Page 144 of The Liar's Reckoning

I take a Lyft to my tiny apartment. I’m living in the East Village again, but this apartment compared to the one I once shared with the guys isn’t much more than a closet. Six-hundred square feet, which the realtor said “feels bigger than it sounds” isn’t much. But I don’t have much, either. Luckily, I know the neighborhood.

I read Drew’s texts from the wedding when I get into bed. It’snearly four a.m., so I don’t reply. He knows I’m alive, so I consider us all checked in.

Overall, I count this as a good night, despite the unexpected wedding guests. I fall into a dreamless sleep, not caring what tomorrow brings.

I stopped caring a long time ago.

44

GRAHAM

“Criminalizing it just means forcing it underground.”

I glare at the junior senator from Nevada in the right corner of my Zoom screen and fail to hold in a scoff. My image fills the center of the screen as I speak. “They said the same thing about abortion, but how many back alley clinics have they turned up?”

The question is met with silence.

“That’s what I thought. And I could say the same thing about guns. It’s an old argument and, quite frankly, it bores me. There are laws on the books in nearly every state criminalizing sex work. This would at least apply a consistent penalty and supplement the bill in a substantive way.”

One of my fellow committee members agrees, taking the focus off me. “The bill needs teeth. Otherwise, it’s gonna read like a memo and be equally ineffective. Anybody here not have kids?” he asks.

No answer. I keep quiet, immediately bracing myself against the image trying to take over my entire field of vision. It’s as stark now as it was the day I held my son in my arms. As much asI refuse to think about it during waking hours, not a week has gone by without a nightmare in remembrance of him. So many times I’ve questioned the decision to hold him—to look at him. Avery insisted, and I’d felt pressured by everyone involved, but I thought it would help with closure. Instead, it’s turned into something I can only describe as a trauma.

“This bill keeps our kids safer,” the gentleman from Kentucky goes on. “No more pornos when they’re scrolling whatever bullshit they’re scrolling these days?—”

“Oh, like what? The social media platforms all have?—”

“What they have isn’t enough. This ends it. Full stop. These Only Fans idiots need to get real jobs and keep their sex lives to themselves.”

I sigh behind the fist covering my mouth. On screen it looks like I’m focused and deeply in thought. Really, I’m trying to keep quiet so no one looks at me.

The sex trafficking bill we’re trying to hammer out with one lonely Democrat is the single biggest piece of legislation the senate has attempted in the three years since I arrived in Washington. The comprehensive package is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. On the surface, it purports to “Protect the Children” by allocating resources and funding to law enforcement and border officials. Deep down, it’s an evangelical Christian’s wet dream—making sex work and pandering federal crimes.

The Dems love the spending of course, and don’t seem to object to removing more power from states. But they’re queasy about encroaching on what they say are first amendment rights to free speech.

With all the studying of constitutional law I’ve done since my election, I can’t deny there’s some overreach here, but if there were a challenge in the courts, we’re confident the law would stand. After all, why should someone doing something illegal have more rights than a child has to grow up in a world that’s a bit safer, more innocent?

Growing up sheltered and safe is better than all but encouraging people to choose to make a living by selling their bodies. And maybe if I can save one kid from being trafficked and forced into a life of prostitution, my time on the planet won’t be completely wasted.

The bill wasn’t my idea, but my father is practically feral for the passage of it. It’s all he and I ever talk about anymore, and it’s notallbad. But no legislation is all good, either.

“What about drugs?” the Democrat asks.

“What about them?” someone says.

The senator from Oregon starts talking about rehabs and recovery centers. Socialized behavioral health services. I tune out, counting on my aide who’s also on the call to pay closer attention and send me his notes later. I return a text from Holden, confirming I’ll be in town to attend his housewarming this weekend at his new Upper East Side apartment.

He replies, telling me to come early if I can.

I can. I’ve got nothing better to do this weekend other than what I usually do when I’m in town, which is a form of wallowing I never would have thought myself capable of, and yet…

As the call wraps up, I text Bradley, my aide.

Me

Did you get all that?

Brad

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