Page 111 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“Well, that changes tomorrow.” Anderson’s voice is grim. “And even if we can’t make them see the truth, we’ve still got a mistrial on our hands, once we bring that lab evidence into play.”

The public defender grins, shark-like, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Bungled evidence handling and shitty lab results,” he says, gleefully. “I love it. I wonder how many of my old cases I can get reopened with this?”

“None,” I answer, looking away. “This is a one-time special deal, and there’s no other evidence from any other case that’s tainted this way.”

“Yeah, well, I have a hard time believing that they haven’t screwed up like this before,” he says. “I mean, they sent ten of those tablets to our independent lab for testing, and every single one of them came back negative for MDMA.”

“I understand that.” I try to capture his gaze, but he’s not looking at me. I snap my fingers at him. “Hey!”

“What? C’mon, you can’t really think they haven’t done this before!”

“Mark, listen to me.” My eyes bore deep through his skull, and I hope that I can convey the message without putting it into words that he’d be ethically bound, as an officer of the court, to report. I choose my words carefully. “I have personal knowledge of this subject. There isnoother case in which the conditions and circumstances that led to these lab results may be applied. I hope that I don’t need to say anything further.”

The attorney frowns as he carefully parses my statement, and I can see the instant that the light goes on. He may not fully understand that I personally and directly tampered with the evidence, but he clearly understands that someone put their thumb on the scales of justice.

“I don’t think I want to ask any questions about that, do I?” he asks, still frowning. “Actually, no. Scratch that. Idefinitelydon’t want to know any more.”

“No, you don’t.” I glance back at the computer screen, where Michael Griffin is still answering questions.

He’s wearing what looks like orange hospital scrubs, with his name stenciled on them in black letters. The walls behind him are beige, not the same green as in the Point Lookout lockup, but it’s still enough to recall the stench of disinfectant and desperation.

I wonder what color the cells will be where I wind up? How will I look in orange?

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I’ll take my lumps gladly and go away for five years for something I did, so long as it means Frank doesn’t have to spend his next fifteen as an innocent man in prison.

“I can’t look at this anymore,” Mark says. “Not right now. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it.”

“Are you ready?” I ask. “Ready to fight it out?”

“Yeah.” Anderson nods confidently. “I can’t guarantee that I’m going to break the golden boy’s winning streak, but we can sure as hell put up a good defense. And I couldn’t have done it without your help these past two weeks.” He pauses, a sheepish look crossing his face. “Actually, Iwouldn’thave done it, without you cracking a whip and pushing me. Thank you for that. You’ve… reminded me, I guess, of what I used to be. Of who I used to be.”

“I’m glad,” I say.

And it’s true. Mark Anderson found himself again, and I suppose that’s one more positive to come out of my own sacrifice. I’ll never be admitted to the bar myself, not after serving time for tampering with evidence, but at least Mark’s rekindled his own fire for justice.

With my notepad and pen stashed back in my purse, I stand to leave, but Mark looks me up and down before I can walk out the door.

“Get some sleep tonight, Emily,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you look like hell.”

“Easier said than done, Mark.”

“The trial starts tomorrow, kiddo. Jury selection. You might not be sitting at the defense table with me, but you still gotta be sharp. I’m counting on you to keep score and pass me notes on anything I’m missing.”

“I’ll be there, and I’ll be ready,” I say. “See you in the morning.”

I have no great expectation of sleep tonight. I’m sure it’s going to be the same as it’s been for the past two weeks: I’ll lay there on Rita’s pull-out couch, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. I’ll worry about prison, sure, but mostly I’ll dwell on everything I’ve given up. I’ll miss feeling Gabriel Cooper’s arms around me in the dark, and hate that the last thing I’ll hear at night won’t be a sleepyI love youwhispered into my hair.

I wish I could go home, now, but that’s not an option. In spite of myself, I’ve done almost every single thing that Margaret asked, even if I did it for my own reasons. I hate her for it—almost as much as I hate myself these days—and I can’t bring myself to even look at her, never mind sleep under the same roof. Even though the roof belongs to me, not to her.

Rita’s already home when I get there.

She’s spent the past two weeks being kind and sweet to me, tolerant of my mopey-ness and depression. It’s been an extended slumber party, of sorts, but for grown-ups: popcorn, Netflix, and lots of red wine. Rita’s put on plenty of fake smiles, trying to cheer me up and bring me back from the dark corner of my mind where I’ve been hiding out. I appreciate it, and I love her for it, but it hasn’t worked.

The smile she’s wearing as I walk through the door tonight, though, is very different. There’s nothing fake about it. It’s full of barely contained glee, with a wicked glint in her eyes that suggests something has just gone veryrightfor her and verybadlyfor someone who deserves it.

“Oh, am I glad to seeyou,” she says.

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