Chapter Twenty
Matlock
I rubbed my hands over my face in frustration. All fucking day, I’d stared at these files, digging through case law, trying to find something, anything to support Simon’s defense.
I hadn’t found a damn thing.
I wanted to strangle him for calling Declan instead of me that night. And I wanted to strangle Sadie for staying in an abusive relationship, even after she’d been offered help to get the fuck out. Hell, I would have killed the bastard myself if she’d just let us help her.
But she wouldn’t admit the abuse to anyone but Simon.
She never made a report, never admitted the bruises the entire fucking town noticed were from that motherfucker. She defended him. Made excuses for him until she finally fought back and killed the son of a bitch.
Except now there was no trail. No history to prove battered women’s syndrome. That wasn’t what it was called now because abuse victims didn’t have a gender. Both men and women suffered abuse from their partners and spouses.
But in 1977, when Francine Hughes killed her husband by lighting the house on fire while he slept peacefully in their bed, that was her defense.
The jury found her not guilty by reason of temporary insanity.
And by the early 1980s, courtrooms recognized it as a valid defense in cases where the victim was not in immediate physical danger at the exact moment of the killing.
It would have been easier to try the case for Sadie using that defense.
People v. Walker in 2015 showed precedent for courts to allow third-party defense of others. However, that event took place during the altercation.
There were no cases I could find where a family member was found not guilty by third-party defense of others when the victim of the abuse wasn’t there.
Which meant I needed to put Sadie in that house at the time of the murder. Because no one would believe Simon went to Alan’s house without Sadie being there. His explanation for what transpired didn’t fucking make sense.
And the reality was, even if I could put Sadie in that room, I still wasn’t sure I could prove self-defense without a shred of evidence that proved she was in danger.
I could argue that Simon was protecting his sister. I could put Sadie on the stand to testify on Simon’s behalf, but without evidence, without proof he was a credible threat, it would be Simon and Sadie’s word. Siblings who loved each other, who would do anything to protect each other.
Including lie through their fucking teeth.
And Rosalind Winthrop would tear Sadie apart on the stand.
“Ms. Nelson, did you ever file a police report about this alleged abuse?”
“No.”
“Did you ever seek medical treatment for injuries caused by Mr. Sanders?”
“No.”
“Did you ever tell anyone— a friend, a coworker, a family member— that you were being abused?”
“No.”
“So you’re asking this jury to believe that Alan Sanders was a violent, dangerous man based solely on your testimony, with no corroborating evidence whatsoever?”
I could see it playing out in my mind, and it made me sick.
The trial started in three days.
Three fucking days, and I had no way to prove that Simon had acted in self-defense instead of a jealous rage.
I needed something.
Anything.
A witness who’d seen Alan hit Sadie. A friend she’d confided in. Medical records showing old injuries consistent with abuse.
But there was nothing.
And without it, Simon was going to prison.
A knock on the door pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.
I looked up, expecting Nav or maybe King checking in.
Instead, Rosalind Winthrop stood in the doorway, her expression cool and professional.
My blood turned to ice.
“Anthony,” she said, stepping into my office without waiting for an invitation. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I leaned back in my chair, forcing my expression into something neutral. “What do you want, Rosalind?”
She closed the door behind her and walked to my desk, setting her briefcase on a chair. She reached in and retrieved a folder, placing it down in front of me with deliberate precision.
“I’m here to present a formal offer,” she said, her voice calm and measured. “A plea agreement for your client.”
I didn’t touch the folder. “Simon’s not interested in a plea.”
“You haven’t heard the terms yet.” She opened the folder, revealing pages of legal text. “The state is willing to reduce the charge from murder to voluntary manslaughter. Mr. Nelson would plead guilty and accept a sentence of eight to twelve years, with the possibility of parole after six.”
My jaw tightened. “No.”
Rosalind’s eyes flickered with something that looked like annoyance, maybe, or satisfaction. “Anthony, you cannot refuse on behalf of your client.”
“I just did.”
“That’s not how this works.” Her tone sharpened. “As Mr. Nelson’s attorney, you are obligated to present all plea offers to him, regardless of your personal opinion. You don’t get to make this decision for him.”
I stood, planting my hands on the desk. “Simon acted in self-defense. I’m not letting you railroad him into a guilty plea when he was protecting his sister.”
“Self-defense,” Rosalind repeated, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s an interesting strategy, Anthony. Tell me, what evidence do you have that Alan Sanders posed a threat to anyone?”
My stomach dropped.
“What evidence,” she continued, her voice soft and deliberate, “will you present to the jury to prove that your client’s actions were justified? Medical records? Police reports? Witness testimony?”
I didn’t respond.
