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High-profile journalist Candice Summers is arrested with two kilos of cocaine in her trunk - but she swears she’s been set up.
As her attorney, Erica Sinclair quickly realizes this case is different: an anonymous tip, a suspiciously clean arrest, and a lead all point to something bigger.
Peeling back the layers, she finds herself caught in a dangerous game she was never meant to play.
But someone made a mistake - because Erica Sinclair never plays to lose.
Last edited by Jenny_S3 days ago, edited 2 times in total.
The city stretches far and wide beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Erica Sinclair’s office, a glittering maze of steel and glass. For those working in the office suite of Sinclair & Associates on the 25th floor of a nondescript high-rise on Park Avenue, the pulse of New York hums faintly in the background, distant yet ever-present.
For a brief moment, Erica allows herself the luxury of a smile as she watches the video playing on her phone. Lea, her Cleveland Bay mare, is merrily rolling in the paddock, hooves kicking up a cloud of dust, utterly carefree.
Margaret Henshaw and her team at Ironwood Pastures are doing a spectacular job caring for her. Erica wishes she had more time to visit and ride her than once or twice per week, but knowing Lea is happy - living the great life of a horse - is enough for now.
Duty calls.
She swipes away the video and refocuses on the deluge of emails demanding her attention, skimming subject lines with practiced efficiency. But before she can fully dive in, a soft knock on the door pulls her gaze up.
Through the frosted glass, she instantly recognizes the silhouette - Claire Messner, her ever-efficient assistant.
But something is off.
Even before Claire steps inside, Erica can sense it. The usual composure, the air of unshakable professionalism, is replaced by something…hurried.
“Come in, Claire.”
The door swings open just enough for Claire to poke her head inside. Her expression is tight, eyes flickering with urgency. “Erica, I’ve got a call on hold for you. Candice Summers. She’s been arrested. The police found two kilos of cocaine in her car. She’s asking for representation.”
For the briefest moment, Erica is completely still.
Candice Summers.
Investigative journalist. Anchorwoman. A force in American media. Not a friend, but an acquaintance, a respected name, a woman who - at least to Erica’s knowledge - has never even skirted the edges of scandal. And now, she’s in possession of two kilos of cocaine? Of course, drugs are not unheard of with people who work in high-stress environments and who constantly are in the eye of the public, but possession of two kilos…
There’s no way this could be argued as being for personal use. That amount is an entirely different ballgame. She’ll not only be charged with possession of the drug, but also with intent to distribute. That’s a career-ending, life-destroying disaster.
Erica’s mind sharpens in an instant, instinct kicking in. Something isn’t right. She can smell it.
“Put her through, please.” she says, her voice steady and resolute, although this definitely is an interruption of her schedule she hasn’t expected.
A second later, the phone on her polished mahogany desk buzzes. Her jaw set, she lifts the receiver.
“Miss Sinclair…Erica…”
Candice’s voice crackles through the line - tight, breathless, bordering on frantic.
“Try to calm down, Miss Summers.” Erica says, keeping her own tone even, controlled. “Where are you?”
“Midtown North Precinct.” Candice rushes out. “West 54th… I…”
“Alright. Take a deep breath. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m on my way.” Erica says in an almost soothing way.
“I didn’t…” Candice stammers. “I swear, I…”
“Candice.” Erica cuts in gently but firmly. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Just sit tight. I’ll be there soon.”
A shaky exhale from the other end. “Thank you.”
Erica hangs up.
For a fraction of a second, she allows herself to process what just happened - Candice Summers, arrested, cocaine in her car, career and life hanging by a thread. It doesn’t make sense. And when things don’t make sense, it means someone is pulling the strings.
Without hesitation, she rises, grabbing her coat and handbag in one smooth motion.
“Claire, please clear my schedule.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it - a quiet urgency that doesn’t invite questions. Nor are any questions necessary. Her assistant knows the drill.
She strides out of her office, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor as she passes Claire’s desk.
Claire, ever efficient, is already reaching for the phone, likely to push back meetings and reschedule appointments.
Erica doesn’t slow.
As she moves down the hallway toward the elevator, she shrugs into her trench coat, slipping her arms through the sleeves with practiced ease. The smooth fabric settles around her, a familiar armor.
By the time the elevator doors slide open, she’s already thinking ahead.
