Trial by Fury by K.G. MacGregor

“They should be held responsible, don’t you agree?”
    “Damn right.”
    She went on to explain the process Hayley followed, from the student health center to the police, and then to a trusted professor. “The police and the administration refused to help her. We think it was because they were ballplayers. Harwood didn’t want them arrested because they couldn’t win with their best players in jail. People don’t want to cheer for them, don’t want to buy those championship T-shirts. So they just ignored that evidence—I’m talking video proof they raped her while she was passed out—and took the players’ word for it that she wanted to have sex with all of them.”
    “But she couldn’t have given consent because she wasn’t even conscious,” Hank reminded.
    “No one believed her, Mr. Lipscomb. After she told a couple of her sorority sisters, one of them said she was just being a drama queen. They told her if she didn’t shut up, she was going to cost them the championship. They didn’t care about her being raped. They just wanted to win that trophy. So they turned on her even though she was the victim. On the night the Hornets won—you were probably sitting right here in this chair when it happened—she went into the bathroom at her sorority house and slashed her wrists. She died all alone thinking nobody cared what happened to her.”
    The man’s eyes filled with tears that he hurriedly wiped away. “What are you going to do about it?”
    Theo opened her portfolio to the cause of action document, its space for the name of the plaintiff blank. “You were her great-uncle, the only real family she had. As the next of kin, you’re the only one entitled to speak on Hayley’s behalf. It’s up to you to make them pay.”

Chapter Six
    Harwood Street, marking the northern edge of the antebellum campus, was the epicenter of the university’s social and commercial activity. Bars, restaurants and T-shirt shops, one after another, all catering to students on a budget. The Bistro was a cut above, and thus a popular lunch place for faculty and administrators.
    Celia had run into a friend unexpectedly in the campus bookstore and they agreed to get lunch.
    She recognized the waitress as a former student from her Intro to Theater class and smiled at her. “I’ll have the chicken caesar, dressing on the side, please.”
    “Make it two,” said Kay Crylak, the women’s softball coach. “But you can drown mine in dressing if you want.”
    Though only in her mid-thirties, Kay’s face already showed signs of her years in the sun—leathered skin with deep red spots on her face and arms. She wore her dark hair short enough to tame what would otherwise have been a mass of curls.
    Celia had met her through Gina when she arrived at Harwood eight years ago from a successful stint as coach of a junior college in Florida. After three semi-serious relationships, Kay was once again single and had made clear her romantic interest in Celia. Unrequited interest, as it were, since Celia felt nothing but friendship. To Kay’s credit, she’d handled the rejection with her easygoing manner.
    “I was surprised to see you,” Celia said. “I figured you’d be on the road recruiting all summer.”
    “I’m heading up for a couple of tournaments in the Smokies in August, but mostly we’re set for next year. Twelve scholarships and eight walk-ons.” Kay looked around and lowered her voice. “Provided two of my scholarships pass remedial algebra in summer school. It’s hard enough to coach ’em in softball without having to get ’em through math and English. And then I have to figure out how I’m going to keep ’em eligible for four years.”
    “I hear ya.” The diction training from her early TV career went out the window after only a few minutes of being exposed to Kay’s Southern drawl.
    “A lot of homework on the bus, I reckon.”
    From living with Gina for ten years, Celia knew all about the NCAA’s rules for