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SADIE

Back “then”…

“ Y ou need to take this plea deal,” my public defender says.

“No.”

“Sadie, they’re offering you seven to fifteen years.”

“Per murder.”

“Yeah. That’s one hell of a deal,” he says. “Even if the judge makes the sentences run consecutively, you’ll have a shot at breathing free air in your sixties or seventies.”

“I prefer the alternative…”

“If we take this to trial and lose, you’re looking at twenty-five to life. Per murder. No parole.”

“You’re talking like you believe I did it.”

“No, I’m talking like I’m trying to give you the best option for your future,” he says. “If you want me to build a defense and reject the deal, fine. But look this over first.”

He hands me a manila envelope.

“Take it back to your cell and pretend you’re a member of the jury. Then sleep on it for three days before telling me what makes the most sense.”

As if that’s the end of the conversation—like my opinion matters less than the crumbs he brushes off his shirt—he slides his laptop across the table.

“I read that you’re a huge art and drama fan, so I downloaded some videos for you to watch before our time’s up.”

He pulls a pack of Skittles from his jacket.

“Oh, and I snuck in some snacks.”

I give him a blank stare.

“This is the part where you tell me ‘thank you,’ Miss Pretty,” he says. “I’m working extremely hard on your behalf.”

I bite my tongue. The only thing I’ve seen him do “extremely hard” is give interviews to the press.

“Can you stop talking to the media for a while?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” he snaps. “Win or lose, enjoy those Skittles. Because where you’re headed, you probably won’t get to taste them for a long time…”

That night, I lay awake in my cell.

Two older women are yelling about whose turn it is to control the television tomorrow, while the woman across from me screams at the top of her lungs:

“I don’t belong in hereeee! I’m not like these other people! Get me outttt!”

Frustrated, I open the envelope from my lawyer.

It’s full of crime scene photos: Bloody footprints, a photo of my shoes… Video stills of my car in the driveway. Images of me pacing the rose garden—silver knife in hand, and of course, the victims. Again.

Nonsense…

By the time my lawyer calls for an answer on Monday, my decision is easy.

“I’d like to reject their plea deal and go to trial.”