Erica Sinclair - Code of Silence (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

They silenced a student and buried the evidence to protect their image.
But when Erica Sinclair steps in, the battle for justice begins.
Can she expose the truth - or will power and corruption win again?
Find out in this gripping tale where a wild party turns into a nightmare - and a young woman fights to be heard.

[Jenny_S]

A firm, familiar knock.
Even before she looks up, Erica knows who it is. Claire Messner - her assistant, her right hand, the closest thing to a friend in the world of Sinclair & Associates.

She glances at the Rolex dive watch clasped snugly around her wrist: 5:07 PM. Claire is wrapping up her day.

Outside, the golden afternoon light slants through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk in her office. The hum of the firm is fading - muted voices in the hall, the sharp click of heels against marble, the distant chime of the elevator.

"Yes, please," Erica says, setting down her pen.

The door creaks open an inch. Claire peers inside. "Erica?"

Something in her voice - hesitant, careful - makes Erica sit up a little straighter.
"What can I do for you?"

Claire exhales. Then, she opens the door wider.
"I wonder if you can spare me and my niece Sasha a minute."

Erica blinks. Niece?

Claire is married to Richard - happily, as far as Erica can tell - but she’s never mentioned a sibling. Never talked about family beyond the occasional comment about her husband. Then again, Erica keeps her private life to herself. It’s no surprise others do the same.
Her curiosity flickers, but her expression remains even.

"Sure. Why not?"

Claire steps aside. A teenager hesitates in the doorway.

Sasha Lambert.
The girl is young - late teens, maybe eighteen. Shoulder-length wavy brown hair, deep brown eyes, pretty in a soft, unassuming way.
Her pleated skirt and maroon sweatshirt mark her as a Liberty College student.
But it’s the way she carries herself that Erica notices first.

She grips her bag like it’s the only solid thing in the room, knuckles bone-white.
Her eyes flick around the office, taking in the imposing bookshelves, the framed diplomas, the sleek mahogany desk.
But she won’t meet Erica’s gaze. Not for more than a second.

The stiff posture. The shoulders, slightly hunched - bracing for impact. The way she barely breathes, as if any moment, the walls might close in on her.

Fear. And maybe shame too.
Erica recognizes it instantly and a cold feeling settles in her chest.

Claire touches Sasha’s arm - a silent reassurance - before nodding toward the chairs across from the desk.

"Have a seat." Erica’s voice is calm, measured. The quiet authority of a woman who commands courtrooms.

Sasha hesitates. Then, slowly, she sinks into the chair.

