Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them: )
When I was twenty-eight, I watched a man die.
I had been at the DA's office six months, and I was Alfred Wentworth's second chair. I remember the case like it was yesterday – the Adele Potter murder. She was elderly, and it was alleged that her grandson had poisoned her to obtain his inheritance.
There was reasonable doubt in my mind from the start. Our case was based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and it was just as possible that she committed suicide. But my concerns fell on deaf ears – Alfred had just been appointed EADA and he was eager to prove himself. I think he was gunning for the top job even then.
The verdict had just been handed down: Russell Potter was guilty of murder one. I tried to plead him, as Alfred had instructed me to do. But Potter refused, insisted that he had done nothing wrong - and even though my job required me to prove his guilt, I couldn't help but wonder if he was telling the truth. As soon as I heard the word "guilty" leave the foreman's mouth, I was thankful that the death penalty had been abolished in New York. Because I had the terrible feeling that we were punishing an innocent man.
What happened next often replays itself in my mind, even now. Before the bailiff could approach him, Potter held up a .357 Magnum revolver and stuffed it in his mouth. I watched in horror as the convicted man shot himself to death, all the while wondering why no one was doing anything to stop him.
God, the blood. I've tried to forget it, but that's a sight that will always be etched in my memory. It poured out of Potter's nose, soaking the polyester suit he'd worn to court. He was slumped against the defense table; there was one pronounced final breath, then nothing. The man was dead.
I looked over at Alfred. He was calm, as though he'd seen it all before.
Years later, I would understand why.
That was the first time my job gave me the opportunity, if one could call it that, to witness death. I've seen many more horrors since then. I've watched as corpses have been unearthed, listened to children describe their own sexual abuse, seen gunfire erupt around me numerous times. I've been assaulted, and my life has been threatened more times than I can even count. I eventually learned to detach myself from these things, accept them as an ugly side effect of justice.
But Anne Madsen is different.
She was innocent, and she is now dead because of what I forced her to do. There is a fine line between being detached and being cold, and I finally crossed it.
And I can't play this game anymore.
finis