“To a minimum-security federal prison, not a jail, but most likely yes. For a much shorter period of time than if, say, we go to trial and you lose, which is a real possibility. Minimum guidelines then say twenty years.”

My mother starts to laugh, unhinged and hysterical, and then once she hears herself, she stops. She takes another sip of water, again spilling, and it takes all of my willpower not to take her glass away.

“Twenty years. Two decades,” my mother says. “I mean, that’s…that’s a long time for trying to help your kid a little.”

“Joy,” my dad says, and puts a steadying hand on hers. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“How? How are we going to figure this out? By me going to jail? Not you, me. Even though you were just as involved—”

“Joy,” Mr. Spence says, stopping her. Apparently, he went to the same law school as Kenny. The one where they teach you not to let your clients say too much.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, changing direction, since it’s in no one’s interest, not even my mother’s, to implicate my dad. “I’ve already lost my job and my reputation. I accept that. Haven’t I been punished enough? Explain to me how this is any different from buying a building to get your kid in.”

“What you did and buying a building are both unethical, Mom. The difference is what you did was also illegal,” Isla says, her voice steely, uncompromising, not softened by even a drop of sympathy, though perhaps with more than a drop of condescension. I feel a surge of admiration and love for my sister, but then fear too. What does she think of me? What does she think I deserve?

I know I will never get rid of the stink of this, but I have to believe that Isla will.

We were greedy, so disgustingly greedy, and yet, my mother has a point. How big a price must we pay? Twenty years? Isla’s future too?

Here’s the truth: If my parents had openly offered to endow a building at SCC, I wouldn’t have said no. I would have been psyched. My parents didn’t not buy a building because it was unethical. They didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. We are not Aunt Candy rich.

“This is why we thought it vital that the rest of your family chimes in,” Mr. Spence says, and another lawyer hands him a file. He opens it, closes it, opens it again, as if he’s wafting legal wisdom into the air.