Chapter 7 - The Plea Meeting(Length: ~1800 words)
The private conference room inside the county jail facility was cold, sterile, and smelled of industrial floor disinfectant.
A heavy acrylic glass partition separated the visitor side from the detainee side.
I sat in a stainless-steel chair alongside Michael and ADA Karen Walsh.
The heavy steel door on the opposite side clicked open, and two armed guards escorted Robert Vance into the room.
He wore an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to a belly chain, his hair completely white, looking twenty years older than he had three weeks ago. He sat down heavily on the stool, staring at us through the glass with hollow, defeated eyes.
His public defender—a tired-looking young woman named Sarah Jenkins—sat beside him, opening a legal pad.
Robert slowly picked up the plastic intercom phone on his side. I picked up mine.
"Jessica... Michael..." Robert’s raspy voice came through the small earpiece speaker, stripped of its old theatrical boom.
"We're here to listen to your plea proposal, Robert," I said, my tone cold and businesslike. "Nothing more."
Robert swallowed hard, his lip trembling slightly. "The public defender says... if I plead guilty to counts one and two... the state will drop the aggravated assault charge. I’ll get five years in state prison... with parole eligibility in three."
He looked at Michael, tears welling in his weathered eyes.
"Michael... I'm sorry about 1999," Robert whimpered, his voice cracking with a sudden, desperate plea for forgiveness. "I was stressed... I had a drinking problem back then... I didn't mean for you to fall down those stairs..."
Michael picked up his intercom phone, looking straight into our father's eyes with steady, absolute truth.
"You didn't apologize in 1999, Dad," Michael said softly. "You let Mom send six-year-old Jessica away to Ohio so you could cover up your crime. You let me lie in an ICU bed for three weeks thinking I was a bad kid who deserved to be beaten."
"I made a mistake!" Robert sobbed through the speaker, pressing his hand against the glass partition. "I'm an old man! I won't survive three years in state prison! Please... tell the prosecutor you'll accept a probation deal! I'll go to anger management! I'll never come near Caleb again!"
I leaned closer to the glass, bringing the microphone to my lips.
"You didn't care about Caleb's head when you snapped that belt, Robert," I said, my voice ringing clear and steady. "You didn't care about Michael's broken ribs in 1999. You only care about yourself, your comfort, and your freedom."
"Jessica, please!" Robert cried out.
"Take the plea deal, Robert," I said softly. "Because if you force this case to go to a jury trial, I will personally sit on that witness stand and watch the judge send you away for fifteen years."
I set the earpiece back onto its hook, stood up from my chair, and buttoned my coat.
May you like
Michael hung up his phone, offering our father a final, calm nod of goodbye, and walked out the heavy steel door alongside me.
Behind the glass, Robert buried his face in his handcuffed hands, letting out a dry, broken sob that faded away as the heavy door clicked shut behind us.
