Page 59 of Matlock
I could argue that Simon was protecting his sister. I could put Sadie on the stand to testify on Simon’s behalf, but without evidence, without proof he was a credible threat, it would be Simon and Sadie’s word. Siblings who loved each other, who would do anything to protect each other.
Including lie through their fucking teeth.
And Rosalind Winthrop would tear Sadie apart on the stand.
“Ms. Nelson, did you ever file a police report about this alleged abuse?”
“No.”
“Did you ever seek medical treatment for injuries caused by Mr. Sanders?”
“No.”
“Did you ever tell anyone— a friend, a coworker, a family member— that you were being abused?”
“No.”
“So you’re asking this jury to believe that Alan Sanders was a violent, dangerous man based solely on your testimony, with no corroborating evidence whatsoever?”
I could see it playing out in my mind, and it made me sick.
The trial started in three days.
Three fucking days, and I had no way to prove that Simon had acted in self-defense instead of a jealous rage.
I needed something.
Anything.
A witness who’d seen Alan hit Sadie. A friend she’d confided in. Medical records showing old injuries consistent with abuse.
But there was nothing.
And without it, Simon was going to prison.
A knock on the door pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.
I looked up, expecting Nav or maybe King checking in.
Instead, Rosalind Winthrop stood in the doorway, her expression cool and professional.
My blood turned to ice.
“Anthony,” she said, stepping into my office without waiting for an invitation. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I leaned back in my chair, forcing my expression into something neutral. “What do you want, Rosalind?”
She closed the door behind her and walked to my desk, setting her briefcase on a chair. She reached in and retrieved a folder, placing it down in front of me with deliberate precision.
“I’m here to present a formal offer,” she said, her voice calm and measured. “A plea agreement for your client.”
I didn’t touch the folder. “Simon’s not interested in a plea.”
“You haven’t heard the terms yet.” She opened the folder, revealing pages of legal text. “The state is willing to reduce the charge from murder to voluntary manslaughter. Mr. Nelson would plead guilty and accept a sentence of eight to twelve years, with the possibility of parole after six.”
My jaw tightened. “No.”
Rosalind’s eyes flickered with something that looked like annoyance, maybe, or satisfaction. “Anthony, you cannot refuse on behalf of your client.”