Erica leans forward, folding her hands on the desk, eyes locked onto the girl’s.
No judgment. No rush. Just waiting.
"And tell me" she says, her tone softer now, "what I can do for you."


~~~


Sasha swallows hard. She opens her mouth - but nothing comes out.

A whisper.
A breathy rasp.
Too quiet.

Claire doesn’t speak. Just rises, crosses the room to the crystal decanter on the coffee table by the window. The faint gurgle of water fills the silence.
She sets the glass in front of her niece. “Drink some water, Sasha. Mrs. Sinclair will understand.”

Sasha hesitates.
Then, fingers trembling, she grips the glass. Takes a slow sip. Breathes.
"I’m…I have…"
The words catch in her throat. Like she’s choking on them.

Erica doesn’t press. She waits.

Sasha inhales shakily. "I’m a student at Liberty College." Her voice is thin, fragile. "Three months ago… I… I was at a party. A frat party, you know…"

Yes. Erica knows.

Fraternities. Brotherhoods wrapped in hyper-masculine bravado, famous for raucous parties where alcohol flows freely - too freely.
Underage girls lured in with drinks disguised as harmless. Made to go down easily. Until the world tilts.

She nods, quietly waiting.
"Just tell me what happened."

Sasha grips the glass tighter. "There was alcohol, Mrs. Sinclair."
A pause.
"I… didn’t want to drink, but… Coke with rum. Coke with… I don’t know what."

Of course.
The usual.
Hard liquor mixed with soda.
The taste masked. The effect creeping up - until there’s no fight left.

"Steve… he’s kind of cute. He’s the Quarterback of the football team…"
She falters.

Claire squeezes the girl’s shoulder. "Just tell her, like you told me."

Sasha nods. "I kind of liked him. I mean… all the girls like him."
She stops. Her grip on the glass so tight Erica expects it to break.
"He took me to his room. Told me to rest for a minute so I’d feel better."

Erica’s stomach tightens. She has a bad feeling about this.

Sasha swallows, hard - then it spills out.
"I didn’t want it, Mrs. Sinclair." Her voice cracks. "I cried. I struggled. I told him to stay off me."

Erica forces herself to stay still. To breathe slowly.

"He tied my wrists with a scarf… stuffed a sock in my mouth and…"
Sasha chokes.
Tears spill.
The rest doesn’t need to be said.

Erica knows.

Sasha’s voice turns hollow. "When he let me go, he told me how great it was. How much I must’ve liked it." Her jaw tightens. "He even offered me a ride home."

The silence in the room is suffocating.
Claire’s grip on her niece’s shoulder tightens.

Erica speaks carefully. "Did you go to the police or the ER?"

Sasha shakes her head. "No."

A pause.

"I went to the Dean of Students. Mrs. Childers. Gave her my ripped shorts. My…" She swallows. "Bloody underwear."

Erica’s fingers press together. Here it comes.

"She promised to look into it. Said I'd get justice."

Erica can imagine the ending.
"And?"

Sasha lets out a bitter, broken laugh. "They called me to the panel. Said my claims were unsubstantiated. That it was consensual."

Erica closes her eyes for half a second.

Sasha grips the empty glass like an anchor. "She said I should be more careful. That underage girls shouldn’t drink. Like it was all my fault.”
Her voice breaks.

Erica exhales.
The system failed Sasha.
Deliberately.

And someone will have to answer for it.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Yet again, a truly brilliant start here. You've already got me 'hooked!'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, let's see if I can keep you hooked! Shall we continue?

[Jenny_S]

Claire’s voice is quiet but unwavering, her arm still wrapped around Sasha. “Her parents don’t know, Erica. It’s… difficult.”

Difficult. Absolutely.

Erica exhales through her nose, pressing her fingertips together as she weighs the word. “That’s putting it mildly,” she murmurs. “But if it was easy, it would’ve been resolved three months ago.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. There are questions - hard, ugly questions - that need answers before she can even begin to think about justice.
Her gaze drifts back to Sasha.
The girl is gripping the empty glass so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. She looks exhausted - hollowed out by months of carrying this weight alone.
Too long.
“You did the right thing telling your aunt.” Erica keeps her voice steady, deliberate.

The truth is, Sasha should have spoken up sooner - should have gone to the hospital, to the police.
But she doesn’t need to hear that now.
What matters is that she finally has opened up. That someone finally believes her. That someone is finally listening.

Sasha nods, but her posture doesn’t change. Her shoulders remain hunched, braced for impact - disbelief, judgment, another dismissal.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Erica continues. “Do you think you can answer them?”

A flicker of hesitation crosses Sasha’s face. Then she glances at Claire, who gives her a reassuring squeeze.
Sasha swallows, then nods, her voice a little stronger. “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.”

Erica flips open her notepad. The quiet scratch of pencil on paper is the only sound in the dim office.

“You and Steve,” she begins. “Were you alone in his room? Did anyone else see what happened?”

“No.”

That was expected. These things rarely have witnesses.
“Did you say or do anything that he could have taken as a sign that you wanted him to do what he did?”

The reaction is immediate. Sasha stiffens, her entire body coiling like a wound spring. When she speaks, her voice is sharp, almost a snarl. “No!”

Of course not.
She had been tipsy, dressed for a party, and in Steve’s mind, that told him all he needed to know. A frat boy’s entitlement, wrapped in a smirk.

Consent. For crying out loud.

Erica lets the silence settle for a few seconds, giving Sasha space to breathe before asking, “Is there any chance you might be pregnant from what happened?”

Sasha shakes her head, jaw clenched. “No. I tested. Several times.”

One less battle to fight.

She doesn’t drag this out more than necessary. Sasha sees this guy every day. Walks the same campus. Endures the whispers, the stares, the smirks.
Just another girl from just another party, reduced to nothing more than a story swapped over beers and high-fives.
A joke.
A conquest.

Erica closes her notepad and leans forward, meeting Sasha’s eyes.
“Listen to me.” Her voice is steady, certain. “If you want, I’ll look into this. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Sasha nods, lips pressed together, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
For the first time in three months, she looks like she almost believes it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair,” she whispers. “The last few months have been…”

“I can imagine.” Erica’s voice softens. She pushes a business card across the desk. “I’ll get back to you soon. If you remember anything - anyone who saw or heard something - call me.”

Sasha nods. And in that moment, something in her shifts. Small, but real. She knows she’s not alone anymore.

Erica watches as Claire guides her niece to the elevator, her hand a protective weight on the girl’s shoulder. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and then they’re gone.


