Mary Davis frowned, her expression now tinged with pity. "I'm sorry, Mr. Patterson. If we can't find a way to prove your innocence, we'll have to consider a plea bargain. With the evidence the prosecution has against you, it may be the best option."
"Sir, I know this isn't the outcome you were hoping for," she continued, her tone softening just a fraction. "But if we can't find a way to prove your innocence, a plea bargain might be the best way to avoid a long prison sentence. With the evidence against you, the jury might not see you as innocent. It's better to accept a lesser sentence than risk a guilty verdict and spend the rest of your life in prison."
Jude sank back in his chair, the weight of the world pressing down on him. Was it possible that he had done it?
The image of his wife, her body sprawled on the grass, the blood staining her dress—it was a vision that had seared itself into his mind. It haunted him, taunting him, challenging him to remember the truth.
"Maybe... maybe I did do it," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Maybe I killed her, and I just don't remember. I don't... I don't want to go to prison, but I can't live with myself if I took her life."
She regarded him solemnly, her gaze unwavering. "Mr. Patterson, the decision to plead guilty is not one to be taken lightly. You must be sure, absolutely certain, that you are responsible for your wife's death. If you are innocent, I will continue to do everything in my power to prove it. But if you have any doubt, even the slightest shred, then we must consider a plea bargain."
His eyes burned with unshed tears, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt like he was standing on a precipice, a single step away from falling into an abyss.
"What... what would happen if I plead guilty?''
She closed the folder in front of her, her demeanor grave and professional. "If you plead guilty, we would negotiate with the prosecution for a reduced sentence. It would likely involve a prison term, perhaps even a significant one, but it would be less than if you were found guilty at trial. Additionally, you would avoid the trauma and uncertainty of a trial, as well as the media attention and public scrutiny that would come with it."
He swallowed, feeling as though his throat was constricted by fear and doubt. "And... and what if I'm not guilty? What if I'm innocent?''
She gave him a sympathetic, yet guarded look. "If you are innocent, then a plea bargain would mean you are admitting to something you didn't do. You would be sacrificing your freedom and your reputation for a crime you didn't commit, and there would be no going back. The consequences would be devastating. But if you are guilty, and you choose to go to trial, you run the risk of being convicted of a more severe crime, with a much harsher sentence. The choice, ultimately, is yours."
—
Jude trudged through the corridors of the prison, his orange uniform a constant reminder of his lost freedom and the weight of his guilt. The cold, echoing hallways seemed to taunt him, reminding him of the life he once had, the life he had taken from Abigail. He walked with the shuffling gait of a ghost, his eyes vacant and his mind a void. He barely registered the other inmates, their taunts and catcalls fading into the background noise of his existence.
.
Every day, he was subjected to the monotony of prison life. He stood in line for mealtimes, his mind wandering as he mechanically scooped gray, tasteless slop onto his plastic tray. He shuffled through the prison yard, the chatter and laughter of other inmates an unrecognizable language to him.
He attended mandatory counseling sessions, where he sat in silence, refusing to acknowledge the words of the well-meaning therapist. Even the anger and violence that erupted in the prison, often requiring the guards to intervene, barely registered in his consciousness. Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months. The seasons changed outside the prison walls, but inside, time seemed to stand still.
He became a fixture in the prison, an anonymous shadow amidst the chaos. His lack of reaction, his silence and blankness, became almost a shield against the cruelties and indignities of prison life. But inside, something was stirring. A tiny flame of rebellion, of resistance, began to burn in his heart.
He sat down at the lunch table, picking at his food mechanically as he had done countless times before. He barely noticed the presence of the man sitting across from him, lost in his own thoughts and isolation.
"Hey, man," the inmate said, his voice startling him from his reverie. "You're Jude, right? The guy they say killed his wife?"
He looked up, his gaze vacant and unreadable. "Yeah," he said simply, his voice monotone.
The inmate leaned forward, his eyes searching his face. "I'm Sam. Sam Bobby.''
"Listen, Jude. I'm gonna level with you," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't look like the type to do something like that. And there's a lot of rumors flying around in here. I'm sure you've heard them. So tell me, man to man, what really happened that night? Did you do it?"
Jude took a deep breath, his expression finally shifting. It was a mixture of pain, grief, and confusion that he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time. "I… ...I don't know," he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse. "I don't know what happened. I woke up that morning and... Abigail was gone. I found her in the yard, dead. I can't remember anything else. And now I'm here, trapped in this... this nightmare, where I don't even know who I am anymore."
Sam's expression softened, a hint of empathy creeping into his weathered features. "Look, man. I know this place can break you, but you gotta hold on to something.''
"Look, Jude," he said, his tone now more serious, "maybe you did it, but you can't remember. Maybe you're in denial. Maybe you did it, but you're so deep in denial that you can't differentiate the truth from the fiction in your head. I'm just trying to help you face the truth, man."