Solei
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow-green glow that made even healthy people look half-dead.
I sat in the jail visitation room on Tuesday morning, waiting for Richardson, my briefcase open on the metal table, legal pad ready, pen in hand.
Professional. Prepared. Completely in control.
Except I wasn’t. Money’s words still echoed in my head.
The door buzzed, and Richardson shuffled in, orange jumpsuit hanging off his thin frame, hands cuffed in front of him. The guard uncuffed him and stepped back to the corner, close enough to intervene, far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson,” I said, keeping my voice calm and professional.
Richardson sat down across from me and immediately leaned forward, his voice urgent and low.
“Ms. Winters, I need to talk to you about immunity.” His eyes were bright with desperate hope.
“The feds came to see me yesterday. They said if I cooperate, if I testify about the organization, they can get me full immunity. Witness protection. A new life.”
My stomach dropped. I glanced at the camera in the corner, then back at Richardson, keeping my expression neutral. “Mr. Richardson, we should discuss the plea agreement the prosecution has offered. Fifteen years with parole eligibility after ten. Given the evidence against you, it’s a reasonable…”
“I don’t want a plea deal.” He was shaking with excitement. “I want immunity. I want out. I can give them names, locations, and distribution points. I can give them everything.”
“Mr. Richardson.” I kept my voice calm and professional, but I leaned forward slightly and lowered my tone.
“I need you to understand something about organizational exposure in cases like yours. When individuals attempt to provide testimony against... difficult associates... there are often complications that arise.”
He blinked rapidly. “What kinda complications?”
“The kind that create significant personal risk.” I chose my words carefully, aware of the camera, the guard, and the recording devices that were undoubtedly capturing every word.
“Federal protection programs have limitations. They can’t monitor every interaction and every moment.
And individuals with extensive organizational connections often have.
.. resources that extend beyond typical jurisdictional boundaries. ”
His excitement dimmed slightly. “You’re sayin’ they could still get to me.”
“I’m saying that cooperation in cases involving sophisticated organizational structures often results in unforeseen consequences for the cooperating party.
” I pulled out a document and slid it across the table.
“The plea agreement, on the other hand, provides a clear path forward. Fifteen years in a federal facility with established security protocols. No testimony required. No organizational scrutiny.”
“But I’d still be in prison…”
“Yes, but you’d be in a controlled environment where your safety could be reasonably assured.
” I met his eyes, letting him see the truth I couldn’t say aloud.
“Whereas cooperation would require you to remain in county holding during the trial, then transfer to federal custody after testimony. The transition periods create... vulnerabilities.”
Richardson’s face dropped with realization written all over it. “You’re saying I wouldn’t make it to trial.” I didn’t confirm or deny. I just held his gaze. “Ms. Winters.” His voice cracked. “I can’t do fifteen years. I have a daughter. She’s only four. By the time I get out…”
“Your daughter needs a father who’s alive, Mr. Richardson.
” The words came out sharper than I intended.
I softened my tone, glancing at the camera again before continuing.
“I understand your desire to minimize your sentence. But in my professional opinion, attempting to leverage testimony against individuals with significant organizational reach would be... inadvisable. The exposure risk is simply too high.”
“The feds said they could protect me.”
“The federal government makes many assurances.” I leaned back, crossing my arms. “But I’ve been practicing criminal defense for over a decade, Mr. Richardson.
I’ve seen what happens to individuals who attempt to provide testimony in cases like yours.
The statistics on witness survival rates in organized distribution cases are. .. not encouraging.”
He stared at me, and I watched the hope drain from his face as understanding set in. “You’re not here to help me,” he said quietly. “You’re here to make sure I keep my mouth shut.”
I kept my expression neutral. “I’m here to provide you with competent legal counsel and ensure you understand all the implications of your options.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was rising. “You’re here ‘cause of him. You’re…”
“I’m your attorney,” I said firmly, cutting him off. “And as your attorney, I’m advising you that the plea agreement is your best option. It provides certainty, security, and a clear timeline. Cooperation provides none of those things.”
