sinclair. But that doesn't mean I enjoy being used as a pawn."

Erica studies her, a flicker of surprise in her own cool blue eyes.
This is new.
Not weakness, perhaps, but a seam of raw, unexpected honesty.
A sliver of friction in the perfectly oiled machine of the prosecution.

Sophie breaks the silence, pushing off the desk.
"We all know Lucy Arden isn't a career criminal. And we all know that if this goes to trial under the current posture, it'll be war – political, public, personal. A media circus that will drag everyone through the mud, including the Mayor's office."

Calloway exhales, a sharp, almost painful sound. "You think I want to stand in front of a jury and try to turn that girl into a cold-blooded killer? I've seen the photos from the ER. I've read the police reports. I'm not blind."

"Then don't," Erica says, her voice flat, devoid of negotiation.

Calloway's eyes flick toward her, a spark of irritation igniting in their depths. "It's not that easy, Sinclair. Try to put yourself in my position for a minute, okay!"

Biting her lower lip, Erica looks at the Ice Queen.
She sees the familiar ambition, the drive to win, but beneath it, a newly exposed vulnerability.
If Calloway doesn't want to lose her job, she needs to produce results.
She can't allow herself to be seen as a pushover. But her very presence in this clandestine meeting speaks volumes: she, too, is more than a little uncomfortable with being used as a pawn in the high-stakes power play going on behind the scenes.

"Then give me a window," Erica says, her voice dropping to a more persuasive register. "Time to get you more. Something that eases your conscience."

Sophie steps forward, her posture softening further, becoming almost an ally. "That's why I brought you both here. I'm not asking for backdoor deals. I'm asking for discretion. And a cease-fire. My boss can't afford being caught in this game – not with re-election on the horizon."

"I can get you forty-eight hours," Calloway finally concedes, the words emerging like a sigh of resignation. "You find something. A witness, a new angle, anything that makes this more than just a good girl with a gun and a vendetta. Anything that gives the DA’s office political cover."

Erica nods, a tight, firm gesture. "Done."
The ADA doesn't know about Christine Allison and her affidavit yet.
But she needs more.
She needs to turn Giovanna Versini, and she now has only two days to do so.
The clock is ticking.

Calloway stands smoothly, adjusting the immaculate cut of her blazer. "If you can't? I’ll have to do my job. No holds barred."

"I expect nothing less," Erica says, her voice unwavering.

There is a long, charged silence, bristling with unspoken challenges and nascent understanding.
Then Calloway turns to Sophie. "Thanks for the coffee. I'll see myself out."
She passes Erica without another word, her heels like sharp punctuation marks on the gleaming marble floor, the sound fading into the distant hum of the building.

The door closes behind her, the soft click resonating in the sudden quiet.
Erica exhales, slow and steady, a long-held breath finally released.
Sophie crosses her arms again, this time the gesture more relaxed, almost a gesture of shared burden. "That's the best I can do for us all, Erica."

"You've done enough," Erica replies, her gaze meeting van Rey's. “Really.”

Sophie studies her, a genuine curiosity in her eyes. "You really believe in this one? This small retail worker against the Loudons?"

Erica meets her gaze without flinching, her own eyes a cool, determined blue. "It's not about belief, Sophie. It's about justice for someone who would get steamrolled by the system if we’d look away. It’s about someone who deserves to be heard."

Sophie nods once, a brief, almost imperceptible acknowledgment.
Her voice lowers, touched with a rare solemnity. "I know."

"Thanks, Sophie," Erica says.
She stands, smoothing her blazer with a practiced hand, and turns toward the door.

Forty-eight hours.
That's all she has.

And the countdown starts now.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, yes, Loudon Sr. would not sit on his hands and watch Erica build a defense for Lucy. In today's episode you will see how far his reach really goes.

Yes, in many ways Gary Loudon's father, whose given name we learn above, just illustrates what we were discussing beforehand, how much this world revolves around money, and how much of that individuals possess. It's entirely possible that Messmore Loudon was fully aware of his son's cruel perversions ( in all fairness he MAY not have been ) but in his world it didn't matter. Lucy Arden, as well as Giovanna and Christine, was just a lowly shop worker, a low life possessing very little material wealth, so in his scheme of things, amounts to basically nothing. How DARE she fight back against what his son had done?

But, just maybe, the 'Ice Queen' is a decent human being after all. Let's face it she's probably doing ALL she can realistically do here.

[LunaDog]

Calloway exhales, a sharp, almost painful sound. "You think I want to stand in front of a jury and try to turn that girl into a cold-blooded killer? I've seen the photos from the ER. I've read the police reports. I'm not blind."

"Then don't," Erica says, her voice flat, devoid of negotiation.

Calloway's eyes flick toward her, a spark of irritation igniting in their depths. "It's not that easy, Sinclair. Try to put yourself in my position for a minute, okay!"

Possibly a perfect summary of the situation here, there's is obviously mutual respect between these two professionals. You know, i'm actually beginning to hold a certain amount of sympathy for the D.A. Calloway here. Sure she's hard, but is she also fair? I guess that a lot of her 'triumphs' have possibly been against people, or organisations, that she REALLY considers to be guilty, and probably many, if not all, are. One could argue that in this case, she's a victim of her own success.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, now we know that Cordell Wallingham is pressuring not just Sophie van Rey and Jennifer Calloway, but their bosses: the Mayor and DA Charles Vickers. How, we might not learn, but Erica definitely will need more than Christine Allison's affidavit to assure that Lucy gets a fair trial and herself out of Wallingham's crosshairs.