“Let’s get started, shall we?” asks the lawyer who seems most in charge, Mr. Spence, though of course it’s not a question but a demand. He’s old and white and his watch costs more than four years’ worth of college tuition. “We wanted to convene to have a final discussion of Joy’s options before her court appearance. Chloe, as I’ve told your counsel, the judge has dropped the gag order, so you and your mom can talk freely, though beyond this conversation, I’d still advise against it.”

I turn to Kenny, who sits next to me, here to represent my legal interests vis-à-vis my parents, which feels bananas and like overkill, but he insisted. He nods.

“Okay,” I squeak.

“Because of the totality of the evidence, as well as the possibility of Chloe and/or Richard being charged, we strongly advise that Joy take a plea deal. We can push the prosecutors to commit to a recommendation on the low end of the sentencing range, and also have them promise not to go after anyone else in the family. We can end this nightmare.”

“Don’t worry about me,” my dad says, with a manufactured jauntiness that doesn’t match the rest of him. He’s all stiff horizontal lines today—forehead, lips, the crease of his shirt. “Stuart thinks they would have charged me already if they could have. If they had the leverage, they would have used it.”

The guy my dad hired to represent him, Stuart, grunts in agreement and reaches forward to place a hand on my dad’s shoulder, as if to tell him to be quiet.

“Any plea would include jail time?” my mom asks. She takes a sip of water, and her hands are shaking so badly, a few drops land on the table. She wipes them with her sleeve, and this gesture, so unlike my mother—reflexive and uncouth—unnerves me.

“In all likelihood. Sentencing discretion varies dramatically by judge, so it’s somewhat the luck of the draw. As we’ve discussed, public opinion is not with us. You very well might get a judge who wants to make an example of you,” Mr. Spence says. “We can push for ankle monitoring, but it’s a long shot.”

“So if I plead guilty, I will go to jail,” my mom repeats. The lawyers at the table exchange uneasy glances. It’s obvious this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation with my mother and this is not the first time she has refused to understand. Last term when I took a psychology elective, we learned about the Kübler-Ross stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I want to call up Mrs. Santiago and ask her if the model can be applied to all the other unforeseen terrible things that can happen to a person, like being arrested by the FBI.

My mom seems stuck at denial.