Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

Apparently, they’d gotten around to searching his car.

“We also found the file on your computer,” she continued. “You wrote that note, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“We found it on your computer.”

“Whoever came in here and killed Eddie wrote it.”

She smiled at me sweetly. “I love shaggy-haired strangers. You know why?”

“I don’t know what--”

“I love shaggy-haired strangers because juries never believe them.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was beginning to get the gist. Claiming a stranger came in and did it was not a very strong defense. Unfortunately, that was what had happened. I didn’t have the option of a better defense.

Hanson looked from me to Tripp, taking in the situation. I tightened the towel around me. She opened the screen door and forced her way in. Tripp and I stepped backward.

“I didn’t invite you into my home,” I said to Hanson. “And I’d like you to leave. I’m done answering questions.”

“We have enough to arrest you right now. You know that, don’t you?” From the glance Tripp gave her, I doubted that was true.

“No, I don’t know that. And I think if you did, you’d go ahead and do it.”

Her face turned red. This wasn’t the way she was used to suspects acting. “You killed him, didn’t you? And if you get the chance, you’re going to kill again.”

I crossed my arms and stared at her. Hanson stepped over and slapped me in the face. I jerked my head away, but it was too late. I stood there, clutching my towel, half my face stinging, humiliation turning my whole face red.

It occurred to me that she did this a lot and got away with it. A whole lot of guys out there wouldn’t want to complain that a woman got the better of them. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was one of them or not. I was sure I just wanted this whole thing to go away, and filing a police brutality complaint wouldn’t make that happen.

Tripp pulled her back. “Stop it, Lucinda. He’s asked us to leave.”

“Are you going to answer me, or what?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” I insisted.

From her jacket, she took out a folded packet of paper. It was several Xeroxed sheets. She handed them to me. Quickly, I scanned them. It was a copy of a witness statement from Jeremy taken about an hour before. In it, he detailed my long-standing interest in hurting people, particularly my interest in strangulation. He claimed that when we were together I would frequently cover his face while having sex. That I would deliberately cut off his oxygen.

Of all the shitty things Jeremy had done since our break-up, this was the worst. The final betrayal. I couldn’t see why he’d do something like this. I couldn’t imagine it was that important to save a few thousand dollars on a house. Or was it?

“This is nothing but lies,” I said quietly, not expecting either of them to believe me. “Please go.”

Tripp led Hanson out of my house by the arm. As he was closing the screen door, he gave me an unreadable look. What would he think when he read Jeremy’s statement? Would he still think I might be innocent? And when had what he thought become as important as whether I went to jail or not?

Things were getting out of hand, and I decided it was time to start looking for an attorney. After throwing on some clothes, I Googled “defense attorney Los Angeles” and came up with Kathy Odom. The website was attractive and showed her to be a good-looking, middle-aged, black woman with a matronly air of authority. When I called her office, she took the call quickly. I began to explain who I was, but she stopped me.

“I know who you are. I’ve been following the case.” There was an unpleasant excitement in her voice.

“I think it’s time I got a lawyer.”

“You should have gotten a lawyer last week,” she corrected me. “Tell me what they have on you.”

“Well, you know...honestly, I’m not sure I can afford you. How much do you charge?”

“I charge four hundred dollars an hour. We’ll start with a twenty-five thousand dollar retainer. If we go to court, I’ll need another twenty-five thousand.” This was worse than I thought it would be.

I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “That’s insane.”

“Mr. Latowski, this isn’t the time to be cheap. You could go to prison for a very long time.”

“I’m not being cheap. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Everyone says that at first, but people who want to stay out of prison manage to find it.”

“I’m not lying to you. I really don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”

“Do you have parents? Relatives? Friends? Someone you know must have that kind of money.” Her voice was sweet, but all I could think was that she was a vulture picking at my carcass before I was dead.

“I’m innocent,” I said stupidly.

“Everyone is.” Of course, she meant exactly the opposite.

“I’ve only got a thousand dollars.”

“Well,” she said, her voice turning disdainful. “I hope you enjoy Pelican Bay.”

After she hung up, I hoped over to the Internet and found out that Pelican Bay was a maximum-security prison reserved for the most violent offenders. Even if I did go to prison, I doubted I’d be sent there. But she’d made her point.

I was shit out of luck.

Chapter Twenty

For the next few days, I expected to be arrested at any moment. My frame of reference was television shows. Even though I was only a studio accountant, I felt like I should watch everything at least once in case I had to hold an intelligent conversation at the office. By the standard of cop shows, the police had more than enough evidence to arrest me. I expected them to burst through my door, guns drawn, at any minute.

Instead, things were quiet. Even the Los Angeles Herald was quiet. There weren’t any stories about Javier’s murder, or me, the prime suspect. I was a little surprised. I expected bits