by Britt Morrow
George immediately launches in, taking control of the situation. “I think that we can agree that it is in everyone’s best interest to avoid the time, expense, and anxiety involved in running a trial.”
“Well, it’s in the community’s best interest to see that justice is served,” Brett counters.
“Of course. And I believe that almost everyone in the community would agree that charging a young man with absolutely no prior criminal history, who holds a reputation of being respectful, intelligent and driven, and who was confronted with an appalling situation to which he reacted in the best way that he was capable, with second degree murder, certainly isn’t justice.”
“So, what would you suggest as a more just charge?” Brett challenges, leaning back in his chair.
I came into the meeting envisioning a David and Goliath situation: Brett, an underpaid and overworked kid with little experience under his belt, versus George with his wealth of resources and dozens of successful cases. Now, I realize that I was entirely mistaken. Brett holds all of the cards; he gets to decide whether or not to deal.
“What should have been charged in the first place: voluntary manslaughter,” George explains patiently, deliberately ignoring Brett’s imperious demeanor. “I’m sure you would agree that witnessing the violent rape of your fiancée and future mother of your child by her own father is sufficient provocation to lead a reasonable individual to act irrationally.”
“I certainly would. I do not agree, however, that that was, in fact, what Mr. Adams witnessed.”
“The physical evidence at the scene, as well as the documented history of abuse clearly support Mr. Adams’s version of events.”
“What physical evidence?” Brett demands. “The blood on Mrs. Wright for which Officer Weston gave an entirely plausible alternative explanation?”
“I think the plausibility of his vague conjecture is doubtful, to say the least.”
“Not any more doubtful than the allegations of sexual abuse. Yelling at your son for his poor performance on a football field is a far cry from raping your daughter.”
“Have you actually read through the CPS case files, Mr. Trawick?” George asks mildly, as if he’s asking whether Brett has tried the latest addition to the cafeteria menu. “The reported incidents of abuse include spitting on, shaking, and even punching, his son. And those were episodes that occurred in public. I don’t think that either of us could begin to imagine what occurred behind closed doors.”
“We don’t have to imagine. Colt Wright, who lived behind those closed doors, told you himself that he wasn’t aware of the occurrence of any sexual abuse. Have you actually seen the trailer where the incident occurred, Mr. Sadler?” Brett questions, pressing on before George has the opportunity to respond. “I can’t imagine that abuse of that nature could be perpetuated in a residence of that size without Colt becoming aware.”
“People only see what they want to see. For instance, you would like to see Levi as a cold-blooded killer when, by all accounts, he’s an upstanding citizen who committed a tragic mistake.”
“And you would like to see him as an anti-hero, I’m sure. A young man who fortuitously happened upon an attack of his fiancée and, even more fortuitously, found a gun and was able to put a stop to this alleged attack. An enthralling story, but not a particularly likely one.”
George’s ability to remain composed is enviable. He stays relaxed, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the opposite knee. Meanwhile, my fists are clenched so tightly that, even though my nails are cut to the quick, I’m sure that my palms will be bloodied when I finally manage to unfurl them. His sarcastic tone is grating, but even more infuriating is the fact that he’s right: phrased like that, it does seem like an entirely fictional account.
“I don’t think that any of these events can be described as particularly fortuitous or enthralling. As I said, it was a tragic mistake resulting from extreme provocation that deserves a commensurate charge,” George reiterates.
“I remain confident in my opinion that second-degree murder is an entirely commensurate charge. As you said, Mr. Adams has a reputation for being intelligent; he shot Mr. Wright, without any evidence to indicate provocation, knowing what the outcome would be,” Brett replies obstinately. “I agree that his lack of prior convictions and generally positive reputation warrant some measure of leniency, so I am willing to recommend a relatively short sentence of twenty-five years.”
Twenty-five years. I’ll not only miss my child’s first steps, his first words, and his first wobbly bike ride, I’ll miss his entire childhood and adolescence. At twenty-five years old, a kid is no longer a kid, but an adult who I can’t even force into maintaining any kind of relationship with me. Twenty-five-year-old me will be a convicted murderer, an identity that will supersede all else, not only in my own life, but in the lives of all those who choose to remain close with me. My child will never even have a chance.
I’m sure that George knows how gutted I am by the prospect of spending my next twenty-five years imprisoned, but he remains stoic. “My client and I will discuss your offer; however, we both know that it is far from generous.”
“That’s as much generosity as I’m prepared to offer.” Brett shrugs. “I eagerly await your response.”
He begins shuffling several documents, seemingly selected at random from the multitudes on his desk. It turns out that I was completely wrong about both his disorganization and the dog picture; Brett couldn’t be further from good-natured or haphazard in his approach.
George and I rise as one, recognizing that we’re being dismissed. He doesn’t address me until we’re at the end of the hallway, well out of Brett’s earshot.
“The deal’s bullshit, and he knows it. I’m not letting you go down for twenty-five years,” he whispers furiously. “You’ve been getting a lot of press, and he wants to force a trial as an opportunity to make a name for himself.”
