by Britt Morrow
“I’m really sorry. You know that, right?”
“For what?” She sounds genuinely confused.
“For turning you into a single mom while you’re still a kid yourself.”
“It wouldn’t have ended any other way,” she replies sagely. “He wouldn’t have let me leave. Not alive anyway.”
George advised me not to talk to anyone about the events of that night, explaining that my conversations with him were privileged, but that the content of any other calls could potentially be used against me at a trial. I can’t help but press the issue, though; I need to know that my actions were justified.
“Are you sure?” It comes out raw and needy.
“If you hadn’t done it, I would have had to.” She makes the admission in a voice barely above a whisper. A truth too appalling to reveal any other way.
“What did he do to you?” It’s a question that I do and don’t want to know the answer to with equal fervency. But I need to know.
“Mostly, he would touch me. Sometimes make me touch him…with my mouth,” I have to strain my ears in order to hear her. Afterwards, I wish that I hadn’t. “It got worse after Colt left. He didn’t have to be so careful.”
“Was that the first time he…?” I can’t make myself say any of the appropriate words: penetration, intercourse, sex.
“Yes!” She answers emphatically.
“Why didn’t you tell me that was happening?” I don’t want to sound accusatory, but I need to know the answer.
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore. And even more afraid that, if you did still want me, this would happen.”
I should never have made light of her intuition. Women know how to sense things, men only know how to react to the signs that they’ve missed.
“I’ve got a really good lawyer. He’s a friend of Gabrielle’s. He thinks I could be out in three years,” I tell her, desperate to inject some optimism into the conversation.
I can hear Shayna shrilly yelling for Charlie’s help in the background. I was hoping the news would come off as being positive - three years isn’t that long in the grand scheme of our lives. Hearing Shayna shout for Charlie and knowing that she has three years of being screamed at by customers, coworkers, and soon an infant makes it seem a hell of a lot longer, though.
“I have to get going,” she says apologetically.
“I know. I’m sorry to have bothered you at work.”
“When will I hear from you again?”
“I don’t know. Whenever a guard is feeling generous enough to take me to the phone booth. Are you working tomorrow night?”
“Every night. Pete’s giving me all the evening shifts. Tips are better at dinner.”
“Okay. I’ll try to call again tomorrow night.”
The line goes quiet and, for a minute, I think that she already hung up, hurrying to get back to her tables.
“Hey, Levi?” She breathes. “Thank you.”
I don’t feel like “you’re welcome” is an appropriate response given that she’s thanking me for committing murder, so I simply tell her, “I love you.”
This time the line really is dead.
Chapter 25
I had expected the wool suit to itch, but apparently, the expensive kind of wool isn’t itchy. I’ve never worn a suit, or anything expensive, but I’m sure that this one cost a pretty penny. I wonder if George went out and got it for me personally, or if he just has an array of suits on-hand for his clients. It’s clearly not one of his own; I have at least a couple of inches on him. He did a pretty good job of estimating the size - with the exception of the shoulders. They make me feel like I’m in a straight-jacket. But that’s probably what I deserve to be wearing.
I’m trying to concentrate on what the judge is saying: his judgments on my financial condition and lack of family or community ties, but it isn’t really important. Even if, by some miracle, my bail is set low enough for me to be able to afford, I won’t be paying it. I want even the paltry amount in my bank account to go to Charlie and the baby. It will pay for a couple months of diapers, at least.
“The bail will be set at $250,000.00,” the judge eventually proclaims.
George is nodding beside me, although the amount is higher than what he’d anticipated. I can tell this rattles him; he’s much less garrulous than usual as we leave the courtroom. He grabs his briefcase abruptly from the assistant waiting for him outside the room. It’s unlike any briefcase I’ve ever seen - more like a suitcase-sized box on wheels, brimming with documents and folders. I wonder what, if anything, they say about me.
“I have to head back to the office to prepare for your preliminary trial. I’ll be in contact,” he tells me distractedly, his mind no doubt already turned to his next steps.
I envy his preoccupation, the fact that he actually has other things to absorb his time. While he bounces between cases, and dinners, and maybe even the odd golf game, I have to look forward to spending the next week sitting in my cell, worrying about what will happen at the preliminary trial while doing nothing to contribute to the preparation.
The week passes as expected: anxiety-ridden monotony punctuated with short bursts of joy whenever the guards come by with gummy oatmeal or spam sandwiches, and a few moments of elation during the short conversations I’ve had with Charlie. I also unexpectedly received an envelope containing letters from both Jeremiah and Dawson, detailing everything that I’ve been missing. I was surprised to hear from either of them, expecting to be relegated to a distant memory at worst, and a good party story at best: I was buddies in university with a guy who turned out to be a murderer.
I was thrilled just to have something to read other than the wrinkled Reader’s Digests, where the good articles have already been pulled out by the other inmates, but the letters were especially touching.
