“I don’t mean any trouble.” Steve waves his hands. “I’m doing my job.”

“I didn’t have y’all over here to argue with each other.” Mama puts her hand on the table. “Let’s not start a war before we even have dessert.”

“I don’t mean to disrespect your home,” Mrs. Evans says. “But since he’s here, I want to know more about this business that’s going on upstairs, from Mr. Jones himself. There’s a difference between someone who might mean well with their social justice interests and actually having proper legal training.”

“I can assure you, my Harvard law education and my work for my father’s legal clinic, Innocence X, have given me the adequate skills to take on this case.” Steve sits up and covers his chuckle at her knowing so little about his background.

“I, uh—” Mrs. Evans hesitates.

“I don’t intend on causing trouble, but some people don’t want me to be successful. We’re a nonprofit with highly trained lawyers; we work for people without the funds to successfully support their cases. I believe every person has the right to a fair trial, regardless of income.”

“That’s all fine.” Mrs. Evans’s face turns a shade of red. “I’m not saying I disagree, but sometimes organizations like yours stir up problems. Like all those anti-cop workshops Tracy does. People get riled up, making nothing into something, and I don’t need to have my family mixed up in that.”

I open my mouth to correct her. She’s never directly said anything about my workshops. They’re not anti-cop—they’re pro-rights. Mama’s giving me the eye, so I force a bite of food to swallow my words. I look over at Corinne, who seems to have lost her appetite. I give her a wink. She doesn’t react.

“If Dean were accused of something he didn’t do and was sentenced, you’d want justice, a fair defense, even if you couldn’t afford it,” Steve says.

“I just wonder, why now? What can possibly be proven after all these years?”

I choke on my food, guzzle some water down. Mama looks like she’s five seconds away from cursing out Mrs. Evans talking like this in her house, over food she made.

“The Beaumonts believe it’s worth it.” Steve points around the table at us. “The first family appeal letter I read was from a stack my father took home every night. That’s when I stopped hating him for working so much and realized he was a hero. Tracy’s letters have come in like clockwork every week for seven years. While I’m here, this case is the only case to me. I’m not worried about a town’s wish to get back to normal.”

I hold back a sob, thinking about my daddy’s life on the line and someone actually reading my letters.