CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Adscriptio
Dante,
I’m not good with letters. Give me a motion to file and I’ll crush it. I’m great at drafting habeas corpus petitions. But letters aren’t my specialty. I think the last one I wrote, I was about fourteen and was.
Forget that part.
To answer your question: Black. The petals were pitch black while I read your letter. By the way…
Forget that too.
We’ll talk when I get there.
See you soon.
Dr. Helena Torres
“This is terrible.” I tore up another piece of paper, grumbling. “Why the hell is this so hard?”
Celie walked into the room and I jumped.
“Did your computer break?” She laughed, seeing the pile of crumpled paper I was tossing in the trash.
I hadn’t told Celie about Dante’s extra requirements. I’d had to make up several excuses about forgetting the contract at home every day. I needed to bring Dante a new copy, without that agreement we’d made.
Shame.
That was the first feeling when I tried to tell her I’m exchanging letters with our main client—the man who’s ensuring we’ll still have clients at some point.
Saying I was “exchanging letters” would be a huge exaggeration because Dante was still waiting for my part of the deal. The truth is, I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I knew what I should say, but there was just no way to simplify this situation.
His letter was… intense. But it wasn’t a lie. I should have backed away the moment I understood each of his sentences, perfectly crafted to get to me. I’m not an idiot, even when I act like one.
The thing is, I didn’t. And I still haven’t, and now I don’t want to look at what’s behind that door.
“Making drafts,” I lied.
“I was coming to tell you they moved up the first hearing.”
“What?” I jumped from my chair.
“Apparently the assigned judge needs surgery, and they let us know it had to be moved up.”
“To when?”
“In ten days.” Celie handed me the notification and I collapsed into the chair like a sack of potatoes.
“That’s so little time,” I grumbled.
“They’re in a hurry to give society an answer.”
“I don’t know how this case got so big.” I was still staring at the paper. “I mean, it’s two important families from Heritage… but we’ve had worse cases in this city.”
Celie nodded.
“I think it has to do with the fact that Dante was our city’s golden boy. And Alta University’s golden ticket with this whole NASA thing.”
“We need new idols.”
“What about that guy who sang country?”
“The one who became a far-right leader?” I pretended to gag and Celie laughed.
“George loves listening to his songs. Always says they studied together.”
“I hope George sticks to just his songs,” I joked. “I’d hate to have to hate your husband.”
Celie left the room humming one of the guy’s songs.
“Don’t make me hate you, Celie!” I shouted, and she sang louder.
I stared at the notepad in front of me and put it away. We were ten days away from my first official clash with William and my father. While Dante would be pleading not guilty, I would be declaring public war on the two men responsible for me being a criminal defense attorney today.
I picked up the phone to call Candice, Dante’s mother, and fill her in on the updates.
She was quite anxious and said she would tell Dante’s father, even though I insisted I could do it.
His father’s presence was crucial in this process, but he was still the only one who hadn’t made any statement or even tried to contact him.
Soon after, Maressa called, anxious about the hearing and asking what the next steps would be. I explained that this hearing is meant to present all the details of the charges he’s facing and also give him the chance to plead guilty or not guilty.
“He’s innocent, obviously.” Maressa got worked up on the phone.
“Okay. I’m just telling you he can plead guilty or not guilty,” I explained again. “It will also give us more definitive access to the evidence, instead of just the list of speculations everyone’s been commenting on.”
“Right, it’s absurd to say he planned all this in cold blood.”
“After that, he goes back to Braxton and we’ll wait for his next hearing to be scheduled, and then we’ll present the complete defense and convince the judge that your brother is innocent.”
“Do you believe that?” Maressa suddenly blurted out. “Dante said you think he’s guilty.”
“Maressa, I’m not a judge. I’m not the one who decides that, and”
“But do you think so?”
“I think your brother deserves to tell his side.”
“You're wrong… and you'll realize it soon.” Maressa didn't sound resentful. She seemed more… confident?
“I need to go see your brother. Want me to pass along a message?” I asked, steering her away from a subject I avoided even in my own thoughts.
“Tell him I'm taking care of Mom and that I'm going to binge Suits without him, even though I promised I'd wait.”
I smiled. Maressa was young… only seventeen. But she seemed to handle life better than many of us.
“Of course. I'll tell him.”
When I ended the call, I'd planned to stop by home and change, but I'd wasted too much time trying to write that damn reply letter and now had barely two hours until visiting hours ended. So all I did was grab Célié's suit jacket to throw over the dress I'd chosen to wear.