~~~


Alone again, Erica exhales and turns back to her screen. Her fingers move swiftly over the keyboard.
A few keystrokes bring up the Liberty College website. It’s exactly what she expected - an overly polished, hyper-stylized advertisement. More branding than education.

Videos of bright-eyed students in classrooms, laughing on sunlit quads, victorious athletes hoisting trophies. A perfectly curated illusion.

She clicks through the athletics section until she finds what she’s looking for:
The football team.

The Sons of Liberty.

Erica lets out a dry chuckle. The name alone drips with historical irony.
The original Sons of Liberty - not the sanitized, patriotic version taught in schools - were professional agitators. Thugs in powdered wigs who spread propaganda, incited riots, and beat up anyone who dared remain loyal to the Crown.
Heroes? Hardly.
Brutes who thrived on intimidation and violence? Absolutely.

How fitting for a rapist.

She scrolls through the team’s glossy page.

And there he is.
Steve Lonnegan, Quarterback.

She studies his official portrait. Chiseled jaw, perfect teeth, the right amount of cocky charm in his smile. The kind of guy who’s been told his whole life that he’s special. Untouchable. That the rules don’t apply to him.

The kind of guy who believes it.

A soft knock on her door pulls her attention away from the website.

It’s Claire.
She doesn’t wait for permission to enter. That’s fine. After hours, their relationship shifts. They aren’t boss and assistant any longer. Just two women standing on the same side of a battle.

“Thanks for seeing Sasha,” Claire says, clasping her hands together. “She came to me at lunch today - she didn’t know what to do anymore.”

“She did the right thing,” Erica replies. “And so did you.” She exhales, rolling her pencil between her fingers. “I just don’t know how we can substantiate her claims. It’s been three months. No police report. No hospital visit.”

Claire’s lips press into a tight line. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Erica leans back, fingers steepled, her mind already moving two steps ahead.
Difficult isn’t the same as impossible.

“But we don’t back down, Claire,” she says, meeting her assistant’s gaze. Her voice is steel now. “No retreat. No surrender.”

Claire’s small, knowing smile is instant.
“Right.”


~~~


The drive home is short. But her mind lingers on the frat party Sasha described.

She envisions it.
The pounding bass.
The thick, humid air laced with alcohol and perfumes.
The unspoken rules.
Girls don’t just walk in. They’re let in.

A doorman, likely an upperclassman with a red Solo cup in hand, sizing up every girl at the door. A six out of ten or higher gets a nod.

Sasha - young, pretty, dressed for the occasion? No hesitation. She’s in.

Erica grips the wheel tighter.
She knows the statistics. Women are six times more likely to be raped at a frat party than anywhere else on campus.
Colleges should have put a stop to these parties years ago. But they didn’t.
Because the students throwing them aren’t just random kids.
They’re the sons of the men whose names are engraved on donor plaques in the administration building.
And the system keeps protecting them.

She pulls into her underground parking garage, the black Volvo humming as she eases into her reserved space.


~~~

[LunaDog]

No police report. No hospital visit.

In other words, no evidence.

[Jenny_S]

And that, dear @LunaDog, might be the problem to solve. We will see if Erica finds a way to discover evidence. Stay tuned!