“It provides freedom and…”
“And a target on your back.”
His hands were shaking now. “So what, I just... I just take fifteen years and hope I survive?”
“You take fifteen years in a federal facility where you’re just another inmate serving time for distribution.
No testimony. No cooperation. No organizational interest in your continued silence.
” I held his gaze. “You do your time quietly, you keep your head down, and in ten years you’re eligible for parole. ”
He laughed, a broken, bitter sound. “I’m fucked either way, ain’t I?”
“You’ll see your daughter again when you get out. You’re only twenty-one. You can still build a life.”
He stared at the document in front of him for a long moment. I slid the pen across the table, and Richardson picked up the pen with shaking hands. “I’ll take the plea,” he whispered.
“I think that’s the right decision. I’ll contact the prosecutor today and let them know you're accepting their offer. We should be able to expedite the process and get you transferred to federal custody within the month.”
“And then what?”
“And then you do your time. You stay quiet. You don’t talk to anyone about the case, the organization, or anything. You serve your sentence, and you come out alive.” I started gathering my papers. “That’s the best outcome available to you, Mr. Richardson.”
He looked up at me, and the expression on his face made my stomach turn.
“You know what the worst part about all of this shit is?” he said quietly.
“I actually thought you were here to help me. I thought... I thought because you were a good lawyer, because you had a reputation for fightin’ for your clients, that you’d fight for me too. ”
I couldn’t meet his eyes as I gathered the paperwork.
“But you’re not protectin’ me,” he continued. “You’re protectin’ that muthafucka. I’m just... I’m just collateral damage.”
“Mr. Richardson…”
“Nah. Just don’t.” He stood up, signaling to the guard. The guard moved forward to cuff him. As Richardson was being led away, he looked back at me one more time. “I hope it was worth it.” The door buzzed shut behind him.
I sat alone in the visitation room, staring at my hands as I felt the weight of what I’d just done pressing down on me like a physical thing.
I hadn’t defended Richardson. I’d threatened and manipulated him.
I used my position as his attorney to ensure he stayed silent, compliant, and a pawn in Money’s game.
I gathered my papers slowly, my hands steady despite the nausea churning in my stomach. I walked out of the jail into the bright midday sun, my heels clicking on the concrete, my briefcase heavy in my hand. My phone buzzed before I even reached my car.
I stopped, my whole body tense as I looked around. This was getting more intense each day. I opened the text thread from the unknown number, staring at the message before I typed back.
I got in my car and sat there, engine off, staring off into space. My thoughts ran wild for a while until I felt my phone buzz in my hand again. Looking down at my buzzing phone, I expected Money to be texting me.
I stared at the message, wanting to say everything, but couldn’t bring myself to add to my friends’ worries. My girls already had enough to deal with between Money and Darius. I needed space from all of it, so I turned up Kehlani’s new album and pulled out of the parking lot.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Junior’s school just as basketball practice was letting out.
I could see him through the gym windows, tall and lean, laughing with his teammates.
His face lit up with genuine joy, and for a moment, everything else fell away.
This was what mattered. My kids. Their happiness.
Their safety. Everything else was just noise.
Junior spotted my car and jogged over, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his hair damp with sweat. “Hey, Ma,” he panted, sliding into the passenger seat to kiss my cheek. “Practice ran late. Coach had us running drills for the game on Friday.”
“How’d it go?”
“Good.” He grinned, and my heart squeezed. “Coach Mack says if I keep playing like this, scouts might start lookin’ at me next year.”
“That’s amazing, baby.” I reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m so proud of you for doing your thing with basketball and keeping up with your grades, Mr. A in History.”
“Thanks, Ma.” He pulled out his phone, already texting someone. “Can we stop and get food? I’m starvin’.”
“We’re going to Kyesha’s for dinner, remember? She’s making her famous BBQ chicken.”
“Oh, yeah.” He brightened. “Is Kev gonna be there?”
“Probably. You know he’s still trying to beat you one-on-one.” I chuckled.
“Bet.”
