“When you say chimes in, you mean pressures me to plead guilty,” my mom says, and the way she cocks her head to the side, stubborn and determined, looks so much like Isla, that I feel shaken. Usually, I think of it the other way around: Isla reminds me of our mom. “I’m not ready to do that yet.”

“Time is not on your side,” Mr. Spence says. “Other defendants are going to start to plead out, and each time they do, you’ll be in a worse bargaining position. Dr. Wilson is already cooperating with prosecutors, as is the proctor, who will one hundred percent make the government’s case stronger by testifying against you. I’m talking about the other parents caught up in this case. Our plan requires you, as the public face of this scandal, to be the very first to take full responsibility with an emotional heartfelt public apology, in the hope that sincere remorse will lead to the greatest amount of leniency.”

“From a PR perspective,” Paloma jumps in. “You put out an apology press release about all the mistakes you made, blah, blah, blah, you love your children too much, blah, blah, and then we’ll start your reputation rehabilitation tour. We’ll leak that you and Richard are in counseling and meeting with spiritual advisors. You’ll talk about how you lost sight of your wholesome Midwestern roots because of this scam artist. You fell victim to the pressures of modern parenting in a cutthroat place like LA,” Paloma says, nodding. She’s smiling, like this—my mother’s confessional media lap—could be fun.

“She’s from New Jersey, not the Midwest,” Isla says, and Paloma shoots her a death glare.

“We’ll find a photogenic priest looking to build his social. We’ll book you to tell your side of the story on 20/20. Or maybe The View. That’s more your demo. Women thirty to sixty,” Paloma continues, jotting a note, with what I notice is a pink glitter pen. “Maybe you write a book. That might be a win-win. Could be a cathartic way to spend your time while you’re…in…” She pauses here. I think she’s going to say incarcerated. Instead, she reaches for and finds: “Indisposed.”

“How nice of you to think of hobbies to occupy me in jail,” my mother says, like everyone else in the room is an idiot and keeps forgetting the only relevant point here.

“Prison,” Mr. Spence corrects.

“Prison. The clink. Behind bars. Where. I. Will. Be. Locked. Up.”