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“You mean, do I have someone that can corroborate my alibi? No, because I was home alone doing homework because I’m a college student and a pharmacy assistant, not some meth-making drug kingpin.”
“Meth? Who said anything about meth?”
“I was just… I was up late doing homework, that’s all.”
“Well, you need to get your shit together even if it means you have to chug espresso, got it? We’re about to step into a small, poorly ventilated room and be interviewed by one of the city’s attorneys, who will decide whether to press charges against you for that idiotic idea of punching Officer Abrams. The experience on its own is going to be deeply claustrophobic and markedly unpleasant. It will be even more so if you don’t have your head on straight or start babbling nonsense about making methamphetamine. Do you hear me?”
I nod, feeling my stomach churn. "I hear you. I'm sorry, I'm just nervous."
Keith sighs, his expression softening slightly. "Look, I get it. This is a stressful situation. But you need to pull yourself together. Take a deep breath, clear your head, and remember what we discussed. Short, concise answers. No elaborating unless asked. And for the love of God, no more meth talk."
"Right. Got it." I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
“Good. Now, there’s a coffee cart just around the corner. Let’s go there, take a breathe, and then we’ll head inside, OK?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
After the brief detour, we climb the remaining steps and enter the courthouse. The air inside is stale and heavy, filled with tension and the faint scent of desperation. Keith leads me down a narrow hallway, our footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. We stop in front of a nondescript door, and he turns to face me.
"Last chance. Are you sure you’re ready?"
I take a deep breath and then I nod.
“I’m ready.”
* * * * *
In the courthouse's doorway, Kieth puts his hand on my shoulder.
“That went about as well as we could have asked for. You did good in there, you kept your answers straight, and I could tell they liked that.” He pauses, allowing me a moment to feel some sense of relief, before he clears his throat. “But, as your attorney, I’m obliged to give you my unvarnished opinion: you need to prepare yourself for the worst.”
“What do you mean? I thought you said it went well.”
“It did. You were great. But the facts haven’t changed, and I know the attorney they have on this case. Miles Tillerson. He’s a hardass, and he loves to make examples of people. If we were living a hundred and fifty years ago, he’d be sporting a sheriff’s star… at least for a day or two, until his constituents got sick of him hanging everyone and ran him out of town.”
“So what do I do now?”
Keith shrugs. “Keep doing what I’ve told you. Stay low, lie low, and don’t make any more dumb jokes about meth. Miles will take a few more days, go over the details of the case, and maybe they’ll decide not to move forward. But I always say: hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
“And the worst in this case would be…?”
“Five years in jail, your permanent record and future career screwed, and your friends and family would probably never look at you the same again.” Nonchalantly, he checks his watch. “Now, I have another meeting that I have to get to, and then I have to brief Maggie. Take care, Emily, and call me if you have any questions related to the case.”
He leaves like it’s nothing.
Me, I stay planted in that entryway to the courthouse, my mind spinning like a tire stuck in mud.
I can't breathe. My chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Five years in jail? My future ruined? I lean against the wall, trying to steady myself. This can't be happening. All because of one stupid mistake, one moment of anger. I imagine myself in a prison jumpsuit, locked away from everyone I love. No more school, no more dreams of being a pharmacist. No more Hunter, no more Charlie.
My legs feel weak, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. Tears blur my vision, and the uncaring people strolling by become nothing more than swirling blobs. This could be the end of everything I've worked for, everything I care about. I want to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I force myself to stand. I have to get out of here. The courthouse walls feel like they're closing in on me. I stumble toward the exit, pushing through the heavy doors and gulping in the fresh air outside.
As I start down the steps, my mind still reeling, I collide with someone.
"I'm so sorry," I mumble, looking up. My heart stops. It's Officer Abrams.
"No, I'm sorry," he says quickly, steadying me. His voice sounds so different. So calm, so reassuring. What happened to him? "Are you alright?"
