She’d read the cases on a tablet Retta provided. One with limited access and a keystroke program that mapped what she looked at and when. The whole process had been monitored, according to Retta, and as soon as Jessa read a file it disappeared. She couldn’t go back and review anything a second time.

“The idea, like with law school, is to ask you a few questions and get an idea of how you process information. As your former professor, I have some idea, but you have legal and world experience now. It will be interesting to see how that maturity has shaped your views over the last fourteen years.” A folder balanced on Retta’s lap. She ran a hand over it but didn’t open it. “Let’s start with general concepts. How far would you go to keep a rapist off the street?”

Jessa wasn’t ready for the question. “How far?”

“Would you accept a jury’s finding? A judge’s finding?”

“Yours, I would.” That seemed like a safe answer.

Retta frowned. “Don’t pander.”

The pressure closed in on Jessa. The walls didn’t move, and the air continued to flow, but a tightness wrapped around her chest. A crushing suffocation that had her fighting for steady breath. The confidence of being picked, of being in contention, gave way to a familiar panicked, out-of-control sensation.

Jessa rubbed her hands together even as the you can do this mantra that had been flowing through her head began to fade. “What are the options?”

“Why be limited to a set of possible punishments?” Retta shifted in her chair. The simple act served as a reminder that she wasn’t trapped in this conversation. She could move, even leave, if she wanted to. “Remember, this is a different justice system. A private one that benefits the victims and recognizes that many people when faced with confinement would say, or do, anything to avoid punishment. How would you prevent that sort of threat to justice?”

Jessa had no idea. Every answer struck her as wrong or illegal or not strong enough. “I . . . You could . . .”

Retta let out a little sigh. “Would you vote to make inculpatory but irrelevant evidence disappear?”

Jessa attached to the irrelevant part. “Yes.”

“Would you manufacture evidence?”

“What type?” The interrogation technique reminded Jessa of law school. She didn’t love being under fire, but she could handle questions. Those gave her a chance to see where Retta might want her to go. She could fake it . . . or redirect the questions to ones she could answer.

“Why does that matter?”

“Do I create the evidence? I don’t understand how this would even work.”