Page 17 of The Perfect Divorce

A deep voice cuts through it all. “Hey!” he yells. “Get the hell back and give her some space.”

Alejandro appears from within the crowd, pushing through the flock of pesky reporters. When he reaches me, he turns and stretches his arms out at his sides, creating a barricade of sorts between myself and them. My eyes skim over his back, taking him all in—his broad shoulders, hair cut short and neat, and his thick neck. A collage of colorful tattoos extends the length of it, continuing beneath his fitted, long-sleeve Henley. Alejandro flicks his hands at the reporters, demanding they move back. He has the physique and stature of a bodyguard paired with the hardened look of a criminal, so they do as he says.

The media falls silent as they take their new places, a safe distance from me. Satisfied, Alejandro looks over his shoulder and bobs his head. I press my lips firmly together and return the gesture, signaling to him that I’m good. He then steps to my side, giving me full view of the crowd.

One reporter finally speaks up, saying, “Ms. Morgan, will you be making a statement?”

I steal a deep breath and nod, knowing I have to say something but unsure as to what that something should be. I know what they want to hear. I can see it on their faces. I should be outraged, crushed, devastated. Given the news of Sheriff Stevens’s connection to the Kelly Summers case—which was only news to them, not me—I should want to scorch the earth beneath me. That’s the sensationalism they crave, so that’s what I’ll give them. I clear my throat before I begin and summon a sadness from somewhere deep inside. Emotion sells, and what they’re looking to sell is outrage.

“Good morning. My name is Sarah Morgan, and twelve years ago, I defended my husband Adam in a court of law after charges were brought against him for the murder of Kelly Summers and her unborn child. As his wife, I knew he was innocent. I knew he was incapable of murder, but I was unable to convince a jury of that fact, and now I know why. One of the great unknowns in the Summers case was the identity of the third set of DNA found inside the victim. The Prince William County Sheriff’s Office assured me they had done their absolute best to uncover the truth.” I dramatically scan the crowd, watching them hang on my every word. “That was a bald-faced lie because they were playing by their own rules. My husband did not receive a fair trial, which was his right under the Constitution of the United States, one I swore to uphold, and one former sheriff Stevens swore to uphold too. Only one of us kept that oath.” I pause for a moment because it’s a nice sound bite, and I hope the media will run with it.

“I started the Morgan Foundation because I believe in justice, but I also believe in reform and second chances. To learn that my Adam never got a chance to begin with is beyond devastating.” I stare into the lens of the camera belonging to the biggest news station. “And what I can’t stop thinking about, what kept me up all last night, and maybe what will forever keep me awake... is what Adam’s fate might have been if the truth had been allowed to present itself in that courtroom all those years ago.” I conjure thoughts that I know will bring me to tears—my beautiful daughter lying in a casket, me standing over her, looking at a life cut short. Losing her is the only thing I’m afraid of. My eyes instantly well up.

“Sorry,” I say, pretending my emotions are raw and out of my control. I clear my throat and continue. “My husband was taken from me at the hands of the commonwealth of Virginia, in the name of justice. But you tell me—how is it justice when the evidence that could have set Adam free was buried? How is it justice when the person overseeing the investigation was engaged in an illicit affair with the victim? That’s not justice at all; that is corruption;that... ismurder.” I add some fire to the wordmurderas I make eye contact with each reporter, ensuring they not only hear my words but feel them too. I want them to remember this moment, and I want them to carry it with them when they go off and do their reporting.

“If our legal system isn’t able to provide justice... then I will. Thank you, and I won’t be taking any questions at this time.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence when I finish my statement, and Alejandro immediately escorts me through the crowd, toward the office building. The haze that has overtaken them wears off after only a few seconds, and they start to swarm again, trailing behind us, questions erupting in a fury. The media can never help themselves. They always want more. Give them an inch, and they’ll take your whole life. I keep walking with the intention of not saying another word. But one question stops me dead in my tracks, and a reporter following closely behind collides with me due to my sudden halt.

“Get back!” Alejandro yells, creating more distance between us and them. He leans into me and whispers, “Are you all right?”

I lock eyes with him and nod before slowly turning to face the ambush of reporters one last time.

“Can you repeat that?” I say to the woman who asked the question.

All eyes fall on her, and she clears her throat. “What’s your reaction to the statement Eleanor Rumple gave to the media this morning? Adam’s mother... your mother-in-law or former...”

I hold my hand up to cut her off. “I know who Eleanor is, but unfortunately, I haven’t had a chance to listen to her statement, so I can’t comment on it.”

“Eleanor stated that she plans to file a lawsuit against the Prince William County Sheriff’s Office for concealing exculpatory evidence, and if successful, she’ll follow that up with a wrongful death suit. Do you support her?” The reporter extends the mic in my direction.

I consider my answer, but I can’t bring myself to say I support Eleanor.

Instead, I land on, “I support justice.”

“How do you feel about the fact that she’s also accused you of mishandling Adam’s case?” the same reporter quickly adds.

How am I even supposed to answer that stupid question?I feel great. I love that my crypt keeper of a mother-in-law is continuing to screw with me after all these years.

I should refuse to comment any further, but I know that old, vile woman is watching, grinning ear to ear, and if I can wipe away the smug smile that’s surely plastered across her face, I will.

“I’ll be honest, it saddens me that Eleanor would even think that, let alone say it out loud, but I do have to give her grace. She lost her husband before she lost her only son, so she’s been alone for a long time. Eleanor has spent many of her golden years grieving, and given her age, she may not have many more left, but Idoempathize with her.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from chuckling because I know the mention of her age will piss her off more than anything. “I’d also like to note that Eleanor’s memory of her son’s trial is not the best, and with the recent discovery of new DNA evidence, I can understand how confusing that must be for an elderlywoman.” I’m sure she’s blowing a gasket now. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and her heart will give out, and she’ll just drop dead. Then again, Eleanor never had a heart to begin with.

“Despite what my mother-in-law has falsely claimed regarding my legal work, I’d like to make it clear that I did everything in my power to defend my husband Adam. However, when pertinent evidence was intentionally withheld from the case, that power was taken from me, and now that the truth has finally been revealed, Iwillbe taking it back. Thank you.”

I turn to leave, and Alejandro walks in step with me while the media, once again, follows closely behind, yelling over one another. But this time, I won’t answer any more of their questions. I’ve given them enough to run with.

We reach the office building, and Alejandro holds open the lobby door so I can pass through first. He jerks it closed behind him, leaving reporters shouting on the other side. I walk farther into the empty lobby, my heels clicking along the tile floor. Roger, the building’s security guard, isn’t at the front desk, and I assume he’s out on a cigarette break since he takes at least a dozen of those a shift.

Alejandro strolls toward me, a look of concern plastered across his face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask before he can say anything.

“I was driving by when I saw all the news vans and curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to stop and check out what was going on. Then I saw you and figured you could use some help dealing with them.” He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Well, thanks. I appreciate what you did out there.” I tightly smile.

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