I drove fast enough to make it on time, but not so fast that I'd arrive too early. When I parked, I caught my reflection as I slipped on Célié's gray suit jacket over my fitted black dress—a sleek sheath that fell to mid-ankle.
I took a deep breath and headed inside, enduring the full search process before they stuck me in a room to wait for Dante.
He smiled when he saw me, slightly surprised.
For an instant, I saw him. Not the cold look he'd given the guard at our first meeting.
Not the malicious way he stared at me whenever he delivered one of his cutting remarks.
The Dante that Candice knew, that Maressa knew. It was so quick I almost missed it.
“I didn't expect the letter to bring you here.” The guards left us alone, and there it was again—that look from beneath his lashes.
“Maressa made me promise I'd tell you in person that she's not going to wait for you to watch Suits,” I teased, trying to coax that glimpse of him back. But it didn't work. Dante seemed almost uncomfortable.
I shifted in my chair.
“I was at your house. She's an incredible girl.” I smiled. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” He leaned back in his chair. “I wasn't expecting to see you today.”
I wondered why it felt like there was more to it. He'd seemed happy to see me, and then suddenly the room dropped fifteen degrees.
“The judge rescheduled your first hearing. I let your mother know, and she said she'd talk to your father.” I tried one last time to reach him—and lost him for good.
“When?”
“Ten days from now.” I slid the paper toward him.
“I trust you,” he said, but his words were hollow.
“We'll be ready for this,” I explained. “I'll prep you over the next few days.”
“All right.”
I'd expected a different reaction from Dante… but instead I found the boy who'd stared at me through the glass on our first night.
“My father,” Dante said finally. “Did he talk to you?”
I didn't know what to say.
“Your mother said she'd talk to him.”
“Was he home when you went there?”
I didn't know what he was looking for.
“Don't lie to me.” He leaned toward me.
“I didn't see him.” I took a deep breath. “But I think I heard him talking to your sister as I was leaving. He must have been busy—”
Dante gave a joyless smile and leaned back again.
“You know what that's like, don't you?” He stared at the ceiling. “When I was a boy, I learned that showing pain was a risk. The risk of seeming weak. Of losing. Of being forgotten. Of being passed over.”
I didn't answer. My fingers gripped the edge of the paper so tightly it crumpled, and his eyes followed the movement.
“We start confusing silence with all kinds of feelings. Until the real meaning doesn't matter anymore.”
“I'm sorry…” I said, knowing exactly what kind of silence he meant—the fierce kind that screams until it tears your soul apart.
“I'm sorry for you too,” he shot back, his voice raw, catching me off guard. “Yeah, I recognize the walls you've built… they look like mine, but unlike me, yours aren't stained with blood.”
I didn't react. Dante intimidated me in ways that much older men couldn't. And he knew it. That's why every time I sat across from him, I felt like I was in heels, walking the edge of an abyss.
“Don't overinterpret, Helena. Keep it simple,” he said, as if reading my mind.
A piercing silence settled over us. Dante knew exactly where to strike, and he had no qualms about twisting the knife.
When the guard abruptly interrupted us, it felt like divine intervention—I was seconds away from falling apart.
“The prisoner needs to return for count,” he said, pulling Dante to his feet.
“I'll be back in a few days,” I said.
“Sleep well, counselor.”
The drive back was tense, the highway dark around me. Several times my mind wandered and I forgot I was even driving. I felt dizzy, disoriented. As if the solid ground I'd walked on for so many years had suddenly begun to shift beneath me.
I crossed the room toward the kitchen and poured myself a drink. I hated how much I’d been drinking lately, but it was better than the old cigarettes. At least that’s what I told myself.
I kicked off my shoes and unzipped my dress.
I headed upstairs to the bedroom with a glass of red wine and the case files.
I spread everything across the bed and tried to lose myself in the reading—reviewing the names of witnesses we needed to contact in the morning and the people who could vouch for Dante’s character, including the girlfriend.
No matter how long I stared at the page, the letters blurred together even though I’d barely touched my wine. I wasn’t focused on this. I was running from the feeling of being consumed by Dante’s words. From the sensation of having stared into the vast abyss and been invited to jump.
I closed my eyes and touched my neck. When I opened them, my gaze fell on Dante’s letter on the desk.
“You’re right, Dante. I know.”
I got up from the bed and went to the small desk where Dante’s letter sat propped beneath my scales of justice paperweight.
“How ironic.” I slid the paper aside and pulled a blank sheet toward me. I took a deep breath and picked up the pen. “It’s easier when there’s a judge on the other side. And not in my head.”
I muttered before setting pen to paper.
“Dante... I shouldn’t be writing you letters...”