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“Way to go, Mason.”
“Mason the Caisson, full of ammunition and out on a mission.”
“Thatta kid.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” as Mason tolerates the discomfort of his shoulders being squeezed. “Piece of cake.” Sylvester Moore, known as Sly, hands him a glass of champagne, but Mason takes it with disdain. He sees the way Sly looks at Violet every time she walks by, the way he touches her shoulder, her back at every opportunity. But Mason lets it slide and pretends not to notice. He raises his glass along with the others, “Here’s to truth, justice, the American way. Oh, and standing next to your ugly mugs along the way.” The men beam into the glasses, feet in the air. “I need this vacation.” The words echo back from the glass. But Mason feels the weight on his shoulders, the burden that he’s responsible for helping a rapist get away with it.
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