“I want my phone call,” I scream within the empty room. “I want my fucking phone call!”
The door opens, and Sheriff Stevens and Deputy Hudson enter carrying Styrofoam cups of coffee.
Sheriff Stevens sets a bottle of water in front of me. “Thirsty?”
I pick up the water, chug it, and crunch up the empty bottle. I toss it into a trash can by the door. They take their time settling into their chairs across from me. They give each other a glance as they casually sip their coffee. They’re trying to look calm, but their clenched jaws and strained eyes give away the fact that they’re pissed off.
“I want my phone call.” I still have no idea why I’m here. These assholes roughed me up a bit and threw me into the back of a squad car. I haven’t been charged with anything, and I’ve been sitting in this room for over an hour. I don’t know if Sarah is okay. I don’t know how I’m involved in any of this.
“Mr. Morgan—can I call you Adam?” Sheriff Stevens asks, as if we’re on a first-name basis, as if he’s trying to be personable with me. These fucking backwoods pieces of shit. I’m tired of this, and I just want to know what the hell is going on, so I nod with no enthusiasm.
“Good. Well, you can call me Ryan and this guy,” he pats the deputy on the back, “you can call him Marcus. Now, we’re here to ask you a few questions, and hopefully, you’ll decide to cooperate with our investigation—unlike earlier. Do you understand?”
I take a deep breath and rub my forehead with my hands, trying to soothe the headache I have coming on. “Yeah.”
“Excellent. Now, can you tell us where you were last night?” Sheriff Stevens asks.
My eyes dart around the room. “I was at my lake house over on Lake Manassas until around midnight. Then, I drove home.”
They nod. Deputy Hudson pulls a notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket and begins jotting down notes. “Were you alone at the lake house?”
“No.”
“Who were you with?”
“What’s this got to do with anything? I want my lawyer right now. I’m not answering anything else until I know what’s going on and why the hell I’m here.” I stand up, kicking back my chair and shaking the table. The cups of coffee spill and two other deputies immediately charge into the interrogation room, restraining me.
Deputy Hudson stands quickly flinging his chair back. He charges at me, grabbing me by the neck. His eyes bulge, and his lips purse as he comes within two inches of my face. “Listen up, you little shit! Kelly Summers was stabbed to death in your bed. Perhaps you want to start telling us what really happened, because, with the amount of evidence stacked against you, your days are fucking numbered.” He pushes me against the wall as Sheriff Stevens pulls him off telling him to cool it.
“I’m not going to fucking cool it. Kelly was a good girl. She was family, and this white-collar piece of shit comes into our town and kills her. Fuck this guy,” Deputy Hudson spits. Drops of sweat accumulate at his hairline.
“Wha— what are you talking about? Kelly? She was fine when I left,” I sputter, choking on my own words. “How? How did this happen?” I collapse. The room spins and spins. The deputies let me fall to the ground as they take a step back.
Who would hurt Kelly? The text messages from her husband. I recall them, each more menacing than the last and full of threats. It had to have been him. “Her husband. It had to have been her husband. Check her phone. Check her texts,” I plead—trying to put all the pieces together, trying to make sense of it.
“Don’t you fucking talk about her husband!” Deputy Hudson points his finger right in my face.
Sheriff Stevens pushes him away from me. He turns back toward me. “We’re looking at all angles, but like the deputy eloquently said, this isn’t looking good for you.”
“I would never hurt Kelly. I-I-I couldn’t. I loved her.” I drop my head into my hands.
“That’s great,” Sheriff Stevens says with a hint of sarcasm. “Why don’t you follow one of these deputies and go call your wife?”
7
Sarah Morgan
I stand and take a quick, small breath. I look back at Matthew and Anne. They’re sitting front row, and they both give me an encouraging smile. I nod slightly at them, adjust the lapels on my jacket, and walk toward the jury box. Before I begin, I make eye contact with each juror.
“Senator McCallan has worked in public service for over twenty-five years. In twenty-five years not once,” I hold up a single finger on my right hand to highlight my point, “has his character or professionalism come into question. We paraded character witnesses before you, proving that very sentiment. Not once has he taken a payout. Not once has he disparaged another person, used his power for his own benefit, or caved on his principles.”
I put my hand on my defendant’s shoulder. “He is one of the rare shining beacons of public servitude in a swamp of lies, corruption, and under-the-table deals. It is this same exemplary service that has led him to the situation he is in today, for he is guilty of one thing… not backing down.” I pass him a quick reassuring look and walk back to the jury box.
“Senator McCallan is now leading the sub-committee on renewable energy, an effort praised by both pundits and the American people, but not by—you guessed it—big oil.” I point to the two men on the public benches wearing beautiful bespoke suits, topped off by garish but equally expensive jeweled bolo ties. I pass through the swinging door between the prosecution and defendant tables and stand in the aisle next to them. “This was the one man they feared in this position. The one man they knew they couldn’t brush under the carpet with a quick payout. The one man they wouldn’t be able to go dig dirt up on and blackmail into silence.”
I walk back toward the jury, pausing at the prosecution table, “So, what did they do? They created their own.” I delicately point to the lead witness. The woman who this all started from. This part I’ll need to be careful with.
“We should not be mad at this woman for her false accusations. We should not be mad at this woman for trying to drag Senator McCallan down into the mud,” I pass her a sympathizing look, trying to convey that I truly mean this part, “because she is just a pawn in the game, not the puppet master. We have proven her ties to high-ranking employees at PetroNext, we found the ‘secret’ wire transfers to her ‘brand new’ bank account, and, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if this isn’t just a good ol’ fashioned payout-for-a-smear play, then I don’t know what is. We sympathize with her, truly we do. But you should also see this for what it is. Fake. Pure fiction. False accusations trumped up in desperation to bring down the one man they didn’t know how to bribe and twist the way they wanted. My client is guilty of many things, fighting for the American people, staying true to his word, being a man of noble character. But raping this young woman? For that, he is unequivocally not guilty, and I urge you to find him as such. Thank you.”
8
Adam Morgan