Page 54 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“Newspaper? TV?”

“I only read books, and I don’t own a TV.”

“Of course you don’t. Except there’s another problem – bigger than your lack of a car. We showed these pictures to one of the prosecutor’s neighbours, and he recognized you. Says he saw you loitering around the house – more than once, and not just at any old time,” he snarled, slamming his fist on the table. “An ex-con, freshly out of prison, who just so happened to have been sent down by Salinas, is seen hanging around the courthouse, in the parking garage where the victim kept his car, and outside the man’s home – on the very day of the murder. That’s a hell of a string of coincidences, don’t you think? I haven’t seen anything like it in twenty years on the job. So tell me, how long do you think it’ll take a jury to be convinced you’re guilty?

“You do realize, don’t you, that this time we’re talking life in prison,” he added, his voice dripping with condescension. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Mitch asked, his throat tight like a rusted clamp.

“Unless you confess now. I’ll put it in my report that you were overcome with guilt and cooperated willingly. I could get the sentence knocked down to twenty years. That’s still a long stretch, sure – but not that long for a repeat offender. You’re still young. You’d have a good chunk of life left when you get out… assuming you don’t go and kill anyone else, of course.”

“I haven’t killed anyone! And the crime I was convicted of wasn’t a crime at all!” Mitch burst out.

“Sure. That’s what they all say. My offer is on the table for an hour. Oh, and one last thing: the CSI team lifted a whole bunch of prints in the victim’s house. We don’t have the results back yet, but I thought I’d mention it, in case you already knew yours would be there.”

The detective stood up. “One hour. Not a minute more.”

He left Mitch alone to consider his proposal. It didn’t take long for the grim truth to settle in: he was screwed. He’d left his fingerprints all over the place – on Salinas’s desk, the door handles, the bookshelves, the books he’d touched. And on the port glass. As if it might somehow change his fate, he found himself wondering which neighbouring window he’d been spotted from, because he was sure he’d checked them all carefully and seen no one. What if the cop was bluffing, and the mysterious neighbour didn’t exist? As for the fingerprints, he could always say Salinas had invited him in and offered him a drink. But the butler would deny that, and the word of an ex-con wouldn’t be worth much.

Despite all the stories he’d read, Mitch found himself unable to think of one that would stand up in court. Twenty years or life. That’s an easy decision for someone who’s never seen the inside of a cell. But for someone who’d survived hell – who’d lived through the Sergeant’s beatings, the freezing nights and the suffocating summer heat – the decision wasn’t so simple.

He considered his chances of getting the case dismissed. The prosecution had motive, and the evidence was damning. Only two gaps remained: the murder weapon and the exact time of death. Mitch wished he could check his watch to see how much longer he had left before his fate was sealed, but it had been confiscated along with all his personal effects, and the slightest movement caused an immediate tightening of the handcuffs that were already biting into his wrists. He figured he had half an hour at most, maybe a bit less. He started his thought process over from the beginning.

He thought of all those courtroom scenes in John Grisham and Michael Connelly novels – moments when everything seemed lost, and then something turned the whole case on its head.

He put himself in the shoes of the court-appointed attorney. Yes, his client had gone to the courthouse. After having served such an unfair sentence, he had the right to want an explanation – to understand why Salinas had gone after him with such single-minded viciousness. Not wanting to be seen in the company of an ex-convict, the prosecutor had asked him to wait by his car, which was parked on sub-level 2 of the parking garage (so far, so good), being careful not to let anyone see him (which would explain why Mitch had hidden behind a post). The defendant had gone along with Salinas’s requests, but the man had failed to turn up. Assuming that the prosecutor had stood him up, or maybe been delayed by some piece of business, Mitch had left the parking garage (photo 3).

Shortly afterward, Salinas emerged from the garage in his car and spotted him in the rain. He’d picked him up, taken him home, brought him straight to his office (maybe that’s why the butler didn’t see him). A passionate bookseller like the defendant wouldn’t have been able to resist touching a few spines on the office shelves (the fingerprints). The prosecutor had poured a glass of port for the defendant (the fingerprints again), but the arrival of an unexpected visitor had put a premature end to their meeting. The defendant had then left as discreetly as he’d arrived.

A plausible story, one that raised more questions: how many people had Salinas wrongly convicted? How many lives had he ruined to boost his own career? How many of them might have wanted to get revenge? Had the police even considered any other suspects? Wasn’t this just another rush judgment? Why had Mitch been deemed the perfect suspect, even though every single bit of evidence for his involvement was circumstantial?

Mitch could almost be proud of the story he’d built. It would work in a novel. In real life? Not so much. But maybe – just maybe – it wasn’t impossible. Trouble was, he was terrified. And he only had about fifteen minutes left to make the most important decision of his life. Time was running out. If he pleaded innocent, he risked life in prison. If he confessed, he’d lose everything… but maybe not forever. The weight of this catch-22 made it impossible to focus. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding, and sweat was trickling down his back. He felt as if he might collapse, or suffocate, and he knew that his only hope of getting out of this – if any hope remained – was to calm down. Easier said than done when every second counts.

Back in prison, when fear threatened to overwhelm him completely, Mitch had escaped into his thoughts, which neither bars nor walls could restrict. Now, once again, he closed his eyes and found himself back behind the counter of his bookshop. There were a few customers browsing the tables; he was suggesting an author to one of them, straightening the displays, pausing to slip one of his hand-written recommendations between the pages of a book… His breathing started to slow.

He wondered who the prosecutor assigned to his case would be. One of Salinas’s allies, determined to avenge him? Or one of his enemies – someone he’d stepped on while climbing the professional ladder?

He could almost hear the case being argued in court. The attorney would show the jury the photos of Mitch in the car park, asking why someone with a straightforward meeting would hide behind a post unless he was actually lying in wait. The mysterious neighbour would testify that Mitch had been lurking outside. The butler would explain that there was no way Salinas could’ve come home without running into him. The only thing missing was the murder weapon.

Five minutes. Three hundred seconds. Confess and take twenty years. Never see Anna again. Never return to the bookshop. Twenty years of surviving, day by day – or roll the dice on life behind bars.

The door opened abruptly and the detective barged in, yanked Mitch to his feet, and dragged him down the hallway to a dimly lit interrogation room. The first stop in a long descent to hell.

“Wait here,” he commanded. As if Mitch had a choice.

Locked up alone in the windowless room, Mitch bowed his head. A storm of images, memories, book covers and pages, words and sounds flashed through his mind – and then it all faded away, leaving only the sight of his shoes, from which the laces had already been removed.

Despair looks different to everyone.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open.

“Wait – I’ve made my decision,” Mitch cried, terrified that the deadline had come and gone.

The inspector walked in, jaw clenched, eyes dark with rage; he looked like he was one second away from punching Mitch in the face. Instead, he uncuffed him and growled, “Get the hell out.”

“Is this some kind of trap?” Mitch asked, rubbing his wrists. “I’ve heard this tune before. As soon as I walk through that door, you’ll claim that I tried to escape. You might even bash your own head into the wall so you can say I hit you.”

“You read too many goddamn books. Bad for your health. What part of ‘get the hell out’ didn’t you understand?”