[LunaDog]

Oh, i WILL! Don't worry about that!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, if I could, I would award you the "Most Faithful Reader" medal. Thank you so much for sticking with me.

[Jenny_S]

The moment she steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her, she crouches down, bracing herself for the oncoming stampede.
Right on cue, two tiny balls of fur come barreling toward her.
Spot and Tiger.

Her kittens weave figure-eights around her feet, nudging her hands with their little heads, mewing their welcome.

A small smile tugs at her lips. Her tiny terrors.

“Hey, you little menaces,” she murmurs, scratching behind their ears. “Are you hungry?”

The kittens purr in response – a clear yes.

Erica drops her handbag on the coffee table, shrugs off her taupe trench coat, and heads for the kitchen. She never forgets to feed them first.

A piece of lean chicken breast waits in the fridge. A special treat. She rinses their bowls, chops the meat into tiny, bite-sized cubes, and sets the food down on the plastic mat in the living room.
The kittens dig in with enthusiasm, tails flicking in contentment.

Only then, with them taken care of, does she change into her soft, grey “cat mom” sweats.

She heats up the leftover homemade lasagna from the night before, plating it carefully. A glass of Nero d’Avola, deep and rich, completes the meal.
She carries her dinner to the couch, sinking into its familiar comfort.

Years ago, she existed on takeout and packaged, pre-cooked dinners, whatever she could grab between long hours and sleepless nights.
Back then, it wasn’t just about food. It was about survival.
But the past is dead. The ex who tried to break her is gone.
She reclaimed her life. And no one would take it from her again.

Her gaze drifts to the framed photograph on the bookshelf.
Her young self, no older than two, her tiny arms reaching toward the photographer.
Her mother, gone too soon. Taken from them before Erica had even formed clear memories of her face.
It was her father who shaped her. Who taught her the meaning of strength, of honor, of standing for something greater than herself.

She remembers sitting in his study as a child, her legs dangling from the chair too big for her, playing with his green army beret and he had shown her the badge on it - crossed Indian arrows, the words around them written in Latin.
De oppresso liber.
“This is our motto, Erica,” he told her. His voice strong but warm. “It means To free the oppressed.”
She hadn’t fully understood it then. But she had felt the weight of his words when he explained to her that there’s nothing in this world more noble than to help those who cannot help themselves.
Although she excelled in ROTC, she never saw herself following in his exact footsteps as a soldier, but she wanted to fight, too.
She wanted to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves. To free the oppressed, in her own way.
And so, she became a lawyer.

She can remember the exact moment her father asked her to join him in his study on the day of her graduation from Harvard Law School. She was still dressed in her gown and had her mortarboard hat tucked under her arm.
In this room he had an old-fashioned rolltop desk where he kept only the most important things and documents and from it, he took a green box emblazoned with a gold crown logo.
“Knowing the law is one thing, Erica,” he had said as he handed her the box. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”

When she opened it, the box contained a steel Rolex dive watch, a finely crafted Swiss timepiece made to last, and on the back of its case her father had a jeweler engrave the simple words “Stand for something or fall for anything”. This was the creed he wanted her to live by, and on that day, when she first clasped the Rolex around her wrist, she had promised him – herself – that she would do this. That she would fight for what was right. Always. Come hell or high water.

