In
the next twenty-four hours, I will be arrested for first-degree murder.
I
don’t know how this could be happening. I’m not the kind of person who goes to
jail for murder. I’m not. I’ve never
even gotten a speeding ticket. Hell, I’ve never even jaywalked before. I’m the
most law-abiding citizen who ever was.
“They
have a pretty solid case against you, Abby.”
My
lawyer, Robert Frisch, does not sugar coat things. I’ve only known him a short
time, but I already know he’s not about handholding and gumdrops and lollipops.
He has spent the last twenty minutes enumerating all the police department’s
evidence against me. And when I hear it all laid out for me like that, it
sounds bad. If I were some neutral third party listening to everything Frisch
was saying, I’d be thinking to myself, That
woman is definitely guilty. Lock her up—throw away the key.
The
whole time I was listening to Frisch, my heart was thumping wildly in my chest.
It actually made it a bit hard to hear him for stretches of time. To my right,
my husband Sam is slumped in his chair, a glassy look in his eyes. Sam was the
one who hired Frisch. He’s your best
chance, Abby, he told me.
So
if he can’t help me, that means I have no chance.
“It’s
all circumstantial evidence,” I say, even though I’m not certain that’s the
case or even exactly what circumstantial evidence is. But I know one thing: “I
didn’t do it.”
Frisch
lets out an extended sigh and folds his arms across his chest. “You have to
understand that if this goes to court, you’re going to be convicted.”
“If this goes to court?”
“I’d
recommend a plea bargain,” he says. “When they arrest you—”
I
imagine the police showing up at my door, snapping metal cuffs on my wrists. Reading
me my rights. You have the right to
remain silent. Is that something they really say in real life? I don’t want
to find out.
“If they arrest me,” I correct him.
Frisch
gives me a look like I’m out of my mind. He’s been a criminal attorney for
nearly thirty years. One of the best. You can tell how successful he is by the
leather sofa pushed up against the wall and the mahogany desk where he’s got a
photo of himself shaking the hand of Barack Obama. I’ve got money, but the
length of a full trial might bleed us dry.
“Second
degree murder is fifteen years to life,” Frisch says. “Whereas for Murder One,
you could get life without possibility of parole. If you plea down to Murder
Two—”