We drove to Solina’s school, the elementary building, bright and cheerful with student artwork covering the windows. I parked and walked inside to the after-school program room, where she was sitting at a table coloring with two other girls.
“Mommy!” She jumped up and ran to me, throwing her arms around my waist. “Look what I made!” She held up a drawing of our family–me, her, Junior, and in the corner, slightly separated, a figure labeled “Daddy.”
My throat tightened. “It’s beautiful, baby.”
“Can we hang it on the fridge?”
“Of course.”
She grabbed her backpack and took my hand, chattering about her day as we walked back to the car.
“…and then at recess, me and Nya played on the swings, and I went so high, Mommy, like all the way up to the sky, and Mrs. Patterson said I have to be careful, but I was being careful, and then we had art, and I made this drawing, and… "
“Breathe, Soso,” I said, laughing.
She took a dramatic breath, then kept going. “And then we had snack time, and I had apple slices and peanut butter, and… oh! Can we get a dog? Please? Samantha has a dog, and he’s sooo cute and fluffy and…”
“We’ll talk about it,” I said, the standard parent deflection.
“That means no,” Junior laughed from the front seat.
“It means we’ll talk about it,” I repeated. Solina climbed into the back seat, still talking, and I caught Junior’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was smiling, shaking his head at his sister’s endless energy.
We drove to Kyesha’s house in the suburbs, a beautiful two-story with a big backyard and a basketball hoop in the driveway. Her son Kevin was already outside shooting hoops, and Junior was out of the car before I’d even put it in park.
“Hey, Auntie So!” Kevin called, waving.
“Hey!”
Solina ran straight for the backyard where Kyesha’s golden retriever, Dawg, was waiting. I could hear her squealing with delight as the dog jumped up to greet her. I walked up to the front door, and Kyesha opened it before I could knock, pulling me into a hug.
“Girl, you look exhausted,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said dryly.
“Come on. I’ve got drinks already poured.”
Her kitchen smelled amazing–BBQ chicken, rice and peas, and plantains.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d skipped lunch.
We settled at the kitchen island, and I could see the boys through the window, already deep in a one-on-one game.
Solina was rolling around in the grass with the dog, giggling uncontrollably.
“So," Kyesha said, taking a sip of her wine. “How are you really doing? I wasn’t even sure y’all were still coming. You’ve been MIA from the group chat, sis.”
“I’m…” My phone buzzed on the counter between us. We both looked down at the screen.
Kyesha raised an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”
I took a long drink of lemon drop, debating how much to tell her. “He gave me a week to end shit with Darius.”
“A week?” Her eyes widened as she sipped her drink. “And what happens after the week?”
“We both know what’ll happen.”
“Damn, girl.”
“I know.”
“I mean… do you wanna end shit with Darius?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple,” Kyesha said firmly, “Maybe this is a sign from God. One crazy ass sign that you shouldn’t be with Darius because you know you don’t truly love him.” I wanted to argue and defend myself, but she wasn’t wrong. She was quiet for a long moment, studying me. “What do you wanna do?”
The question hung in the air between us. “I don't know,” I admitted. “I do have feelings for him, and I know, deep down, he can give me everything that feels… right.”
I looked out the window at my kids, and my phone buzzed again.
I stared at the message, my blood running cold.
“What?” Kyesha asked, seeing my expression. I turned the phone so she could see. “How does he know you’re here?” she asked slowly, looking around her kitchen.
“He knows everything.” My voice was flat. “He’s probably been tracking my car or having me followed. Or both.”
“That’s….”
“Insane? Controlling? Terrifying?” I laughed bitterly. “Yeah, that’s Money.” I typed back quickly.
His response was immediate.
I set the phone face down on the counter and drained my glass.
Outside, the boys were still playing, their laughter drifting through the open window.
Solina was trying to teach Dawg to shake hands, her little voice full of patience and determination.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through the panic, the desire, the fear, the love–all of it tangled together until I couldn't tell where one feeling ended and another began.
Three days until Money stopped asking and started taking. Three days until everything I’d been trying to build came crashing down. Three days until I had to finally choose. And God help me, I still didn’t know what that choice would be.