The Upfall.

Falloff.

"But you can't push them in. You have to let them fall in and bury themselves." Cassandra's words echoed faintly in Maryanne's mind. She watched Dawkins approach the witness stand, curious about what questions he was going to ask.

"Miss Blake," he called as he stopped some feet away from the stand. "You mentioned that the first time you saw the defendant, you saw a hunger in her eyes. A willingness to do anything for that success that you yourself had, right?"

"Uhh, yes," she answered unsurely.

"And the job, you said it was demanding."

"Yes, very demanding." Dawkins stood before the jury, waiting for her answer.

"Now isn't it fitting that in an extremely demanding field such as yours, a person yearning for success be ready to do what it takes to earn it? That a person be as dedicated as they can be?" His voice shifted abruptly from the collected cordial tone to a stern, sharp shout that cut through even his very client, Maryanne. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Miss O'Neill is simply a hardworking woman, dedicated to her work. Let us see it as nothing more than that..."

"Objection, Your Honor," the prosecutor shouted. Maryanne frowned. The slight smile her lips had spread into faded, shaken by the loud, rough voice. "Argumentative!" he cried.

A silence dawned on the courtroom. Everyone was keen. She could feel eyes shift from her and land desperately on the prosecutor, begging him to do something. Then, before the chatter could start, Dawkins turned sharply towards Cassandra. His eyelids tightened over his eyes, the way they had been the first time he had met Maryanne—before accepting her case.

"You said that Miss O'Neill would kill to su—"

"Objection, Your Honor," the prosecution shouted again.

"Mischaracterizes the witness."

"Sustained," the judge said.

That meant that Dawkins' question had been stricken even before he completed it. The chatter rose from the gallery. Some sort of relief floated up above her head—one she couldn't partake in as it was against her.

"Okay, Miss Blake," Dawkins’ voice started up again. The voices from the gallery dissipated and fell below his. "Where do you work now?" He began strolling around the court, back turned to the stand.

"I am a radio show host for—" She began to answer, but Dawkins cut her off harshly.

"Wait, a radio show host?" His face creased in confusion, with disgusted wrinkles along his nose bridge.

"Well, I..." Her voice trembled.

"Would you care to tell the court how that became?" He stopped and turned around to face her. "You know what? I'll save you the trouble. Let me do it for you," he said.

As he started, Maryanne turned and noticed the worry on Cassandra's face—the way her lips stayed pursed as if trying to speak but cowering under Dawkins' telling of her past. The way her chest rose and fell rapidly.

She noticed, in the blur of her periphery, the turmoil in the adjacent bench. The prosecutor and his co-counsel flipping through binders desperately.

Then she remembered being in that washroom, eyeing Cassandra's confession guiltily on her phone. She remembered finally mustering the courage to tell her manager about it—walking into Lucille's office, resolving not to show the recording.

"You were the most-watched news anchor in the entire nation, trusted by all to deliver information," Dawkins continued. Those were the very words Lucille said after Maryanne told her about the ordeal at the hotel—that it was against the rules, one of the worst things a reporter could commit. And that she was done for.

"But you went ahead and took bribes and gifts from corporations for what?" he asked. Then proceeded to answer it himself: "So that you could promote them on the news." He shouted louder and louder, and Cassandra caved further, looking confusedly at the prosecutor. Shaking her head slightly, helplessly. The prosecution table finding nothing in their binders in time to save her, then looking up at her, their faces flushed with helplessness.

Lucille had been elated at the news. She mentioned an investigation which would end in Cassandra being knocked off the top of the ladder. Then when she said that Maryanne would be bumped up a step or two, her mind changed.

Cassandra did commit a cardinal sin, one of the worst in their world, and she deserved punishment. Maryanne couldn't wait for her to fall into her grave. She saw her chance and chose to push her mentor in herself and probably fill it.

"But then your mentee found out and chose to turn it in. To turn you in," Dawkins said, pointing an open palm towards Maryanne then a sharp index towards Cassandra.

Maryanne remembered Lucille leaving the office—her face straight and professional but concealing a wide smile. Then, half an hour later, the door was pushed in and she was back. It's all taken care of, she said.

Then she looked to the stand. A woman shivering inside it, wishing she could duck under the enclosure, away from the eyes.

Maryanne's lip curled into a smirk, the warmth of victory flowing through her. But immediately, a wave of guilt rushed over her. Realizing how her mentor had her eyes on the floor, blinking relentlessly, probably trying to hold back the tears, like she had that day. She had just walked into the building and, before she could get to her office, she was summoned to the Human Resources office.

Through the glass wall, everyone on the floor—pretending to be busy in their work—could see the confrontation. As the director paced around the office, then stopped in front of her and pointed angrily at the door. A silent public execution.

An hour later, she emerged from her office. Maryanne had contemplated going in to check on their plans for later and possibly apologizing, but that wasn't necessary. She walked back out, hugging a small box against her chest. The defeated look etched on her face.

She was in the grave, her own, but pushed in and buried by her own mentee.

"Miss Blake, I think that you are here out of spite." Dawkins snatched Maryanne's attention. "You still harbor resentment for her, even though she was just following the rules, something you couldn't and didn't. Seems to me that you here are the one willing to do anything for success." He said, then turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you have seen, my client is merely a dedicated worker. In fact, that willingness to do anything involves following rules to the letter, as we've learned here."

A brief silence flowed in—minds absorbing what had just happened.

"That is all, Your Honor." He walked back to his seat.

Then people started murmuring behind her, bewilderment flooding the relief out of the court's air. Maryanne saw the prosecutor's lips tighten into a sneer. For the first time, he had been flustered.