Page 57 of The Locked Ward
Milt Daniels, the public defender assigned to represent you, is young, clearly overworked, and almost certainly underpaid.
The first time you met him, you noticed he bit his fingernails and his white oxford shirt had a frayed collar.
Today he’s in a blue shirt, but his nails still look raw and ragged.
“Georgia, I’ll be honest with you,” he says from the cement-heavy chair set a few feet away from yours. “It’s not looking good.”
Opal hovers in the doorway, her heavy hair pulled into her ever-present bun.
“You have no history of mental illness. But you do have a history of animosity toward Annabelle, and the prosecution is building a strong list of witnesses who will testify to it.”
He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees.
A stubby pen that’s half the length of a standard one is gripped in one hand and a miniature legal pad that holds only a few sheets of paper is in the other.
Everything is a deadly weapon here, even the innocuous objects that used to populate your surroundings.
“Your aunt Beverly will testify that when you were thirteen, you pushed Annabelle off a dock into Lake Norman in the early spring, when the water temperature was dangerously low. She was fully clothed and she panicked. She might have drowned.”
He looks up at you. You say nothing. Annabelle was a crybaby back then.
“Your cousin Grace will testify that you repeatedly told her you wished Annabelle was dead.”
You told that to many more people than Grace.
If your lawyer thinks this is going to get you to open up, he couldn’t be more wrong. All your life you’ve heard about how awful you’ve been to Annabelle, the pretty, sweet, perfect daughter. The only one Honey and Stephen ever wanted.
“Georgia, help me out here. You were found at the scene of the crime with your sister’s blood on your dress. I can’t find anyone else who might have had motive to kill her.”
Should you tell him?
He looks eager and innocent, with his big brown eyes and shock of bangs that keep falling into his face. He pushes them back so frequently with his index finger that the movement seems as compulsive as a tic.
“The nurses found a length of wire in your room, Georgia. That makes things worse for you. They can testify about it, and say you might have been planning to use it on someone.”
You could just speak the words— Annabelle was having an affair with Senator Dawson —and watch his eyes bulge out.
He’d scramble to create a new narrative to superimpose over the existing one.
Multiple people could have motive: the senator, his wife, Dee Dee, Colby or one of the Dawsons’ other sons, or Reece DuPont, the guy the senator calls his right-hand man, whose round blue eyes always seemed to see beneath your clothes as they slithered over you.
Your lawyer could call Mandy and get the video, then release it to the media, deflecting the attention swirling around you and spinning it onto this new scandal.
Or the opposite could happen.
Milt Daniels could take in your words, and his expression could grow wary and remote. He could leave as quickly as possible, eager to report what you’ve revealed.
If he is in the pocket of Senator Dawson—like so many other people in town—that’s what he’d do. The senator would reward him handsomely, perhaps with a swift track to a prime position in the US attorney general’s office.
“Your competency hearing is in seventy-two hours. If you’re found mentally incapable of standing trial, you’ll be forcibly medicated under the direction of your psychiatrist to restore your capability. If you are found capable of standing trial, the prosecution will seek the death penalty.”
The corners of Opal’s mouth curl up. A private smile, intended for you alone.