My free hand balled into a fist in my lap. I too knew what it was like to be at the mercy of a twisted justice system.
Mary Louise held up her palms. “So here I am in year eleven of a twenty-year sentence. But I wake up every day so glad that it’s me here and not my baby.”
It was too warm in this room. My tie was too tight. I needed air.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Sloane said.
“Do you know if the drugs or bags were fingerprinted?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sure it wasn’t. From my arrest to me changing my plea was only a few days. I doubt any evidence was processed. My second public defender recommended that we appeal. He thought we could prove I didn’t do it without implicating my son. He was digging into the case, getting ready to file a motion. Then he got a job at his mother-in-law’s firm and moved to New York,” she said wearily. “I’m on public defender number four now, and she’s so overworked it takes her a week to return my calls.”
“That’s really unfair. But you don’t seem bitter,” Sloane said, shooting me a nervous glance.
She was about to promise this woman the world. I removed my arm from the back of her chair and squeezed her leg under the table.
“Bitterness is a waste of energy. All I can do is make the best of this situation.”
“It looks as if you’ve kept busy,” I said, flipping open the file I’d brought with me.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Is that a dossier on me?”
“Where did you—never mind,” Sloane said before turning back to Mary Louise. “What have you been doing since your sentence?”
“I got an associate’s degree in business and one in creative writing.”
“You founded a creative writing program for inmates,” I added.
She smiled wryly. “I did. But that was more for me than anything. I like talking about writing, and in here, I have a captive audience.”
“Your son. He’s in law school now?”
A slow, proud smile spread across her face, making her look younger, lighter. “In his last year at Georgetown. He says as soon as he graduates, he’s going to find a way to get me out.”
“We have to help her,” Sloane said as we exited the prison.
An involuntary shudder worked its way up my spine when the heavy door closed behind us. Had it not been for Sloane’s father, this could have been my fate. I turned up my coat collar and sucked in a deep breath of icy winter wind.
I could breathe again. It felt miraculous.
Sloane’s cheeks were flushed pink with excitement. “I mean, obviously it’s going to take a lot of time and energy—”
“And money,” I added. I could give it to her. But she wouldn’t take it. Not if she knew it came from me.
“And money,” she agreed. “But we can’t let her sit behind bars. Not for protecting her son. And certainly not for another decade.”
Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses. She hadn’t been this excited in my presence since we were teenagers. It was another sting of loss.
“I guess I need to talk to Naomi, Lina, and Stef first. Then I’ll call Maeve. We’ll have to find a lawyer. A good one.”
As she babbled on, I thought about how much her energy reminded me of Simon’s. Simon had loved nothing more than a challenge when justice was at stake.
It appeared the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
The Waltons were good people. They weren’t stained with bad blood as I was.
“Your father would be…proud.” The word lodged itself in my throat, and it took effort to let it loose. It was the greatest compliment I could think to give.
Sloane stopped her bubbly, one-sided conversation to gawk up at me.
“Thank you,” she said finally. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said testily.
“You don’t look fine. You look pale.”
“I always look fine,” I insisted as I guided her across the parking lot.
She glanced back at the building we’d just left. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about it, but I guess being in a prison even as a visitor could be triggering after—”
“You aren’t going to need just an attorney,” I couldn’t stand the pity I heard in her voice. “You’ll need an entire legal team.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Justice isn’t cheap, Pixie.”
Her chin jutted out. “I’ll find a way,” she said.
“I have no doubt.”
She fished her car keys out of her jacket pocket when we arrived at her Jeep.
“I happen to know a few lawyers who specialize in appeals and commutations. I’ll send you some names.” I’d used one of them to seal my own record.
She frowned and the line between her eyes returned. “Thanks.”
It sounded like a question.
“What?” I demanded.
“You liked her, didn’t you?” she prompted.
“I found her story interesting.”
Sloane threw her head back and let out a noise that was half groan and half snarl. “Can you just for once say what you’re thinking? I’m not going to take your opinion and use it against you or try to scam you out of a kajillion dollars. I just want to know what you think.”
“Why?” There were reasons I guarded my words. The same reasons I walked through life with a poker face.
She crossed her arms. “Because you’re a rich megalomaniac who plays dirty with politicians all day long. I assume you see things from a different angle than a small-town librarian.”
“Her story—if it’s true—is compelling. Even if it’s not entirely true, the sentence was excessive, and she’s done nothing while serving her time to indicate she’s a dangerous criminal. With the proper team, you should be able to at least shorten her sentence significantly.”
Sloane smirked. “There. Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating.” I had a headache forming at the back of my head. I didn’t like being anywhere near prisons. Even being able to walk out didn’t help shake the memories of a broken, traumatized teen.
“She did it to protect her son when he was a stupid teenager. I mean, what parent wouldn’t do that for their stupid teenager?” She flinched the moment the words left her mouth. But she didn’t apologize. “I mean, what good parent wouldn’t do whatever it took to…”
She was making it worse, and she knew it.
“Shut up, Sloane.”
“Shutting up,” she confirmed. It lasted nearly a full five seconds before she opened her mouth again. “What would you do next if you were me?” she asked, toying with the button on her coat.
“I’d talk to the son again.”
That had her perking up.
“With your partners,” I added.
“Of course with my partners,” she said haughtily.
I glanced down at my watch. I hadn’t wrapped this up in time to take the call from New York. Nolan better not have fucked it up. If he hadn’t fucked it up, the rest of my afternoon was open.
“Are you hungry? Do you want coffee?” I asked.
Her spine straightened. “Shit! What time is it?”
“Nearly three.”
She unlocked her car. “Damn it! I’m gonna be late for my date.”
“Your date,” I repeated. I hadn’t meant to; the words had just slipped out. They were accompanied by an irrational burst of irritation.
“Yeah,” she said, turning to examine her reflection in the side mirror. “You know. Meet for food. Make awkward conversations about what you wanted to be when you grew up and what your favorite appetizers are. A date.”
She yanked the tie out of her hair and bent at the waist, shaking all that silver-tipped blond out.
“Who is this date with?”
Sloane flipped right side up, looking less like an innocent librarian and more like a bed-headed vixen. “Some guy named Gary? No, wait. Gary is later. This is…” She opened the door of her vehicle to grab a lipstick out of her cupholder. She uncapped it. “Massimo.” She slicked the red over her lips with an expert hand.
“Massimo?” He sounded like a man with a gold chain woven into his chest hair who wore sunglasses indoors. “You’re meeting a stranger from the internet alone?” Irritation was giving way to a simmering panic. It was hard to breathe again.