Marissa scrambled out of the way of the hose as it sent a pressurized stream of water in every direction. Spotting a fire alarm next to the cabinet, Wendy pulled down the lever, activating both an alarm and the sprinkler system. With the same stroke, an alarm in the Cambridge fire station was set off, interrupting a highly contested game of poker.

Both Marissa and Wendy had been sobbing for some time. As embarrassed as they were about their emotions, they couldn’t help it. Their feelings had run the gamut from terror to relief to humiliation. Then the weeping had taken over. It had been an experience neither would forget. Both agreed it had been the worst of their life.

Marissa and Wendy were sitting on scarred wooden chairs whose varnish was coming off in flakes like a peel after a bad sunburn. The chairs were in the center of a blank, dingy room that was mildly littered with trash and smelled of alcohol and dried vomit. The only picture on the wall was the humorless face of Michael Dukakis.

Robert and Gustave were sitting across from them. George Freeborn, Robert’s personal attorney, was in a chair by the window balancing an alligator briefcase on his lap. It was 2:33 in the morning. They were at the district courthouse.

Just as she finally began to gain control of herself, Marissa’s eyes welled.

“Try to pull yourself together,” Robert told her.

Marissa glanced at Wendy, who had her head down, her face pressed into a tissue. Every so often her shoulders would shake. Gustave, who was sitting next to her, put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

At the conference table in the center of the room sat a no-nonsense woman of about forty-five years of age. She wasn’t happy to be there, as she’d let everyone know. She’d been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night. On the table in front of her was one of the many forms that had been filled out that night. She was completing it with exaggerated strokes of her pen.

Glancing at her watch, the woman raised her head. “So where’s the bail bondsman?” she asked.

“He has been called, Madam Magistrate,” Mr. Freeborn assured her. “I’m certain he will be here momentarily.”

“If not, these ladies are going back into the lockup,” the magistrate threatened. “Just because they can afford a high-priced lawyer doesn’t mean they should be treated any differently by the law.”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Freeborn agreed. “I spoke with the bail bondsman myself. He will be here immediately, I assure you.”

Marissa shuddered. She’d never been in jail before, and she didn’t want to go. The experience that evening had been overwhelming. She’d even been handcuffed and strip-searched.