Page 40 of The Proving Ground

She smiled like I had said something funny.

“I go by Cassie now,” she said.

“Cassie—I like it,” I said. “So, you live near campus?”

“Not too far. West Adams.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

Besides the whispery tone of her voice, she spoke with an unusual cadence. She spaced her words out as if guarding them, even with sentences that required little thought or hesitation.

“So, law school—how did that come about?” I asked.

“I think it was inevitable,” she said. “Considering what happened with my father.”

I understood. I was trying to keep the conversation light, but I knew there was something dark coming. This wasn’t a social visit.

“What year?” I asked. “What year law, I mean.”

“Second,” she said. “I’m about halfway through.”

“You on a scholarship?”

My interior thought came out as an awkward question. The lastI knew, she had been taken into the foster-care system after the trial left her without a parent. I didn’t track her after that, probably fearing that what I’d find would put me into a deeper tailspin of guilt. But I knew there weren’t many foster parents out there who could afford tuition at USC Law.

“No,” Cassie said. “I support myself.”

“Are you interning at a firm?” I asked.

“No, not yet. I support myself as an ASMRtist. I have my own channel and I’m on Patreon. I do pretty well. I can even afford to hire you. I think.”

She smiled. I nodded, not knowing what most of that meant.

“That’s great,” I said. “Any decision yet on what kind of law you want to practice?”

“Definitely criminal defense,” she said.

“Ah, a lawyer after my own heart.” I put my hand on my chest.

“My goal was to get the degree and someday get my father out,” she said.

I nodded. It was an uncomfortable moment. I took my hand away from my heart.

“But I’m running out of time,” Cassie said. “He’s dying, and I want to bring him home.”

I nodded again. It seemed like all I could do. I knew I could not offer encouragement. Her father was probably only halfway through his sentence, and parole boards didn’t show much sympathy for abusers of children.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “What’s going on with your father?”

“He’s got terminal cancer,” Cassie said. “Esophageal.”

“I’m so sorry, Cassie. Where is he?”

“In Stockton. The medical prison. They said he has nine months. Maybe less.”

I hadn’t thought about David Snow’s case for years. I had handledthe trial, which ended with guilty verdicts on all charges. Another lawyer handled the appeals that followed. I thought I knew which way this conversation was going.