I’m relieved to see George this worked up, his shoes squeaking angrily as he paces the end of the hallway. I was starting to think that maybe there was something wrong with me: a spontaneous anger that rendered me dangerous and justified my incarceration. Right now though, George is even more red-faced and agitated than I am.
George rubs his hands together excitedly, and I’m suddenly aware of the pain in my own. I turn my palms to reveal the angry red crescent shapes embedded in the skin. I survey the damage as an excuse not to look at him. I don’t share his excitement at the prospect of a trial. I know what it will mean for Charlie: the distressing conversations, intrusive questions, harrowing memories unearthed. And that’s even before she’s subjected to the stand, where she’ll have to repeat it all publicly. I don’t know if violating her again with our probing and scrutiny, subjecting her to even more painful memories with which she’ll be burdened for a lifetime, is worth twenty-five years of my freedom.
“I need some time to think about the deal.”
“It’s not a deal at all. I’m confident that we can get you a much lighter sentence.”
He was also confident that we could secure a reasonable plea bargain today. I’m starting to wonder if my confidence in him was misplaced. The only thing that I’m confident about now, is that my fate is even grimmer than I initially imagined.
“Charlie’s heavily pregnant. I don’t want her to expose her to the stress of a trial, especially one that will rely so heavily on her testimony,” I explain.
George softens. “Why don’t you take some time to talk to Charlie? Raising a child as a single parent will also result in a significant amount of stress. There are no easy decisions here.”
He’s right. Regardless of how we choose to proceed, I’ll be asking a tremendous amount of her.
George claps me on the back affectionately before saying, “Take care of yourself, Levi. And take the time to really consider your options. I’ll start gathering the information we’ll need to go to trial, and you let me know how you want to proceed.”
The echo of
his words remains with me on the ride back to the jail and long into the night: There are no easy decisions…how I want to proceed. My decisions completely altering the course of the lives of all those I care about. A terrifying prospect considering the shameful nature of my recent choices.
Chapter 27
I have a pit in my stomach, and I’m not sure whether it’s attributable to excitement or dread. It’s been over a month since I last saw Charlie and, while I’m elated at the prospect of seeing her, I was hoping that it would be under better circumstances. I had envisioned telling her that the plea bargain was successful and that I’d be out in a handful of years - not exactly joyous news, but significantly better than the information that I’m now tasked with delivering.
I’m not sure whether it’s because the county doesn’t have any money or because the inmates here are considered lower risk, but the visitation room isn’t like the ones you see in the movies. There are no glass partitions or phones that you have to communicate via; it’s one large white room with metal tables bolted to the floor, not unlike my high school cafeteria.
The inmates are seated first, only one per table, and we wait in anxious anticipation as visitors begin trickling in. You can tell which visitors have been here before, those who scan the room casually before locating their loved one, and which ones are first-timers, nervously lingering in the corner awaiting further instruction. Charlie saunters in like an old pro though, exhibiting the easy confidence that initially drew me to her. She navigates the maze of tables deftly despite her protruding stomach.
I can’t believe how much bigger her stomach has gotten in the last few weeks. I couldn’t even tell that she was pregnant the last time I saw her, and now she looks almost full-term. Her watermelon-sized stomach is completely incongruous compared to her otherwise slender body. It pains me to know that this is exactly what it will be like with my son: missing entire chunks of development. I’m not sure if it’s the pregnancy glow that everyone talks about or if it’s just because I’m so elated to see her, but she’s even more stunning than I remember.
I stand and grip her tightly, refusing to let go until a guard clears his throat. Two hugs. One upon arrival and one prior to departure, that’s all the contact we’re permitted. I almost have to pry myself from Charlie’s grasp; she’s clinging to me like a life-preserver in stormy waters. Ironic, considering that I’m the one who caused the entire storm in the first place.
“It’s so good to see you,” she whispers. She runs her eyes over me repeatedly, searching as if to ensure that I was telling the truth all of the times that I reassured her I was doing okay.
“I was just going to say the same.”
I think nearly everyone in the visitation room would agree. Both the guards and the other inmates can’t seem to stop looking at her, the guards giving furtive glances, while the prisoners openly stare. She ignores the attention, making me feel like the only one in the room as per usual.
“How did the meeting with the prosecutor go?” She asks urgently.
In my exhilaration over seeing her, I’d almost forgotten how shitty everything else was. I move to grip her hands, before remembering that I’m not allowed to.
“Not well.”
“What does that mean?” She asks, her concern evident.
“That the prosecutor wants me to serve twenty-five years.”
She doesn’t make any effort to conceal her expression of utter horror. I don’t think she contemplated this many years, even in a worst-case scenario. I certainly didn’t.
“Cops don’t get any time for killing a black man for no good reason, and you’re going to get twenty-five for killing a rapist to protect me?” She fumes.
I don’t know whether you can compare the two, whether there are loopholes applicable to police that don’t apply to white trash. I appreciate her validating the unfairness of the situation, though.
“We can still fight, right? Go to trial?”