I could tell that Dawson’s was intended to make me feel better about everything that I’m missing: droning professors, uninspiring math problems, Jeremiah’s obsessive calorie-counting. I would give anything for a math problem to struggle over or unsolicited dietary advice from Jeremiah, anything to relieve the tedium. He doesn’t mention anything about the incident or ask about prison; his tone is deliberately lighthearted and conversational as if I’m away on vacation, soon to return.
Jeremiah’s letter, on the other hand, is all emotional proclamations about how much he misses me, and how struck he is by the unfairness of the situation. He wants to know everything about prison, from the booking process, to the other inmates and, of course, the food. His letter concludes with a final request to include him and Gabrielle on my visitation list so that they can come to see me. It’s a kind thought, one that I have no doubt they would follow through with if given the opportunity, but I have no intention of putting them on any visitation list. I’ve visited more than enough turmoil upon them already. I’m sure even Gabrielle, as compassionate and Christian as she is, is ruing the day I was selected as Jeremiah’s roommate. I was a worthy project when I was simply a charity case, but now I’ve become an entirely lost cause.
I read and re-read the letters until the paper on which they’re written is tissue-thin and the ink soft and smudged. I’m still re-reading them - only six pages worth - days later when a guard comes to collect me for my preliminary hearing.
“Let’s go, the van’s waiting for you outside.”
He’s the same guard who usually takes me to the phone booth to speak with Charlie, so I comply quickly, tucking the letters beneath my pillow, before presenting my wrists to be cuffed. I wonder if he really thinks that this step is necessary, that I’m a threatening savage in need of restraint, or if it’s merely a mandatory part of his job.
When I arrive at the courthouse, George is already there in a shiny three-piece suit. I hope the armor-like sheen isn’t any indication of what lies ahead for the two of us.
He can sense my nervousness. “Don’t worry, your only job today is to sit back and watch. It’s the prosecution’s job
to present their case and convince the judge that there is probable cause to believe that you did, in fact, commit second-degree murder. They’ll have a couple of their witnesses testify - one of the cops who was called to the scene and the son of the deceased from what I understand - and it’s my job to question them and make it as difficult as possible. Got it?” He asks conspiratorially as if we’ve somehow become partners in this hideous crime.
Despite his reassurances, I can feel myself breaking out in a sweat that has nothing to do with the wool suit George has once again provided for me to wear. “Colt is testifying?”
“Earl’s son? Yes. Likely to establish the fact that he was a good father, provided for his kids…”
“What if he denies the abuse?” I interject.
I have a good deal of faith in George’s questioning ability. He’s sharp and whip-quick. Colt isn’t one to be easily intimidated though, especially not by intellectual superiority. This won’t be anything like the courtroom situation in most movies where the untruthful witness gradually breaks down and is eventually bested by the lawyer’s exceptional wit. I’ve seen him on the field enough times to know that, if Colt feels threatened, he’s only going to dig in.
George shrugs. “He might. There are a few recorded incidents of verbal and physical abuse perpetrated by Earl against Colt from football games years back that I can press him on.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so critical of the busybody booster moms. Turns out, their nosiness may be paying off for me.
“Proving the abuse isn’t for us to worry about today,” George continues. “I will depose Charlie and anyone who was witness to Colt’s abuse over the next few weeks as ammunition for a plea agreement.”
I want to ask him what deposing Charlie will entail but the courtroom door opens, and it’s time for us to file in, before I get the chance.
It’s warm in the courtroom, almost uncomfortably so, despite the miserable drizzly weather outside. But it might just be the combination of the suit and the impassioned glare being fixed upon me by the guy - a prosecutor, I assume - at the neighboring table. He’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties at the absolute most, in an ill-fitting suit. Like George’s, the suit is shiny. Unlike George’s though, it’s the sheen of cheap polyester that’s been washed too many times.
His appearance, not to mention his stare, concerns me. It takes a beat for me to identify the source of my concern: he reminds me of myself. I know that hunger and need to prove oneself all too well. To George, he might be nothing other than an inexperienced lawyer who doesn’t even look the part. But I know all about the scrappiness bred from inferiority - he’s going to be a worthy, if not formidable, opponent.
George and I are seated, and he has all of his documents - dozens of them tabbed and stacked in two neat piles - organized by the time the prosecutor finally pries his eyes away from me. I pretend not to notice, reluctant to meet his gaze. It’s a look I’m well-acquainted with: the same haughty, disdainful one that I used to give to Colt and the other redneck ne’er do wells that I thought I would leave far behind me. This must be what karma feels like.
I can tell almost immediately that I was right in my assessment of the prosecutor. As soon as the judge, a kindly looking elderly woman, is seated and invites him to begin, he launches into a monologue. His story is pretty compelling: he paints Charlie as a rebellious soon-to-be teen mom, Earl as a concerned - if slightly overbearing - father, and me as the villain coming to take away his beloved daughter.
He calls his first witness to the stand: Blockhead. I’m unsurprised; Kid would have crumbled under George’s questioning. Blockhead will come off better for the prosecution; he didn’t demonstrate any of the sympathy towards me that Kid did, but he wasn’t unfair either.
