Chapter 6 - The Interrogation of David Miller
While Vance & Sterling collapsed in real-time, David Miller sat in a cold, windowless concrete interrogation room at the federal detention center downtown.
He had been sitting there for thirty-six hours.
He wore a bright orange inmate jumpsuit, his hands were cuffed to a heavy iron ring bolted to the center of the metal table, and his hair was messy and unwashed. The arrogant, slick corporate lawyer who had mocked me while I bled on the kitchen floor was entirely gone. In his place sat a terrified, broken young man who was finally realizing the catastrophic reality of his actions.
The heavy steel door unlocked with a loud, echoey CLANG.
David jumped in his seat, looking up with wide, desperate eyes. "Dad? Did you bring the bail bond? Is the judge—"
He stopped dead in his tracks.
It wasn't his father.
I stepped into the room.
I was wearing a simple, dark green wool coat over comfortable trousers. My cheeks had returned to a healthy color, my hair was tied back neatly, and though I walked slightly slowly due to my healing surgical stitches, I stood tall, proud, and entirely free.
Behind me walked Franklin Good—a brilliant, relentless senior federal prosecutor appointed personally to oversee the criminal case against the Miller family.
David stared at me, his jaw hanging open in utter shock. "Anna...?"
I sat down in the metal chair across from him, folding my hands neatly on the cold table. I didn't look at him with hatred, or rage, or bitterness. I looked at him with the calm, detached pity one reserves for a stranger who has destroyed their own life out of pure stupidity.
"Hello, David," I said softly.
"Anna! Oh my God, Anna!" David blurted out, tears suddenly pouring down his face as he leaned across the table, his handcuffs clanking loudly against the iron ring. "You have to tell them! Tell these federal prosecutors it was all a big misunderstanding! Tell them we had a marital fight! I didn't mean to smash your phone! I didn't know you were actually bleeding!"
"You watched me bleed on the floor, David," I said, my voice smooth and unbothered. "You grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and told me you played golf with the sheriff. You told me I was an orphan with no one to believe me."
David flinched as if I had slapped him across the face.
"I was drunk! I was stressed about making partner!" David pleaded frantically, his voice cracking into high-pitched squeaks. "My mother pressured me! You know how Sylvia is, Anna! She was driving me crazy all morning! It was her idea to make you cook dinner alone! It was her who pushed you!"
I leaned back in my chair, looking at him with mild disgust. "And now you're throwing your own mother under the bus to save your skin. How remarkably predictable."
"Anna, please!" David wept, dropping his head onto the cold metal table, sobbing uncontrollably. "My career... my license! They’re saying I’m facing ten to fifteen years in federal prison for felony assault and witness tampering! I can't survive in prison, Anna! I'm a lawyer! Please... call your father! Tell him to drop the charges! I’ll sign whatever divorce settlement you want! I’ll give you the house! I’ll give you everything!"
I leaned forward, looking into his bloodshot, tear-soaked eyes.
"You gave me a choice on Christmas Day, David," I whispered, every word carved from ice. "You told me you played the law, and you challenged me to call my father. I called him. And now, the law is playing you."
Franklin Good opened a black briefcase, pulling out a thick set of legal plea-bargain documents and sliding them across the table.
"This is the official indictment, Mr. Miller," prosecutor Franklin stated flatly. "Count One: Aggravated Assault resulting in severe bodily harm to a pregnant female. Count Two: Felony obstruction of justice. Count Three: Tampering with a federal witness. Count Four: Deprivation of emergency medical services."
David looked down at the thick document, trembling uncontrollably.
"If you plead guilty today," Franklin continued, "the United States Attorney will recommend a sentence of twelve years in a federal penitentiary without the possibility of parole for eight years. If you refuse and go to trial in front of a jury... Justice Vance’s team will ensure you receive the maximum sentence of twenty-five years."
David looked up at me, his eyes wide with pure terror. "Twelve years...?"
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"Sign the paper, David," I said quietly, standing up from my chair and buttoning my coat. "Or don't. It doesn't matter to me. My daughter and I have a long, beautiful life ahead of us. And you have a long, dark room."
I turned around and walked out of the interrogation room, listening to the sound of David’s loud, agonizing wails echoing against the concrete walls behind me.
