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“But most of them are, right? Proven guilty?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“How does that make you feel? Knowing the guy sitting next to you in court in a borrowed suit did all those things he’s accused of?”
“Are you asking me if I feel guilty about it?”
“Do you?”
“No,” Jeff says. “I feel noble knowing that I’m one of the few people giving that guy in the borrowed suit the benefit of the doubt.”
“But what if he did something really bad?” Sam asks.
“How bad are we talking about?” Jeff says. “Murder?”
“Worse.”
I know where Sam’s going with this, and my stomach clenches even more. I put a hand over it, rubbing slightly.
“It doesn’t get much worse than murder,” Jeff says, also knowing what Sam’s up to and not caring. He’ll gladly follow her to the edge of an argument. I’ve seen it happen before.
“Have you represented a murderer?”
“I have,” Jeff says. “In fact, I’m doing so right now.”
“And do you like it?”
“It doesn’t matter if I like it. It needs to be done.”
“What if the guy killed several people?”
“He still needs defending,” Jeff says.
“What if it’s the guy who killed all those people at the Nightlight Inn? Or the guy who did all that shit at Pine Cottage?” Sam’s anger is palpable now—a heat pulsing across the table. Her voice picks up speed, each subsequent word getting harder, rougher. “Knowing all of that, would you still happily sit next to that motherfucker and try to keep him out of jail?”
Jeff remains motionless, save for a slight working of his jaw. His eyes never leave Sam. He doesn’t even blink.
“It must be convenient,” he says, “to have something to blame for everything that went wrong in your life.”
“Jeff.” My throat is parched, my voice soft and easy to ignore. “Stop.”
“Quinn could do that. God knows, she has every right to. But she doesn’t. Because she’s managed to put it behind her. She’s strong like that. She’s not some—”
“Jeff,please.”
“—helpless victim who skipped out on her family and friends instead of trying to move past something that happened more than a decade ago.”
“Enough!”
I leap from my seat, tipping my wineglass, its contents gushing over the table. I sop it up with my napkin. White fabric turning red.
“Jeff. Bedroom. Now.”
•••
We stand by the closed door, facing each other, our bodies a study in contrasts. Jeff is calm and loose, arms at his sides. Mine are a straightjacket across my chest, which lifts and falls in exasperation.
“You didn’t need to be so harsh.”