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“The car was in your name, Ana,” the public defender says to me, going through the massive file someone put together in less than twenty-four hours.
“Car…” I mumble, thinking of the shitbox Cormac bought when Ubers and taxis got too expensive.
Since my name was fake, he registered it to me.
“Yes, the car you were driving, Miss Michaels.”
“I was escaping.” I suck in a breath. “You have to believe me. Cormac O’Rourke was holding me prisoner. He put the car in my name without my consent. He hid the keys from me. He kept his drugs in there. Ask those kingpin informants the police have. He’s a dealer.”
My lawyer checks another file.
“Hmmm. Your tox report came back clean.” He stares at me with a young, serious face. “But that’s just a twenty-four-hour snapshot.”
Had we met any other time, this guy would salivate over me. The old me.
Now he looks at me with disgust.
I’m just another day’s legal mess for him. I’m tempted to yell, “I’m rich! I have a huge trust fund!”
I exhale instead, disgusted with myself, saving him the trouble.
“The nurse at the infirmary said my baby is fine. That’s not evidence of anything?”
He blinks, thinking about that. “Good catch! I’ll add that to my motion.”
“Motion?”
“To dismiss all charges.”
“You believe me?” I cry out. “You’re going to get me out of here?”
“We always do an MTD first. Motions to dismiss are standard.” He shrugs, going through the files until he gets a call. Without looking at me, he murmurs, “Your arraignment is at four p.m.”
“For which case?”
“All of them.”
I struggle to breathe.
Shit… This just got so real, so fast. Perhaps I should mention my father.
But a slick D.A. will conclude that since I was born into the Bratva, I must be guilty. Or they’ll use me to flip on Papa.
Ha… Not happening. His henchmen will be on the next plane.
I shudder, wondering if my father will kill me, or send me to one of those prison camps.
I stare down at my gray jumpsuit. It’s three sizes too big so it fits over my belly. The neckline slides off, exposing my pale shoulders, and the rolled-up bottom hemlines drag on the dirty floor.
“Do I get to change?” I ask the lawyer when his eyes drift back to me.
Change into what, I don’t know. The clothes I wore to escape were dirty with vomit and bloodstains from the accident.
“Not for an arraignment.” He clears his throat. “No jury to impress.”
“Is there any way you can go to my motel and collect my things?” I ask, biting my lip.
Once he sees where I’ve been living, he may understand me better.