Inside, the polished steel reflects her image, distorted only slightly. She meets her own gaze, adjusting the collar of her coat with a practiced flick. Everything is in place - her sharp navy suit, her minimal makeup, her sleekly pulled-back ponytail. A composed, controlled professional. Exactly as she needs to be.
“You’ve got one chance at a good first impression.” her father’s voice echoes in her mind. A lesson he had drilled into her since childhood, and one that has served her well in the cutthroat world of law.
She smirks slightly, recalling the last New York City Bar Association meeting - so many young female lawyers dressing as if they were auditioning for America’s Got Talent, or worse. Skimpy dresses, garish makeup. Terrible. Unprofessional. Success isn’t in the flash. It’s skills and presence. And Erica Sinclair knows how to command a room.
The elevator shivers to a stop.
The underground parking garage is cool, dimly lit, the scent of gasoline and concrete filling the air. Erica steps out, her pace unwavering as she crosses toward her designated parking space.
Her black Volvo SUV sits waiting, polished and precise, a machine built for both utility and discretion.
She slides into the driver’s seat, buckles in, and starts the engine with a smooth turn of the key.
The dashboard lights flicker to life, casting a soft glow over the interior.
No GPS needed, Midtown North Precinct is on her mental map. At this hour, the morning traffic should be thinning, which probably means a twenty-minute drive.
She pulls out of the garage, merging seamlessly into the city’s ever-moving current of cars. Slow-moving, but moving nonetheless.
As she navigates the streets, her mind sharpens.
Candice Summers. Two kilos of cocaine.
Someone could have set her up.
Now, Erica might have to figure out who.
And why.
Erica squeezes the Volvo into the visitors parking lot outside Midtown North Precinct. The brick-faced building looms over the sidewalk, its presence as much a fixture of the city as the steel and glass towers that surround it. A few squad cars are parked haphazardly out front, one with its lights still flashing.
Erica steps out, smoothing the front of her coat as she surveys the entrance. The revolving door spits out a pair of uniformed officers, deep in conversation, their laughter sharp in the crisp air. They barely glance at her as she strides forward, heels clicking with purpose against the pavement.
Inside, the station is a controlled chaos of ringing phones, murmured conversations, and the occasional raised voice. A coffee-stained map of Manhattan lies on the front desk, edges curled from years of use. The air is thick with the scent of burnt coffee and paperwork that’s been handled too many times.
Erica approaches the front desk, where a uniformed officer - a stocky man with graying hair and an air of practiced disinterest - barely looks up from his clipboard. His nameplate reads J. Kowalski.
“I’m Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates.” she states, voice smooth, professional. “Attorney. I’m here to see my client, Candice Summers.”
That gets his attention. Kowalski’s gaze flicks up, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes her in - the sharp navy suit, the unshakable confidence. She’s dealt with cops often enough and knows how to handle them.
“She’s in holding.” he mutters, tapping a few keys on his outdated desktop. “Picked up this morning. Charges are serious.” He glances at her over the top of the monitor. “Two kilos is a lot of blow.”
Erica doesn’t blink. “And yet, I doubt you believe for a second that Candice Summers is a drug dealer.”
A flicker of something crosses his face - agreement, maybe - but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the hallway behind him. “Interview Room Two. I’ll have someone bring her in.”
“Appreciate it.”
She turns slightly but then pauses. “And after I speak with my client, I’d like to talk to the detectives handling the case.”
Kowalski exhales through his nose, already typing. “That’d be Detectives Fallon and Ruiz. I’ll let ‘em know.”
“Thanks a lot, Sergeant.” Erica nods, then steps back, straightening her coat as she prepares to face Candice.
Whatever happened this morning, whatever trap was set - she’s about to find out.
And if someone did set Candice up, they just made a very dangerous mistake.
~~~
The room is as unremarkable and uninviting as any Erica has ever sat in - four walls the color of old ash, a steel table bolted to the floor, and a single buzzing overhead light that does nothing to soften the starkness of it all. No windows. Just a door with a narrow, wire-reinforced glass panel, through which the occasional shadow passes.
She sits with her back straight, hands folded neatly on the table, exuding the kind of calm that unsettles people used to chaos. A lawyer’s calm. The kind that says, I know what I’m doing, and I know I’m going to win.
Still, she taps a single manicured nail against the table - once, twice - before she stops herself. Patience! She chides herself.
