Chapter 11 - The Reality Check
The harsh reality of the county jail was rapidly taking its heavy toll on Sylvia’s fragile psyche. During a mandatory pretrial meeting, I watched her carefully through the thick, smudged plexiglass. Her dark roots were showing prominently, her expensive, multi-step skin-care routine permanently replaced by harsh, drying prison soap. She looked at least ten years older than she had just weeks ago.
Her overworked public defender—Marcus’s funds had been entirely frozen by the government, leaving them completely penniless—pleaded desperately for a plea deal. “She’s willing to fully testify against her husband. Give her five years in a minimum-security camp.”
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“Absolutely no deals,” I said flatly, calmly packing my legal files back into my leather briefcase. “She struck my defenseless mother. She threatened to lock her in a miserable psychiatric ward. She serves the maximum sentence, or we go to a brutal public trial and the jury sees the horrific photos of my mother’s bruised ribs.”
Sylvia burst into loud, hysterical, ugly tears, banging her fists against the table. I simply stood up and walked out of the room without looking back.
