“What do you have to say about the additional charges against you that came down in the last hour?” My head jerks up. I can’t see who is asking, if it’s a real journalist or a tabloid. I’d expected only TMZ here or E!, but there are news trucks lined up the street with legitimate letters along their sides: ABC News, CNN, MSNBC.

My mother’s phone is currently buried deep in her bag and powered down. 9021-OM has a strict no-cell policy, so I didn’t even bother to bring mine. What have we missed?

“Conspiracy to commit fraud and money laundering are pretty serious allegations. Each count alone is twenty years. Do you now wish you had pled guilty?” the reporter continues.

My mother looks up and for a split second I see the fear on her face, a blast of tightness so quick I doubt the camera caught it, and then the actress Joy Fields clicks back into place.

“Thanks, y’all. You’re the bestest,” she says, with the trademark wink, and then Paloma ushers us into the back of a waiting SUV with tinted windows. Once inside, my mother crumbles.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to get to you in time but there was traffic, goddamn LA, and I called the studio and they wouldn’t put me through, even when I told the twelve-year-old at the front desk it was an emergency. I tried everything.” Paloma, whose job it is to remain unruffled, looks distraught. She grabs my mother’s hands, and for a minute, Paloma seems like a human who cares about what is happening to my mother. Not like a PR cyborg.

“More charges?” my mom asks, eyes watery, pupils gigantic. “So if I’m found guilty, that means even more time in prison. More than twenty years?”

“I’m not a lawyer, but yeah, I think so. We can get Mr. Spence on the phone,” Paloma offers. She’s texting as she talks, probably some sort of SOS to her team. “Or Richard. We can call Richard.”

“But he didn’t say anything about Chloe, right? They didn’t charge her?” my mom asks, and my stomach bottoms out. Until recently, I hadn’t realized terror was something solid, a physical weight to be borne, a desperate paddling to keep your head above water despite the persistence of gravity. I feel pressure in my chest and a dull humming in my ears. It’s a logical conclusion. If their goal is to break my mother, I’m the best and easiest route.

“No, I don’t think so,” Paloma says, and I try to still my shaking bottom lip. My mom grabs my hand and kisses it.