Then, the door opens.
Candice Summers is led inside by a uniformed officer, and at first glance, she looks nothing like the confident, polished woman who commands the evening news. Her blonde hair, usually sleek and impeccable, is slightly disheveled, strands falling loose from the clip that barely holds it together. The navy blouse she’s wearing is rumpled, the sleeves rolled sloppily to her elbows as if she gave up trying to smooth them down.
Her wrists are bound in steel handcuffs, and when the officer places her in the chair opposite Erica, the metal clinks against the table as she instinctively pulls her arms inward.
Candice lifts her gaze, and Erica takes in the state of her - eyes red-rimmed from crying, skin pale under the fluorescent lighting. She looks shaken, exhausted. And underneath all of it, something else - fear.
The officer steps back, crossing his arms. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.” Then, without another word, he exits, shutting the door behind him with a dull thud.
Final.
Maybe, deep inside, he is kind of satisfied that for a change a celebrity is getting the short end of the stick.
For a long second, Candice just stares at Erica. Then, barely above a whisper, she says, “Please tell me you believe me.”
The chair scrapes against the linoleum as Candice Summers shifts nervously and the clink of handcuffs against metal rings sharply in the air, the weight of them heavy on Candice’s delicate wrists. She looks small - her eyes dart toward Erica, wide with desperation.
"Please, Miss Sinclair, you have to…"
Erica lifts a hand. The gesture is calm but firm, a quiet command to stop. She can hear Candice’s feet tapping the floor nervously and it is obvious that her client doesn’t need sympathy, but assurance that she is not alone in this, that her lawyer has her back.
"Don’t worry." Erica’s voice is steady, controlled. "First things first: the cocaine was found in your car this morning. Was the car under lock and key overnight?"
Candice swallows hard, forcing herself to focus. "Not really. I have a designated spot in the parking lot in front of my building." She tries to gesture but stops, remembering the cuffs. Instead, she folds her hands tightly on the table. "Anyone could have put something in there."
"Good. That’s an argument we can work with." Erica watches Candice closely. "Now, I need absolute honesty from you. Have you ever had any prior run-ins with the law?"
"No," Candice says quickly, then catches herself. "Well - just a speeding ticket. A few years ago."
Erica nods. Nothing serious. That will help.
She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice, making the space between them feel smaller, more intimate. She places her hand lightly over Candice’s, an anchor in a storm.
"Listen to me. I will do everything in my power to get you out on bail. The chances are good. But until that happens, you say nothing to the police. No matter what they ask, no matter how friendly they seem. You talk to me, and me alone. Do you understand?"
Candice blinks rapidly, nodding, her breath a little unsteady. "Yes."
"Good. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Erica studies her for a beat longer, making sure the message has landed. Then she stands and knocks on the door, signaling the officer. “Miss Summers is ready to go back into holding, officer.”
As Candice is led away, she casts one last, quick glance back. Erica meets her gaze with a steady nod. You’re not alone in this.
Now, it’s time to deal with the detectives.
Two intriguing first Chapters. Everything suspiciously correct so far. And anonymus Tips are always a source of Suspicion ....that something is rotten in the State of Denmark ...
The door swings open again, and this time, two plainclothes officers step in - Detectives Jimmy Fallon and Sabrina Ruiz. Fallon moves with casual confidence, his tie loosened just enough to suggest authority without effort. Ruiz, by contrast, is more measured, her dark eyes sharp and assessing.
Erica rises, extending her hand with professional ease. "Detectives, thank you for seeing me on short notice."
Her handshake is firm, deliberate. "Erica Sinclair, Sinclair & Associates. I represent Miss Summers."
Fallon nods, taking a spot against the wall, arms crossed. Ruiz mirrors the stance, though there’s something more guarded in her posture. Erica clocks the difference immediately.
She sits, flipping open her notepad. The detectives remain standing. Classic tactic - stay looming, keep control of the space. She lets them have it. She doesn’t need theatrics to make her point.
"I understand you’re charging Miss Summers with possession of a controlled substance - two kilos of cocaine, which constitutes a Class A-II felony - and given the amount, intent to distribute."
"Correct." Fallon says, watching her carefully, trying to analyze what Erica might be up to.
