My husband shoved me, shattering the bathroom mirror. His mother sneered, “Clean up this disgusting mess.” But as I fell, my husband roared, “What’s in your pocket?!” The red LED of my federal distress fob pulsed. Denied the third click, I threw myself onto the broken glass, and…

was locked down, surrounded by chain-link fencing and federal seizure notices. The country club friends who used to laugh at my “sensitivity” abruptly stopped taking their desperate phone calls, terrified of being linked to a cartel investigation. The Gilded Cage had been repossessed.

The heavy mahogany doors of the courtroom swung open, snapping me continue reading …