The prosecutor runs through some preliminary questions, establishing that Blockhead is a long-serving member of the county police force who has been called to the scenes of dozens of domestic incidents and three other homicides.
“Where were you on the evening of January twenty-fifth of this year?” The prosecutor questions Blockhead.
“I was on duty with my partner, Officer Simmons.”
“Did you receive any calls from dispatch that evening?”
“Yes. We received a call around 9:30 pm from a concerned neighbor who heard a gunshot noise and some screaming coming from the Wright residence.”
“What did you do next?”
“We went to the address provided by the neighbor,” Blockhead replies.
It’s clear that he has testified before. His answers are clear but clipped, providing only the bare minimum of information, minimizing the chances that George might seize on some small inconsistency or overlooked detail.
“And what did you encounter when you went to the residence?”
“We were met at the door by the accused and a female resident of the household.”
I wonder if the prosecutor instructed Blockhead to refer to me as the accused, or if he was smart enough to make that stylistic choice on his own. Either way, it’s a nice touch - makes me seem less human.
“Did anything appear amiss at the residence?”
“Yes, the female was covered in what appeared to be blood.”
“Were you able to identify what the substance was?”
“Yes, she indicated that it was her father’s blood.”
“How did you respond to this information?”
“I explained that we were there to perform a wellness check on the members of the residence, and asked her to take me to her father.”
“In what kind of state did you encounter her father?”
He describes the scene in detail: the blood-drenched bed, the missing top half of Earl’s skull, the grey-matter splattered against the wall. I watch the judge’s reaction: her eyes are wide, and her lips pursed into a thin line. I thought that having a kind-looking elderly woman as a judge would bode well for me, but now I think I was mistaken; a grizzled man would probably be less horrified by my actions.
“How did you respond to the situation?” the prosecutor presses.
I can tell he’s enjoying himself: his eyes are bright and he’s leaning forward in anticipation. Blockhead is playing the part of the experienced, meticulous cop perfectly. I’d like to know how many times they’ve gone over this together.
“My partner and I brought both the accused and his female companion, Charlie Wright, into the station for questioning and dispatched a crime scene investigation team to the scene.”
“What did you discover during the course of questioning?”
“The accused admitted to having killed Mr. Wright by shooting him with a shotgun through a bedroom window in the residence.”
The prosecutor introduces the crime scene report into evidence. I haven’t seen it, but I can only imagine the lurid details and nightmare-inducing photos it must contain.
“Was the evidence at the scene consistent with the accused’s confession?”
Blockhead goes through the proof, all irrefutable: prints matching the tread of my boots outside of the bedroom window, my fingerprints on the shotgun, the ballistic analysis linking the slug lodged in Earl’s skull to the shotgun.
George had warned me that they would have more than enough proof to establish probable cause for homicide, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear it all laid out without any opportunity to interject. They’re missing all of the context that makes my actions justifiable, maybe even laudable by some.
“Did the accused give any indication as to why he fired the shot?” The prosecutor continues.
I wondered whether they would address the abuse head-on, find some way to spin it, or whether they’d leave it to George to needle Blockhead.
“He alleged that he witnessed an act of sexual abuse between the deceased and his daughter, Ms. Wright.”
“Was there any physical evidence at the scene consistent with the allegation of sexual abuse?”
“No, nothing apparent.”
I want nothing more than to jump in, to ask them what exactly they expected to find that would be consistent with sexual abuse. A manual on how to get away with sexually assaulting your child? A room full of BDSM-style restraints in the tiny trailer? George had warned me not to say anything or even make any overt facial expressions, that any distractions or outbursts on my part would be viewed unfavorably by the judge. Despite their characterization of me as an impulsive brute, I do, in fact, know how to restrain myself, though. Instead, I stare intently at the table in front of me, unwilling to give the prosecutor the satisfaction of getting the best of me.
“I have no further questions,” the prosecutor states. “Thank you, Officer Weston.”
Now it’s George’s turn with Blockhead. He stands and rolls his shoulders like a boxer preparing for a match. If my life didn’t hang in the balance, I might actually enjoy the repartee about to take place. God knows I could use the entertainment right now.
“You said that, when you arrived at the scene, Earl Wright was already deceased, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But, you didn’t actually check his vital signs?”
“He was missing half of his skull,” Blockhead retorts.
I’m inclined to agree with Blockhead. Suggesting that he might still have been alive is a reach; I knew immediately that I’d killed him. George is just getting warmed up, though.
“So you didn’t check his vitals then?”
“No.”
“I understand that, as part of your investigation, you looked into the ownership history of the gun?”
“That’s correct.”
“You were able to trace the serial number to a federally licensed firearms dealer who had sold it to Earl Wright?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re aware that it belonged to Mr. Wright and not to Mr. Adams?” George asks, nodding his head towards me.
“Yes,” Blockhead reluctantly responds.
“So, the weapon was not brought to the scene by Mr. Adams?” George presses.
