I swallow down a surge of acid and take a deep breath. “So what can I do? I’m not going to accept a plea for a crime I didn’t commit.”
Jefferson shakes his head quickly and gets up out of his seat. He pulls a pamphlet from his briefcase and opens it in front of me. Depicted on the page is a large building surrounded by forest, with a small, serene lake at its side. It would look like a nice place if not for the massive walls topped with barbed wire separating the water and facility from everything else.
I turn away from the pamphlet, rolling my eyes. “I told you I’m not taking a plea.”
“That’s not what this is. The Walker Work Center is a pilot program to find creative new solutions to law enforcement. A place to evaluate people in a long-term setting to determine whether they should be charged with a crime or not. Residents — not inmates — participate in work and enrichment activities, developing experience they can use long after their stay. Most are cleared of their charges, and then receive an early release.”
Jefferson looks into my eyes, his face stern and determined, and says, “Ms. Harris, I think in your situation, this may be your best option. I know I don’t have to tell you how many years you could face if convicted of manslaughter, or even murder.”
No, he doesn’t.
“How long would my stay at Walker be?”
“No more than a year,” Jefferson replies. “I promise you that.”
If my father was here, I know exactly what he’d say: Never do something easy if it isn’t also right. But what would be right? Gambling with my future at a trial, putting my life in the hands of lawyers and jurors who don’t know anything about me — or accepting the loss of a year of my life to make the problem go away?
“Where is it? Could I have visitors?”
The judge draws in a breath and gives a quick shake of his head. “It’s a remote site. More than an hour northwest of Philadelphia. Visitations are rare, but… not necessarily impossible.”
His tone gives me a spike of dread. I shouldn’t do this. But, what if I get convicted and they send me to jail for a decade?
“I need to think about it,” I say.
Jefferson opens his mouth to respond when someone outside knocks.
I recognize the man who pokes his head through the ajar door. Shutting it softly behind him, he stares down at me as he saunters closer. His cheeks lift in an excited grin, but his steely, sky blue eyes glimmer with menace. Graying but thick, his short, dark hair is styled in a classic cut with a part going down the side, and his suit looks custom tailored, likely costing more than my decade-old Chevy.
“Mr. Prescott,” says Jefferson. His face pales even further, and his voice quavers. “I’m not sure you should be here. I was just discussing Walker with Ms. Harris-”
“Get out,” the man snaps at the judge. “I need to speak with Quinn alone.”
Jefferson merely nods, quickly grabbing his things before going. I watch his every step, my heart racing on the hope that he might turn around, but he doesn’t. He leaves me alone with Congressman Darren Prescott.
“Please,” I say. “It was an accident. I never meant-”
He shushes me, shaking his head as he bores in with his gaze. “Save it, I don’t want to hear it. And calm down — I’m not here to hurt you.”
I strain against the handcuffs a little more, now wishing more than ever to get free. “What do you want?”
“Fuck, you’re a pretty one,” he says, licking his lips. “You look so sweet and wholesome in your online profile photos, but you’re a lot prettier in person, right now, with fear drawn all over your face. I’m sure you drove Lance crazy.”
“I didn’t. I-”
“He’s not going to wake up,” Prescott cuts in. “It’s been weeks — it’s clear now he’s in a persistent vegetative state, as the doctors say.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, though I don’t really mean it. Judge Jonah was right — I don’t feel bad about what happened, not after what he tried to do to me. Lance deserved it.
In my mind I hear the sound he made when… My stomach lurches just thinking about it. There’s so much of that night I’ve already forgotten, all the inconsequential bits that don’t matter — I’d love to have them back and forget the sound, but it’s imprinted too deeply. No one should ever have to hear that.
Prescott laughs — not in the polite, practiced way he does at political debates, but with a soft grunt. “I told you to save it. You’re not sorry, and I don’t blame you. Lance was a prick. Protecting his ass and my political career at the same time…” He grunts again, looking to the skies with a wry grin. “Not fucking easy. But thanks to you, he’s a victim now. He can’t cause trouble from a hospital bed, where he’ll stay for the rest of his life… thanks… to… you. Instead of a giant liability timebomb stuck right up my ass, I have a comatose son sympathy card I can play over and over again. So, Quinn Harris, thank you.”
Numbness crawls inward from my skin to my core. I knew Prescott put on a face for the camera, but fucking oh my god.
“That said,” Prescott continues, “Lance was still my son, my only real heir, and I’ve always stood by him. I can’t let what you did go unpunished — I’, obligated to make sure you suffer. I take that seriously, and I’m gonna see to it personally — but not yet. As you’re probably aware, I’m running for re-election, and I’ll be pretty busy for quite some time.”
Prescott reaches into his jacket and produces an unsealed envelope. Pulling out the letter inside, he holds it open so I can see. “This is an acceptance form for Walker. I signed it for you. I know that they’ll take very good care of you — I own the place.”