And that is exactly why she will bring nothing but her A-game to help Sasha Lambert. Absentmindedly, she runs her fingers over the smooth, heavy steel of the Rolex on her left wrist.
No retreat. No surrender.


~~~


The night passes in a blur and so does the early morning.
Erica breezes through her routine: her alarm wakes her at 5 AM – every morning – even on weekends. She never lingers, slides out of bed right away to fix breakfast for the kittens, then goes for her morning run of five miles.
It is a ritual preparing her for the day, not only strengthening her body or challenging her discipline, but also it cleanses her mind, just as much as the shower afterwards cleanses her body.

Covered only with a towel below the navel, she eats her oatmeal, this morning with a drizzle of maple syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and enjoys her cup of coffee, as always, with two sachets of Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk.

Her old friend Andrea Santos often ridicules her for her monochromatic clothing, but in her line of business a nice blouse – she prefers silk -, a fitted pencil skirt and tailored blazer made of fine black, charcoal, grey or navy fabric and flat or medium heels are part of the uniform, a professional armor.
Recently, she has met the young crowd at Bar Association events, their outfits business casual at best, their makeup loud and jewelry as if bought at the costume store, but this is not her style. She wants the people she deals with – clients, judges, DAs, cops and the opposition – to know that she doesn’t fool around.

Erica looks at her image in the tall bedroom mirror and the woman looking back at her is every inch the professional her clients need her to be.
She slips into her tench coat, slings her handbag over her shoulder and glances over at Spot and Tiger, both cuddling in their bed by the heating vent in the living room.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she whispers, closes the apartment door behind her and rides the elevator down to the underground parking level.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Thank you so much for sticking with me.

That's because you keep delivering the goods. Simply down to that.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, the story you are following currently, is #15. As we speak, I'm working on #22, so there's quite a bit of content in the pipeline to keep my readers hooked and happy.

[LunaDog]

Good news @Jenny_S Keep them coming! Now i know, that i, and anybody else for that matter, can go and already view them in advance, but i'm an 'old git' whose not entirely sure when it comes to online matters. So i'll just keep on reading them as they get posted here.

By the way, have you ever considered submitting them for publication as a series of short stories. In my honest opinion they are of more than sufficient quality.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thanks for the vote of confidence. I guess, for "real" publication, I would have to tweak them a little and edit out most of the bondage parts.

[Jenny_S]

The drive from her apartment to Liberty College takes about forty minutes, and - of course - the morning traffic turns it into a test of patience.
Erica doesn’t bother swearing at the red brake lights ahead. Instead, she keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gearshift, as the smooth strains of a saxophone hum through her car’s speakers.
Smooth jazz, steady and controlled - just like her.
The station cuts to the news every fifteen minutes, but nothing remotely like Sasha Lambert’s case will make the airwaves.

Even if Sasha had gone to the police, even if she had reported it the very next day, it would have made no difference.
Cases like hers don’t make headlines.
They get buried under mountains of paperwork, shuffled from one detective’s desk to another, left to collect dust unless some political force or media frenzy forces action.
"In this day and age,” people like to say, as if the system is any different now than it was fifty years ago.
It isn’t.
No matter what cop shows want people to believe, justice doesn’t just happen.
Someone has to drag it, kicking and screaming, into the light.

The GPS screen flickers with an overhead satellite view of Liberty College - a self-contained world of sleek, modern buildings, neatly trimmed footpaths, sprawling lawns, and sports fields. A small kingdom within the city, shielded from reality.

Erica tightens her grip on the wheel and her jaw sets as Sasha’s words replay in her mind. The Dean of Students, Valena Childers, runs what? A panel to discuss justice? A committee to decide whether rape - an act of sexual violence, a Class B felony under New York Penal Law - deserves disciplinary consequences?
Five to twenty-five years in prison.
That’s the sentence.
That’s the law.
But here, it’s reduced to a discussion.
A board meeting.

Her jaw tightens even more.

She pulls into the parking lot, surprised by how spacious it is. A uniformed campus security officer stands near the entrance, directing traffic with lazy efficiency.
As she swings the Volvo into a vacant spot, she catches his gaze in the rearview mirror. He’s already sizing her up - assessing, categorizing, the way men do when they think they’re subtle about it. She unclips her seatbelt, grabs her bag, and steps out, locking the car with a beep.

The man tips his hat. “Good morning, ma’am! Can I help you?”

She doesn’t waste time. “Possibly. I’m looking for the quarterback of the football team.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, amused. “Don’t they all.”

Charming.

He jerks his thumb toward the far end of campus. “You’ll find ‘em over on the training field, ma’am. Just take the path across the street and follow the signs. You can’t miss it.”

She nods her thanks, shoulders her bag, and crosses the pedestrian bridge. The campus unfolds before her - clean, curated, exuding prestige, just like the College presents itself on the internet. A perfect world where the rules bend for those who can afford it.

Her pace quickens. Later, she’ll have to talk to Mrs. Childers, too.
And she already knows she’s going to hate every second of that conversation.