"How did you know there would be drugs in her car?" Erica asks, tone even, pleasant. "I mean, you didn’t just pull her over and, without probable cause, decide to conduct a search. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?" She tilts her head slightly, catching the smallest flicker of reaction from Ruiz.
"We received an anonymous tip." Ruiz says, a beat too quickly which earns her a glance of disapproval from her colleague. "Miss Summers was pulled over by a uniformed officer who asked if he could take a look. She opened the trunk voluntarily."
Erica nods, jotting the information down. "Voluntarily." she repeats, as if turning the word over in her mind. The anonymous tip Ruiz mentioned doesn’t sit right with her. Cui bono – who profits from it – that would be a key question to answer.
Fallon exhales, impatient. He wants to press on, get rid of this little lawyer, and let the DA’s office and the court handle the case. "The drugs were wrapped in a picnic blanket in plain view."
Erica raises a brow. "And Miss Summers denied knowing anything about them, I suppose?"
"Of course," Fallon says. "They all do."
Ruiz doesn’t comment, just shifts her weight slightly. Erica notes it. There’s something here, a small hesitation. Doubt? Discomfort? Either way, it’s a thread worth pulling later. An anonymous tip that Candice Summers, would transport drugs – two Kilos of cocaine – today. Upon being stopped, possibly under the pretense of speeding or changing lanes without a signal, she was asked to open the trunk and – not even thinking twice, because she had nothing to hide – agreed and the patrol officer found the coke.
Erica closes her notepad with a quiet snap and slides a business card across the table. "Thank you for your time, Detectives. This has been very informative." Her tone is polite, professional - yet there’s an unmistakable undercurrent.
She reaches for her coat, slipping her arms into the sleeves with the same effortless confidence she walked in with. One button. Two. Three. Slow, precise movements. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t let them see a single crack.
Then she offers one final, knowing smile. "If you think I can be of assistance, don’t hesitate to call." A pause, deliberate. "Or better yet - if you realize you’ve made a mistake."
She turns toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to.
The seed of doubt is already planted.
As she steps into the hallway, she catches the tail end of Ruiz’s voice.
"That bitch... it was a clean pinch!"
Erica smirks to herself as she pushes open the precinct doors and steps into the crisp morning air.
There seems to cracks appearing already. Something doesn't quite add up. As you've hinted with regard to the custody officer, the sheer delight of bringing down a 'celebrity' seems to have clouded judgements here.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of her car, Erica pulls out her phone. She promised Candice she’d get her out, and she intends to do just that. After all, she knows the system. She knows exactly how to play it.
Her first call is to the courthouse. A few rings, then a painfully slow robotic menu system that drags her through a dozen options before finally connecting her to the right person.
"Clerk’s office." a voice answers, clipped and efficient.
"Erica Sinclair, Sinclair & Associates. I’m calling regarding my client, Candice Summers. I need to confirm the bail hearing details."
“Please hold.” A few keystrokes clatter over the line before the clerk responds. "Hearing’s set for tomorrow, 2:15 PM. Judge Rosenberg presiding."
"Thank you."
She ends the call and exhales slowly, tapping a manicured nail against the steering wheel. Judge Alan “Rosie” Rosenberg - former prosecutor with the reputation of being strict but fair. Not an easy one to sway, but he values airtight arguments over grandstanding. That’s something Erica can work with.
She makes a mental checklist. The prosecution will argue that Candice is a flight risk. Two kilos of cocaine is no small charge. The intent-to-sell accusation makes things worse. If the judge sets bail at all, it’s going to be steep.
She needs to call her preferred contact for this: Eastman Bail & Bonds.
The moment Eastman picks up, she can hear the knowing smirk in his voice. "When I heard Summers got booked, I knew you’d be scratching at my door, Erica."
"You’re always such a pessimist, Eastman." she says lightly, though both of them know the stakes. "I need you on standby. We’ll know bail by tomorrow afternoon."
"Just try not to push it past 500 Grand." Eastman warns.
"Thanks. I’ll do my best." she says with a small laugh before hanging up.
~~~
The elevator dings softly as it reaches the 25th floor of Sinclair & Associates. Erica steps out, greeted by the familiar scent of citrus and polished wood.
But beneath the calm, something feels off.
Holly Beck, their young receptionist, pulls her headset off and waves her down, her expression tight.
"Miss Sinclair!" she calls, voice slightly strained. "We’re getting bombed by calls from every major news agency. TV station, newspaper, online outlet - everyone wants a statement on Candice Summers."
