Erica Sinclair - Code of Silence (M/F)

[LunaDog]

Maybe Erica has poked the hornet's nest here.

As seems to be her 'role' in life!

[Jenny_S]

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

[Jenny_S]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~~~


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

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

The words hang in the air like a poised blade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~~~

[LunaDog]

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

[Jenny_S]

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

[Jenny_S]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~~~


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~~~

[LunaDog]

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