~~~


Erica moves through the campus with purpose, her heels clicking sharply against the stone-paved walkways.
The morning air is crisp, tinged with the scent of freshly cut grass from the meticulously maintained lawns. Around her, Liberty College hums with life - students rushing between buildings, conversations overlapping, the faint rustling of notebook pages as some settle on benches to review their notes before class.

The school’s colors are everywhere. Maroon blazers with gold crests, white button-ups, pleated skirts, ties knotted just so. The male students wear their counterparts - crisp shirts under structured blazers, or more casually, maroon sweaters draped over their shoulders. The athletes are even easier to spot, striding through campus in matching tracksuits emblazoned with the Liberty College logo, their postures loose, exuding the easy confidence of those who know they’re the school’s prized assets.

It’s a carefully curated image of prestige and belonging, but to Erica, it’s little more than set dressing.

She’s seen this before.

Harvard.
Except Harvard was the real thing.

Where Liberty College is glossy and eager to impress, Harvard has nothing to prove. Its power isn’t in its branding but in its legacy - etched into history, woven into the very fabric of the nation. There, students didn’t just wear school colors; they carried generations of expectation. There was a quiet, effortless superiority in how they walked through campus, in the weight of the books they carried, the certainty in their voices. Liberty College, by comparison, is an expensive imitation - a place that wants to be elite but still asks for validation.

She doesn’t waste another thought on it.

The path curves past a sprawling quad, then toward a set of metal signs directing visitors to the athletic facilities. The voices grow louder as she nears the field, punctuated by the sharp sound of whistles and the rhythmic, synchronized chanting of the cheer squad.

She steps onto the sidelines, unnoticed for now, and surveys the scene.

The football field is a well-oiled machine of controlled aggression and discipline.
The cheerleaders work through their routine near the end zone, their movements precise, the snap of their pom-poms like gunfire in the morning air. Their uniforms - maroon and gold, pleated skirts flipping with each jump - are immaculate, their expressions set in bright, performative enthusiasm.

On the field, the football team is already deep into practice.
The coaching staff paces the sidelines, barking orders through megaphones. The offense plays against the defense, the rhythmic thud of bodies colliding echoing across the field. In the far corner, a group of players are suffering through suicide runs, sprinting full speed to the twenty-yard line, touching it, then back, then to the forty, the sixty, all the way down the field and back again.

Punishment.

Erica watches the players grimace, their hands hitting their thighs as they push themselves through exhaustion, sweat dripping down their temples. They screwed up, and some coach decided to make an example of them.

Beyond the players, on the periphery of the field, a small cluster of female students lingers.
They’re not in class, but they don’t seem to care. Instead, they’re watching, whispering, giggling.
Erica approaches, slowly, blending into their space without drawing attention to herself.

“God, look at him.”
One of the girls nudges her friend, nodding toward the field.

“He looks so good in uniform.”

“I swear, Steve gets hotter every season.”

The name snags Erica’s attention.
Steve Lonnegan.
The quarterback. The golden boy. The reason she’s here.
To the campus, he’s a hero. To Sasha, he’s a nightmare no one believes in.

Another girl sighs dramatically, eyes glued to him as he walks across the field, helmet tucked under one arm. “He’s got that aura, you know? Like, he just owns the field.”

A low laugh from another. “He owns everything.”
The way she says it. Admiring. Maybe even a little envious.

Erica watches Steve from a distance. The chiseled jaw, the easy, arrogant smile as he exchanges words with one of the assistant coaches. The way he commands the space around him, like a king surveying his kingdom.

The girls don’t see it.
But Erica does.
He walks like a man who’s never been told no.

She keeps her expression neutral, listening, filing every comment away for later.
Then, with practiced ease, she clears her throat, stepping just a little closer.
“Steve Lonnegan,” she says casually, as if it’s just another name in conversation. “What’s his deal?”

The girls blink, caught off guard by the unfamiliar voice.
But just like that, they start talking.
And Erica listens.
Because there’s always something to be learned.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Alexander Isak springs to mind. As anybody who follows Newcastle United Football Club will attest to!