Chapter 17 #3
"You could say that."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You just come from a press conference?"
"It was an interview."
"With who?"
I met his eyes.
"Darren Hill."
The smile disappeared from his face almost instantly.
"That old dinosaur? Something tells me this visit isn't about football."
"No," I said quietly.
"It isn't."
Whitaker leaned forward and rested his forearms on the edge of his desk as his expression grew noticeably more serious.
"Alright," he said calmly. "Tell me what's really going on."
I rubbed the back of my neck and looked out the window for a moment before meeting his eyes again.
"There is something I need you to look into."
His gaze never left mine.
"What kind of something?"
I chose my words carefully because I wasn't about to betray Mars's confidence.
"Let's say, hypothetically, that someone with a very large public reputation had a history that never became public."
Whitaker remained silent.
I continued.
"I'm talking about the kind of history people whisper about when they think nobody important is listening."
His eyes sharpened immediately.
"What kind of history are we talking about, Jalen?"
"The kind that ruins lives."
The office became noticeably quieter.
Even the sounds of traffic drifting up from forty stories below seemed to disappear.
Whitaker leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together as he studied me with the same patience that had made him one of the most respected attorneys in the state.
"You're asking a hypothetical question," he said.
"I am."
"But you're asking it because someone gave you a reason to."
I didn't answer.
He didn't need me to.
"I've spent thirty-five years practicing law," he continued. "People don't walk into my office asking hypothetical questions unless they already know more than they're willing to say."
I let out a slow breath.
"I'm trying to keep a promise."
He nodded once.
"I figured as much."
After a long pause, he spoke again.
"If you're asking whether powerful men sometimes spend years hiding patterns of misconduct behind money, influence, and carefully managed reputations, the answer is yes."
My stomach tightened.
"If there is one victim," he continued, "there is often another. Sometimes there are several."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"So the chances are..."
"The chances are that if someone has spent years believing they are untouchable, there may be people who chose silence because they believed no one would believe them."
His words landed harder than I expected.
Mars had carried that burden for years.
How many others had done the same?
"If someone wanted to find out whether those women existed," I asked carefully, "how would they even begin?"
Whitaker reached for a yellow legal pad but didn't write immediately.
"There are private investigators who specialize in uncovering patterns," he said.
"There are civil filings that never make headlines, complaints that quietly disappear, nondisclosure agreements that raise more questions than answers, and journalists who hear rumors years before anyone is willing to go on the record. "
He paused before continuing.
"None of those things prove guilt by themselves, but together they sometimes reveal a story that has been hiding in plain sight."
I watched him write down two names before sliding the legal pad toward me.
"These people are discreet," he said. "If there is smoke, they'll tell us whether there is actually a fire."
I looked down at the names.
"What happens if they find something?"
Whitaker folded his hands together again.
"That depends on what they find and what the people involved want to do with it."
He held my gaze.
"If someone chooses to remain silent, that is their decision and it deserves to be respected."
I nodded immediately.
"I understand."
"But if several women tell the same story independently of one another," he continued, "then you stop looking at isolated accusations and start looking at a pattern."
The room fell silent.
Whitaker broke it first.
"Tell me something honestly."
I looked up.
"Is this about someone you love?"
For the first time since I walked into his office, I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
His expression softened.
"I thought so."
He picked up his pen again.
"I'll start quietly, and I won't ask questions you don't want to answer."
I stood and reached across the desk to shake his hand.
"Thank you."
He returned the handshake firmly.
"Don't thank me yet."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because if what you're worried about turns out to be true, this won't be a football story."
He leaned back in his chair.
"It will become the kind of story that changes lives."
As I walked toward the door, I thought about the confidence Darren had worn during the interview.
He had smiled like a man who believed the past had disappeared.
He had looked at me like someone who had spent years convincing himself that no one would ever challenge him.
For the first time, I wondered if that confidence had less to do with innocence and everything to do with the fact that nobody had ever bothered to look.
That was about to change.