Chapter 9: What Justice Looks Like
The letter from the Crown Prosecution Service arrived on a Thursday, eleven days after Karen's text.
Maya was already at work when Karen called.
"They've decided to charge," Karen said.
"Forgery of a legal document and attempted property fraud."
Maya stepped into the corridor outside her office and closed the door behind her.
"When?"
"He'll be notified today.
He'll have to appear in court to enter a plea." Karen paused.
"I want you to be prepared for how he'll respond to this.
In my experience, this is the point where people in his position either accept responsibility or double down."
"He'll double down."
"Almost certainly, yes.
Which means this may take some months to reach a final hearing.
But the evidence is not in his favour.
The CPS doesn't charge without confidence."
"I understand."
"How are you feeling?"
Maya considered the question honestly.
"Like I'm watching something inevitable arrive."
"That's a reasonable way to feel."
She went back into her office.
She sat down.
She answered three emails.
She ate her lunch at her desk.
At half past two, her brother called.
"They called Dad this morning," Daniel said.
His voice was stripped down.
No anger left in it, and no charm either.
Just something bare and exhausted.
"He's being charged."
"I know."
"Did you know this would happen when you started all this?"
"Daniel.
He forged my signature."
"I know." A long pause.
"I know he did.
I just—" He stopped.
Started again.
"I keep thinking about how none of this would have happened if I'd just — if I'd called you.
Before any of it.
If I'd picked up the phone and said, hey, Dad's talking about the apartment, is this actually okay with you."
"Why didn't you?"
Silence.
"Because I wanted the apartment," he said finally.
"And I knew if I asked you, the answer might be no.
So I didn't ask."
Maya closed her eyes for a moment.
There it was.
Honest and small and ugly and true.
"The wedding," she said.
"Is it still postponed?"
"She found somewhere to rent.
We're getting married in the spring." He paused.
"I don't — I don't know if you'd want to come.
I wouldn't blame you if—"
"I'm not making any decisions about that right now," Maya said.
"But I'm glad you called."
She meant it.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't even close to forgiveness yet.
But it was a thin thread of something real, and she didn't want to cut it before she had to.
After she ended the call, she looked at her desk for a long moment.
Then she called Diane.
"It's formal," she said when Diane answered.
"He's been charged."
Diane said nothing for a second.
Then: "Come over tonight.
I'll make dinner."
"You don't have to—"
"Maya.
Come over tonight."
She went.
They ate at Diane's kitchen table.
Diane had made the chicken stew she always made when something significant happened — not celebratory food exactly, just solid and warm and good.
They talked about other things for most of the meal.
Diane's sister.
A film they'd both seen.
The way the light changed at this time of year.
It was only at the end, when the plates were cleared and they were sitting with wine, that Diane said: "How do you feel?
Actually."
Maya thought about it properly.
She owed that to the question.
"Like I did something I was supposed to do," she said.
"Not triumphant.
Not angry anymore.
Just — like something that was crooked is now straight."
Diane looked at her.
"Is it enough?"
"Almost." Maya turned her wine glass slowly.
"I think the part that isn't enough yet is that he still doesn't understand what he took.
Not really.
He took four years of work and sacrifice and loneliness and he called it an apartment." She paused.
"He'll face the legal consequence.
I don't think he'll ever face the real one."
"No," Diane agreed.
"Probably not."
"I've decided that's his problem, not mine."
Diane raised her glass slightly.
Maya raised hers.
May you like
They didn't say anything else.
They didn't need to.
