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started shouting their questions at once. Too bad I couldn’t respond honestly.
    “So you think the jury got it wrong?”
    How would I know? I wasn’t in that hotel room with ’em.
    “Are you going to advise your client to appeal?”
    Why should I? He probably did it.
    Well over an hour later, I pulled into the driveway of my home in the Los Angeles suburb of Baldwin Hills, my physical and emotional batteries completely drained. All I wanted to do was climb into bed and pull the covers over my head.
    I stuck my key in the door just as someone yanked it open.
    “Hey, girlfriend.” Special swallowed me up in a bear hug. “Me and Clayton came over to cheer you up. We’ve been watching you on TV. Y’all got robbed.”
    Special Sharlene Moore, my best buddy, was a tall, curvaceous spitfire, who had an ultra-feminine air about her. She had recently abandoned her weave for long micro-braids. She took my purse and satchel and escorted me inside.
    “I picked up some grub from Grand Lux.” She looped her arm through mine and led me to the kitchen.
    “Got everything you like. The duck pot stickers, the crispy Thai sushi rolls, the chicken jambalaya, and best of all, the red velvet cake.”
    Looking at the spread made my stomach churn. I’d been running on adrenalin for the last two weeks and was on the verge of a full-fledge crash. I had no appetite for food or company.
    “Hey, babe, get in here,” my husband Jefferson yelled out to me. “You’re on channel seven.”
    Special and I dashed into the den where we caught the tail end of my sound bite. The video then switched to Girlie and Tonisha. They were both cheesing like they’d just won the lottery. And basically they had.
    “Don’t worry about it, babe,” Jefferson said. “You’ll kick her ass next time.”
    My husband was my staunchest supporter. Thick and compact like a tank, he sported a shaved head and a man’s man demeanor. He ran his own electrical contracting company.
    “Both of those heffas know they’re wrong.” Special turned up her nose. “According to the word on the street, Ms. Tonisha’s been with half the NFL and a third of the NBA. And I hear her attorney gets around too. Can you believe she drives a Jag with a license plate that says
HotGirl
? How skanky is that?”
    “Nobody knows what happened in that hotel room except Lamarr and Tonisha,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “And just because she slept around doesn’t mean Lamarr didn’t force himself on her.”
    Six pairs of eyes lasered in my direction. By the stunned expressions on their faces, you would’ve thought I’d just confessed to attacking Tonisha myself.
    “So you believe her?” Clayton asked. Special’s beau had the lean, athletic appearance of a baseball player. The two of them had recently reunited after a tumultuous breakup.
    “I didn’t say I believe her. But we weren’t there, so we’ll never know for sure what happened. Just like we’ll never know for sure if O.J. really killed Nicole.”
    Special scrunched up her face. “Girl, please. You know damn—” she stole a sheepish glance at Clayton. Her foul language caused his face to instantly harden in disapproval.
    “Excuse my language, everybody. You know darn well O.J. is guilty. If I had my investigator’s license, I’d look into Lamarr’s case myself and find out the real deal.”
    Clayton’s face clouded. He didn’t like the idea of his woman pursuing such a dangerous profession any more than her occasional use of expletives.
    “My point is,” I continued, “we’ll never know with one-hundred-percent certainty because we weren’t there.”
    “Well, I ain’t buying Tonisha’s story,” Special insisted. “That girl was looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. She lucked up and got that plus two mil.”
    “I’m just glad you’re home,” Jefferson said, standing up. “’Cuz I’m starving and Special wouldn’t let us eat until you got here.”
    He led Clayton and Special into the kitchen