“We can, but it’ll get ugly,” I warn. “A lot of it will rely on your testimony. They’re going to question you about the abuse.”
“That’s fine,” she replies defiantly. “I can handle it.”
I have no doubt that she can. I don’t know if I’ll be able to, though. Or if I want her to.
“The lawyer on the other side is vicious. He’s adamant that no abuse occurred.”
“I thought George had the CPS records, though?”
“He does. But there’s nothing in there about sexual abuse, and the prosecutor is going to say that going from physical abuse to sexual abuse is a huge leap. Colt is already on record saying that he had no idea that you were being abused. It’s going to be your word against Colt and the prosecutor’s.”
She slumps back in her chair, gripping her stomach. In all the discussion about me, my trial, and my issues, I completely forgot to ask how she was doing with the pregnancy. I can tell that she’s uncomfortable, continually shifting the bulk of her stomach around in a bid to find a position where she can actually relax. I’m sure there are plenty of other symptoms she hasn’t revealed to me either, feeling like she can’t complain to someone whose situation is infinitely worse. I’m not sure that it is, though. I have a freedom that she’ll never again experience: the luxury of being completely devoid of any responsibility and answerable only to myself. Maybe Brandi was right all along about motherhood being a prison.
“So be it,” she retorts.
Her feistiness was what attracted me to her in the first place, but I’m feeling less enthused about it right now. She hasn’t been face-to-face with Brett yet. She doesn’t know what he’s capable of. Neither do I. I don’t want to think about how his fierceness during last week’s plea negotiations will translate to cross-examining an opposing witness. She’s under more than enough stress without worrying about an upcoming trial. I can’t possibly imagine how she’ll manage a trial, new motherhood, and working enough to support herself and a child.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, eager to redirect the conversation to her.
“Don’t change the subject. I want to know what I need to do to help you at trial.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to trial yet. I might just accept the plea.”
“Are you serious?” She demands.
“Yes. You’re pregnant, and it’s going to be enough of a struggle to make ends meet as it is. How are you going to make time for a trial on top of that?”
“How am I going to live with myself if you go to jail without us even trying? You can’t give up, Levi!” She says it vehemently, drawing the gazes of the few people in the room who weren’t already looking at her.
“I am trying. I’m trying to be practical.”
“Well, I need you to try to find a way out of here instead. I have things handled outside. The trailer’s mine now. And my dad had some savings. I can figure it out - for now, not for twenty-five years.”
“Okay,” I reply solemnly, taking care to meet her eyes. “Seriously though, how have you been feeling?”
“I have trouble breathing sometimes, and I always have to pee. My feet are too swollen to wear anything other than these orthopedic-looking sneakers,” she laments, raising a foot that, up until now, I’ve only ever seen in a pair of boots or Converse. “No serious complications, though. I went to see the doctor last week, and he told me that Nash’s growing well, that he’s going to be big.” She smiles bravely, but I can tell that she’s afraid, though of childbirth or single motherhood, I’m not sure. Probably both.
“Wrap it up, guys!” The guard stationed by the exit hollers.
I move in for my final hug, this one even more lingering than the last. She’s the last guest in the visitation room, and the guard is eyeing us annoyedly by the time we separate. The only reason I’m able to finally move away is the knowledge that I’ll be able to see her again in two weeks.
The excitement is evident in George’s voice when I tell him that I’m not taking the plea. I’m sure he’s hankering for
the opportunity to tear Brett apart in court. Brett might have had the upper hand when it came to plea negotiations, but in court, George will be able to leverage the full weight of his expertise and resources.
“A not guilty verdict may be a stretch,” he advises, tempering my non-existent expectations. “But we have the advantage of being in a relatively small county where both yours and Earl’s reputation are well-known. It’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility.”
I won’t allow myself to be hopeful, but I can’t help but agree with him. I’m entitled to a jury of my peers: poor, angry, football-loving, gun-toting rednecks. A clan that understands powerlessness and desperation, the necessity of protecting one’s own because it’s all you really have. We might be white trash but, contrary to the stereotypes, incest isn’t acceptable around here. I doubt a single person on the jury would have made a different choice.
“I spoke with Charlie yesterday,” he continues. “She’s remarkably poised and has a clear recollection of events. She’ll make a good, credible witness.”
I know Charlie, and I don’t doubt the truth of his words. But I don’t know how far one good witness will get us.
“How strong is our case, George?”
The line is silent for a minute. I wonder if it’s because he’s really weighing the odds, or if he’s just trying to find a euphemistic way to break the news that I’m fucked. “Honestly, Levi, every case is a toss-up. I’ve had ones that I was certain I’d win that went sideways and hopeless ones that culminated in a verdict of not guilty. Juries are comprised of fallible human beings with no concept of the law and sometimes even less of morality. All it takes is one strong personality to dominate a deliberation and render a verdict. The one thing we have going for us in this case is a homogeneous, predictable pool of jurors to pick from. And that could truly make all of the difference.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to work this from every angle to ensure that we go into this with the best possible odds,” he assures me. “I need you to do something for me, though.”
