Page 85 of The Perfect Marriage

“Hey, motherfucker, we’re talkin’ to you!” the first trucker yells as they begin to pursue me.

They continue yelling as they chase me, but my mind is a blur of panic, and I only catch bits and pieces: “…cocksucker!” “Stop…” “…faggot…” “I’ll kill you!”

I hit the tall grass, but don’t stop. With my hands holding on to the stolen clothing I can’t protect my face and the stalks scratch and cut my cheeks as I run. The constant battering makes my eyes water and swell closed. I don’t stop running until I am deep into the woods again and I can no longer hear the voices behind me. I find another tree to hide behind just in case and slump down to catch my breath.

After what feels like a reasonable amount of time for people to quit searching, I think about getting dressed and moving on. There’s a small tickle on the back of my hand, and when I look down, there’s an ant crawling across my skin. “I know, bud. I know,” I say to him.

As I change out of my prison garb and into the confiscated trucker get-up, another drop of water strikes my bare back and sends shivers up my spine. I look up and watch as the branches dance in a slight breeze that rolls through. Waving at me, taunting me. The arms pointing out once again to leave the way I came.

“Yeah, I don’t wanna be here either,” I say looking skyward.

New clothing fully in place. I go back to the rest area to see if the truckers have gone. I still need to find a map or get to a phone, but for that, I might have to wait till night.

55

Sarah Morgan

Iarrived early at the small café D.A. Josh Peters agreed to meet me at. Usually, I’d arrive a few minutes late to show that my time is more important than his. Not this time though. It is I that needs the favor. Things were going smoothly until Adam fucked everything up by coming to my office and attacking Bob and Anne. I had Josh wrapped around my finger. He was about to do my job for me—find out who that third set of DNA belonged to. Now I’m left with more work, and I’ve lost the upper hand.

I tap my fingers on the square wooden café table. The hum of those around me, the whirring of a coffee machine and the clanking of dishes is a nice break from the noise and worry that has filled my head since before the case started. I swirl the straw around my peach mango smoothie. I couldn’t eat solid foods now if I tried. My stomach is in knots. My anxiety at an all-time high. My patience is worn thin.

I spot D.A. Peters as he enters. He doesn’t look around for me and instead walks to the counter to order. He’s late. He knows it. But he doesn’t care. He knows he’s at an advantage. We’re days away from the start of the trial, and I’ve never been more unprepared for a case in my life. I blame Adam and his antics for throwing me off. I blame Anne and her lies. I blame Bob and his odd connection to the victim. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this case on. I’m the best when it comes to criminal defense, but maybe I’m not the best for this case. I thought I could help Adam.

As D.A. Peters finishes flashing his perfectly symmetrical grin at the cashier, he spots me sitting off to the side. His smile partially disappears, but there’s still enough of it there for me—enough I think to sway him into helping me, at least, I hope. He gestures to the menu asking me if I want anything. I shake my head and hold up my smoothie. He nods, takes his receipt and joins me at my table, taking a seat across from me.

“Mrs. Morgan, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He unbuttons his suit coat.

I pause before speaking as I can’t sound too eager. Casual is the name of the game. I take a sip from my smoothie. “Just wanted to see if you were ready for court…”

He gives me a quizzical look. He’s not buying it. I am so fucked. “I’ve been ready. But that’s not really why we’re here is it, Sarah?” He raises an eyebrow.

I lean back in my chair. A waitress interrupts us, setting down a basket of chips with a sandwich and a black coffee in front of Josh. Her cheeks flush as she smiles at him. I can tell he has that effect on ladies and why wouldn’t he? He’s a good-looking man. Maybe that’s the angle to play here. He tells her thank you. The waitress lingers for a moment, then steps away not before looking back at him twice.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” He gestures to his food.

“Oh, there’s plenty of things I want.” I deliver this in my most flirtatious voice. Either he doesn’t pick up on my signal, or he ignores it. He shrugs and dives right into his sandwich.

In between bites he warns me, “When I’m finished with this, I’m finished with this conversation. So, you might want to spit it out. I’m not playing any more of your games.”

I let out a huff. “Fine, what do you know about the third set of DNA?”

“Nothing.” He takes a sip of coffee.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I don’t need that third set of DNA for a conviction,” he says matter-of-factly.

“But—”

“But you need it,” he interrupts.

“Maybe I don’t.”

“You know as well as I do. A jury will look at the third set of unknown DNA as circumstantial. I mean it’s one of three. The victim slept around, that much is true. If you knew who it was, you could build the case around it. Prove reasonable doubt. Prove that other person had more motive than Adam. I know how this works, Sarah. You’re between a rock and a hard place. You might want to start coming to terms with the fact that you’re not winning this case,” he says coldly.

“There’s always Scott.”

“There is.” He doesn’t let anything else on.

---