Page 115

But my father and grandfather taught me well. When the lies are too big to weave together, you stay silent. You wait for theright story to come along and slowly the pieces will snake in between the crevices. Those around you will create something that will hide them. Silence will kill the evidence. It only needs time.
“Your money can’t save you this time,” the young detective says. I don’t even know his name, nor do I give a fuck. His dark eyes shine with conviction as he squares his shoulders and nods his head. He’s clean-shaven, which only makes him appear younger, but of all the men I’ve met in this building, he’s the only one I have respect for. He believes in justice.
“It never could,” I speak without thinking, saying the first thing that came to mind.
“What’s that mean?” Haynes questions from across the table. He’s desperate for me to give him something.
I don’t spare him a glance as the young cop responds, “You’re going away. There’s no negotiating, no lesser sentence for talking.” His eyes narrow as he nods his head once and walks closer to the table, bracing himself on it with both of his fists. “We’re going to find who really did it. And you’re both going down.”
My unaffected façade falters at the thought of them learning that Jules did it. My hands flex and ball into fists, and I have to look away. Not Jules. I already ruined her life enough. I destroyed a pure and beautiful soul.
Piece by piece I tore her down before I even knew what I was doing. I can’t let her go down for this.
“Not talking is only making it worse for you.”
I open my mouth to do what I do best, to be true to my heritage and lie. I have to think of something good, a reason for changing my shirt before cleaning the gun. I lick my lips, trying to come up with the right scenario, something believable. Something the evidence will prove is true. It doesn’t have to be factual, only enough that will convince them I’m guilty.
This is what I deserve, even if it's a fucked-up way of going about it. I murdered a man. I tried and convicted him without thinking twice. It’s only fair the same is done to me.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mickey,” the commissioner says from across from me. “You already know that’s not going to happen.”
His last words catch my attention and I turn to him, ignoring how the detective’s back straightens and he stalks toward Haynes. “Sir,” the cop says and straightens, waiting for the commissioner to explain, maybe? I’m not sure. There’s a duel between them with a thick tension that’s suffocating.
The commissioner cocks a brow as if not understanding what Mickey is after.
“He’s a witness, he tampered with the crime scene?—”
“No judge is going to allow charges with that little evidence.”
“Bullshit—”
“It’s done,” he says and the sharp words strike the young man, leaving him standing frozen, staring down the commissioner with his eyes flicking between the two of us. I don’t know about legalities. I don’t know how much is enough evidence. More importantly, I refuse to believe anything said by a man my father considered a friend.
“Find more evidence or let him go. It’s that simple. We’re not taking anything to trial unless we can ensure a conviction, get that through your head.”
“You’re as corrupt as they are,” the detective says with contempt before turning his back to the commissioner and storming out of the room.
Before he can slam the door, I see a familiar face in the doorway, eyebrows raised as he’s escorted in by a young female cop with a ponytail. She’s looking between the cop who’s just left and at Commissioner Haynes.
“I trust my client is free to go?” Mr. Millard asks as he shifts the leather handle of his black briefcase from one hand to the other and watches the female cop close the door to the room. “I’m sure you’re aware—” Mr. Millard begins, but doesn’t finish.
“I’ve already spoken to the judge,” Commissioner Haynes says, once again leaning back in his chair and eyeing me, as if considering who I am and whether or not my existence even matters to him. “He’s free to go,” he says with finality as my family lawyer nods once and quickly reopens the door to the interrogation room. “We want the murderer and only him. Evidence proves Mason is not our suspect.”
I don’t need another invitation to leave. Standing abruptly, I take one last look at the commissioner, who’s still staring straight ahead, but no longer at me. Only an empty chair, although the same look is in his eyes.
My pulse quickens as I walk through the station, feeling everyone’s eyes on me and listening to the sound of our shoes smacking against the floor as we walk out.
“Just like that?” I say beneath my breath as Mr. Millard opens the large front glass door for me. His brow raises as I walk through, still looking at him and waiting for the other shoe to drop. For whatever deal was made and figuring out who I owe now.
He nods his head once, appearing uncomfortable but not adding any more.
This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten away with things. A slap on the wrist for vandalism, shit like that.But this?
I stare at my lawyer, wondering what all he knows and what he thinks of me as we leave, no charges pressed. The air is bitter cold and the snow on the street is blackened, but on the sidewalks it’s still a brilliant white and makes the late evening seem lighter than it should.
“Just like that,” Millard says, repeating my words and looks back over his shoulder before walking across the street. I follow him and wait. Always waiting for what’s next.
He opens his car’s passenger door and says, “Home, Mr. Thatcher?”