Of course they do.
Erica’s expression remains neutral as she approaches the desk. "Tell them we are looking into the charges and will release a press statement in due time. Nothing more, nothing less."
Holly nods quickly, though Erica catches the slight tension in her shoulders. She’s young, eager, and still new to the kind of scrutiny a high-profile case can bring. Best to keep things tight.
"Claire will get you a written memo in a minute." Erica adds, already stepping away toward her assistant’s desk.
Claire, ever-efficient, is already poised with a notepad in hand. "I assume you want a firm directive?"
"Precisely." Erica replies. "Please send a memo to everyone in the office. Associates, assistants, paralegals - if anyone calls about Candice Summers, the only response is this: ‘We are looking into the charges and will release a press statement in due time.’ No exceptions."
Claire nods, already typing the memo as Erica turns toward her office.
As soon as she shuts the door behind her, she exhales.
News travels fast. Faster than they should. The moment Candice was dragged out of that patrol car and into the precinct, someone had picked up a phone. A cop with a connection to the press? A random bystander? The prosecution itself, eager to control the narrative?
It doesn’t matter.
Erica has less than twenty-four hours to prepare and she knows that she will be swarmed by the media after the bail hearing. The fight is only just beginning.
~~~
As the door behind her closes with a quiet click, the familiar hush of the space wraps around her like armor - soft lighting, clean lines, and the panoramic windows offering a sweeping view of Manhattan.
With practiced ease, she shrugs off her trench coat and drapes it over the back of the sleek leather armchair by the coffee table. Her handbag lands beside it, the subtle weight of the day settling in her shoulders.
She takes her phone and notepad, moving toward her desk with measured steps. Lowering herself into the chair, she pulls open a drawer and retrieves a crisp sheet of white paper and a fine-tipped black pen, the tools of a method her professor and mentor at Harvard Law School, Arthur Kingsley, had drilled into her years ago.
A pause. A breath. Then, with a steady hand, she begins drawing the first bold strokes of a fishbone diagram - a method of mapping out complex problems.
As she starts drawing the first straight line of the diagram, Kingsley’s voice echoes in her mind, steady and deliberate, just as it had been during those long, challenging lectures: "When the facts are tangled, Erica, untangle them. Every legal battle is a system of causes and effects. If you understand those - if you map them - you control the case before you ever set foot in court."
She smiles faintly. Even now, long after he retired, Kingsley’s wisdom remains her guiding force in legal matters and courtroom tactics. Only a few weeks ago she had spoken about his influence on generations of lawyers at a Bar Association event honoring him.
The main line of the diagram runs straight through the center of the page - the backbone of the case. She writes Candice Summers – Possession & Intent to Sell in firm, deliberate strokes. From that central line, she branches out, drawing diagonal “bones,” each one labeled with a key factor: Arrest Circumstances, Evidence, Witnesses, Candice, The real target, Prosecution Strategy, Defense Strategy
Piece by piece, she begins to build the case in front of her, each line connecting, each variable exposed: the anonymous tip. Who called her out? Why? Who has a motive to frame her? Has there been police misconduct during the arrest? Was she coerced?
She taps the pen against the page, her mind already shifting gears. Candice’s arrest wasn’t random - someone wanted her taken off the board. That’s the key question.
Who? And why?
The answers are out there.
And Erica intends to find them.
With a decisive flick of the pen, she underlines one phrase:
Who placed the call?
That’s where she needs to start.
The massive Interest of the Media is another Indicator that some one pulls Strings behind the Curtains. As Erica realizes: Someone wants taken Candace of the Board. Why?
I like that Paragraph about Erica´s Teacher at Harvard:
As she starts drawing the first straight line of the diagram, Kingsley’s voice echoes in her mind, steady and deliberate, just as it had been during those long, challenging lectures: "When the facts are tangled, Erica, untangle them. Every legal battle is a system of causes and effects. If you understand those - if you map them - you control the case before you ever set foot in court."
Control the Case before you set a Foot in the Court Room.
Dear @Caesar73, we have met Professor Kingsley before and his teachings surely have influenced Erica in a major way.
I hope though, @LunaDog, that searching for the mysterious caller and learning about his motive will keep you hooked.
Then let us hope that in the End All´s well that ends well 
A List of my stories:
