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Carter. We have hundreds of witnesses. This is the most documented assault in recent history.”
The judge banged her gavel. “Mr. Reed, do you have a lawyer?” “I I can’t afford one.”
Marcus said. “Then the court will provide you with a public defender. Bail is set at $50,000.”
Marcus almost laughed. $50,000? He didn’t have $50. He didn’t have $5. He was led back to his cell to wait for trial.
Meanwhile, across the city in her penthouse apartment, Abigail Carter sat on her white leather couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, staring at her phone.
The videos of her attack were everywhere. Her torn dress was everywhere. Her screaming face was everywhere.
Her phone kept buzzing with calls and messages. Her lawyer, “Abigail, we need to discuss pressing charges and a lawsuit.”
Her publicist, “The media wants a statement. What should I tell them?” Her business partner, “This is terrible publicity.
We need to control the narrative.” Her mother, “Sweetheart, are you okay? I saw the videos.
That poor dress.” But Abigail wasn’t thinking about the dress. She was thinking about the moment it happened.
She kept replaying it in her mind. The homeless man running toward her. The look on his face.
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cruel. It was desperate, afraid. And then, right after he tore her dress, right before security tackled him, Abigail had seen something strange.
She had seen two well-dressed men in the crowd suddenly stop moving. She had seen them look at each other with what seemed like frustration.
She had seen them walk away quickly. At the time, she’d been too shocked and humiliated to think about it.
But now, sitting alone in her apartment, the memory kept bothering her. Why would two men leave a party right after such dramatic chaos?
Wouldn’t everyone stay to watch what happened? “Ms. Carter?” Her assistant, Jennifer, stood in the doorway.
“Your lawyer is here. He says it’s important.” Abigail sighed and pulled the blanket tighter around herself.
“Send him in.” Her lawyer, Richard Morrison, was a man in his 50s who wore expensive suits and charged $800 an hour.
He sat down across from her with his briefcase. “Abigail, I’ve been reviewing the case.”
He said. “This is very straightforward. The man who attacked you will definitely go to prison.
But I think we should also file a civil lawsuit. Emotional distress, destruction of property, public humiliation.
We could win millions.” “Millions from a homeless man?” Abigail asked quietly. Richard shrugged. “It sets an example.
It shows that no one can do this to you and get away with it.
It’s about your reputation, your image.” Abigail thought about her image, her carefully built image of success and power and perfection.
“What if” she started then stopped. “What if what?” Richard asked. “What if he had a reason?”
Richard looked at her like she’d gone crazy. “A reason to attack you and destroy your dress in front of 300 people?