I nodded. My court-appointed attorney hadn’t believed me, either. “It was just … at first I said I was alone in the car because I wanted to protect him. My boyfriend. He’d just gotten a scholarship to Georgetown Law and I … He had too much to lose. I had no idea I’d end up in prison. I thought I’d be fined, or … I didn’t know what. I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was all so … terrible.” Sickening images flashed through my mind, and I raised a hand to my eyes as if I could block them out. “When I finally told the truth, no one believed me,” I said, lowering my hand. I was so tired of explaining it all. It was pointless. I should have gone along with what was in this woman’s file. Gotten it over with.

Rebecca pursed her lips. Cocked her head. “What about your previous DUI? Was your boyfriend driving then, too?” She raised her eyebrows. I supposed she was waiting for another lie.

“No, that was me,” I said. “I’m not proud of it.” An understatement.

“Well, if what you’re saying is true about the accident, I hope you’re done with your so-called boyfriend.” Rebecca lifted my file in the air. “And I have to go with what I have here,” she said. “That you served time for a Class F felony. And we move forward from there.”

I was surprised to feel tears burn my eyes as a familiar sense of helplessness washed over me, but I looked at her squarely. “I wish you could believe me,” I said. Why was this so important? Why did I need her—need someone—to believe me?

“I have to go with what I have,” she said again. “What I do believe is that you’re lucky to have your new lawyer.” She looked down at my file. “This Andrea Fuller. The one who got you out.”

What I heard behind her words was: Most people can’t afford a lawyer like yours and they end up serving their maximum sentence, and when they get out they have a record employers can’t get past and they can never find a job.

“I didn’t hire her. This all just fell into my lap.” I motioned to the file in her hands. “I just wanted you to know the truth about what happened.”

She hesitated, her eyes tight on my face before she slipped on her glasses again. “Let’s move forward,” she said, returning her gaze to the file. “Supposedly you’re uniquely qualified for the work you’re doing in the gallery, and supposedly the work is going to improve the community. What are you doing there exactly?”

I tried to hold my head high against what I perceived to be her sarcasm. “I’m an artist,” I said. “I’ll be restoring a mural.”