All Cole cared about was winning.
No, that wasn't fair. Cole had reminded us repeatedly that pleading innocent and being found guilty could mean the death penalty. It was possible the Sawyer name would protect Ford from a murder conviction. It was just as possible it would make him more of a target. According to Cole, the prosecutor was a pit bull and a crusader.
She was the last person who'd be swayed by wealth and power. Griffen had pushed Cole to put her off, to give us more time to find some evidence to exonerate Ford. And we'd looked. Sinclair Security's investigator had looked. Griffen had looked. West had looked. Cole had been searching for evidence since the beginning. No one had found a thing.
If Cole was coming here, I could only assume we were out of time.
The afternoon passed far too quickly. Before I knew it, Griffen's phone rang with an alert from the front gate. Cole Haywood was here. I didn't know him well. Prentice had worked with him some, I think.
They'd known each other through business, though I wasn't quite sure how. Cole was a criminal defense attorney. As far as I knew Prentice had never been prosecuted for anything, but I wouldn't have put it past him to hide something like that from the rest of us.
Cole paused in the doorway, taking in Griffen and me sitting side by side, the papers and laptops spread across the desk. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said, his voice heavy. Tired.
I’d first met Cole years before when he’d been newly married. His wife had been gorgeous, not a surprise since he was a good-looking guy. Kind of like Bryce, Cole was almost too good-looking with his designer suit and chiseled jaw. At least, he had been back then. I hadn’t seen Cole smile since his wife had died in childbirth, taking their son with her.
His face had taken on hard lines, grief wearing grooves in the sides of his mouth and his forehead. He was leaner these days, the polish of social charm worn away by pain, leaving him with a dangerous edge.
He didn’t bother to sit, though he did close the office door behind him. The words I’d dreaded filled the room. “We’re out of time. The prosecutor is done delaying. Either Ford cuts a deal, or we go to trial.”
Griffen tapped his pen on the heel of his palm. “What's the deal?”
“It's not for you to approve,” Cole said, abrupt and annoyed. Griffen didn't seem to care. For all the reasons he had to hate Ford, Griffen didn't believe he'd killed our father.
“I understand that,” Griffen said, his patience strained. “I know you’re Ford's lawyer, not mine, but you're here so you might as well tell us. What's the deal?”
“She offered ten years with a chance of parole after five. She'll include time served, though that doesn't amount to much.”
“Ten years?” Griffen said, his voice low. Pained.
“It's first-degree murder, Griffen.”
“A murder Ford didn't commit,” I reminded him. “The prosecutor might not care, but you and I both know he didn't do it.”
Cole looked out the window, avoiding both of our gazes. He seemed to sag into the door frame behind him, his voice exhausted when he spoke.
“I told you, it doesn't matter what I know. What I believe. It only matters what I can prove. Ford doesn't have an alibi. Eyewitnesses put him near the Manor at the time of the murder. They found the goddamn murder weapon in his closet. I'd love to get your brother off, especially considering that I don't think he did it. I'm not a fucking magician. Your father is dead. Someone needs to pay for that. The prosecutor isn't going to wait for us to find another suspect when they already have one in jail.”
He straightened, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield. “Look, I only stopped by out of professional courtesy. Ford already agreed to the deal. The wheels are in motion. There's nothing you can do except show up at the next visiting day.”
Cole strode from the room without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Chapter Thirteen
royal
There’s nothing you can do.
The words rang in my ears. Nothing. Ford was locked up, and he wasn’t getting out. Not for at least five years. Maybe longer. The injustice of it burned in my gut. Ford wasn’t perfect, but he hadn’t killed our father. I knew that without a doubt. If he had, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to hide the murder weapon in his own closet.
Five years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed while whoever did it ran around free.
Five years.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d been sure we’d get him out of jail. Sure that at the last minute, someone—Sinclair Security, West, Griffen—would find the evidence we were looking for, and they’d have to let Ford go.