After That Night (Will Trent, #11)

by Karin Slaughter

Maritza didn’t need a jury consultant to tell her how to dress any more than Sara did. They were both women who’d come up in male-dominated fields and had both figured out that, for better or worse, their appearance mattered more to a jury than what came out of their mouths. Hair pulled back to show they were no-nonsense. Light make-up to show they were still making an effort. Glasses on to show intelligence. Modest skirt and matching blazer to show they were still feminine. Heels no more than two inches high to show they weren’t trying too hard. Show, show, show.

Nothing was really lost until your mother couldn’t find it.

And at the end of the day, it’s easier to just shut up about it and try to live your life and hope—pray like hell—that it doesn’t come up, so you don’t have to deal with it again and again and again.”

“There are so many criminals to choose from,” she said. “Congressmen and senators and judges, oh my. They collude like gangsters. You can spot them by their colors. Louis Vuitton, Zegna, Prada. The Birken Bitches run quite a racket during the holidays trying to see who can raise enough money to feed the poor. It’s a shame they don’t simply pay their fair share of taxes and let the poor feed themselves.”

The only reason to use the word female like that in a report is if you’re an asshole or an incel.”

Amen, sister. Karin Slaughter always nails it.

Loss had a way of showing up in your face.

Faith told him the same thing her mother had always told her. “Nothing is illegal if your mom tells you to do it.”

There was a weird sort of hierarchy among rape victims. Sara was considered one of the lucky ones. The crime was blatantly obvious. Sara was a white, middle-class doctor with a good reputation and strong familial support. The detective had been sympathetic, the prosecutor had been self-righteous, and the jury had delivered some form of justice. Fewer than 1 percent of rapes led to a felony conviction.

“Squirrels lose seventy-five percent of the nuts they bury. That’s how we get trees.”

Will had worked undercover in prisons. When you were on the inside, you learned the art of violence. If you were really good at it, you didn’t have to use your fists. You looked at a guy a certain way. You cowed him into submission because your posture, your obvious strength, your callous disregard for life, conveyed to them the fact that you would take a knife to the eye before you let them win.

“Nobody warns you that ninety-nine percent of being a mother is walking around in a daze asking yourself what the fuck just happened.”

The dominoes will fall. It’s just a matter of who manages to get out of the way.”

Men can do whatever they want. They treat women like tampons. We soak up their rage and abuse, and when we get too soiled by their slime, they change us out for a brand-new one.”

“I’ve seen mobile homes taken back to the studs for a warrant on a dime bag of pot. The Constitution is great if you can afford it.”