“Because from where I’m standing,” Rosalind said, “it looks like your client killed a man in a jealous rage and is now trying to justify it by claiming he was protecting his sister from abuse that was never reported, never documented, and never witnessed by anyone. Including him.”
“Sadie was abused,” I said, my voice tight. “Alan Sanders was a violent, controlling—”
“Prove it.” Rosalind’s eyes locked on mine. “Prove it in court, Anthony. Show me the evidence. Because without it, all you have is a confession and a dead body.”
She straightened and closed the folder, but she didn’t pick it up.
“This offer guarantees a definite sentence,” she said. “No risk of life in prison. No death penalty—”
“You’ll never get the death penalty,” I growled.
Rosalind shrugged as if her threat didn’t matter. “Your client could be out in six years and move on with his life.”
“Or he could be acquitted and walk free in three days.”
“Or he could be convicted of murder and spend the rest of his life behind bars.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking on mine. “Are you willing to take that risk, Anthony? Are you willing to gamble with your client’s future when you have no evidence to support your defense?”
My hands curled into fists.
“You have forty-eight hours to present this offer to Mr. Nelson,” she said. “After that, it expires, and we proceed to trial.”
I didn’t respond.
Rosalind tilted her head, studying me with an expression that made my skin crawl.
“You know,” she said, her tone shifting to something more personal, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Anthony. About your history.”
Something heavy sat on my chest. The urge to reach up and rub the spot was overwhelming.
“Before you left New York,” she continued, her tone softening again. “The fire. Your sister’s death. The... rumors.”
I went very still.
“There were a lot of questions back then, weren’t there?” Rosalind’s eyes never left mine. “Questions about what really happened that night. About the boyfriend. Your relationship with your sister. About whether all the facts were ever fully disclosed.”
My throat tightened. “What the fuck are you getting at?”
“I’m simply observing that your past is.
.. similar to Mr. Nelson’s. Tragically, your sister didn’t survive.
” She picked up the briefcase she had set down when she entered my office.
“I wonder if you’re able to separate your past from Mr. Nelson’s future.
Or are your personal feelings clouding your judgment?
Whose innocence are you trying to prove, Anthony? ”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
“I’m trying to help you.” Her voice was almost gentle now, which made it worse. “I’m offering your client a way out. A way to avoid a trial that could destroy him. All you have to do is present the offer and let him make an informed decision.”
She walked to the door and paused, looking back at me.
“Think carefully about what’s best for your client,” she said. “And think carefully about what’s best for yourself. Some stones are better left unturned.”
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I sank back into my chair, my hands shaking.
The plea deal sat on my desk like a fucking bomb.
Eight to twelve years.
Possibility of parole after six.
Simon wouldn’t survive that. He was strong, but gay men in prison weren’t protected. They were used. They were hurt.
I stared at the folder; the words blurred together.
Rosalind was right about one thing: without evidence of Alan’s abuse, the self-defense strategy was a gamble.
A gamble I might lose.
And if I lost, Simon would spend the rest of his life in prison.
I was still staring at the folder when another knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” I said, my voice rough.
Nav walked in, a thick manila envelope in his hand. He found something. Something important. Normally he would have called me in. The fact that he was here in my office made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I gestured to the chair across from me. “What did you find?”
Nav sat down and opened the envelope, pulling out a stack of documents. He spread them across my desk, pushing aside the case files I’d been reviewing.
“Alan Sanders,” he said. “I dug deeper into his history. Found some things you’re going to want to see.”
I leaned forward, scanning the pages. Court documents. Police reports. Restraining orders.
“What am I looking at?”
“A pattern.” Nav tapped one of the documents. “Alan had at least four previous relationships before Sadie. All of them ended badly. All of them involved abuse.”
My pulse quickened. “Go on.”
“First victim: Emily Hartman. Dated Alan for eight months in Kansas. Filed a restraining order after he broke her arm. Police reports document escalating violence, verbal abuse, isolation from friends and family, physical assault.”
Nav pulled out another document.
“Second victim: Rachel Nguyen. Dated Alan for nine months in Missouri. Filed a restraining order after he threatened to kill her. Police reports show a similar pattern of control, then violence.”
He kept going, laying out document after document.
“Third victim: Jennifer Cole. Dated Alan for six months in Iowa. Restraining order filed after he put her in the hospital. Broken ribs, concussion, internal bleeding.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
“Fourth victim: Savannah Reed. Dated Alan for eleven months in Nebraska.” I looked up at him. “Rock County. Restraining order filed after he strangled her. She almost died.”
Nav sat back, his expression grim. “Every single one of them describes the same cycle. Witness statements all say the same thing. He’d start out charming, attentive, perfect.
Then he’d isolate them from their support systems. Then came the control.
What they wore, who they talked to, where they went.
Continuing with abuse until it escalated into physical violence. And it always escalated.”
I stared at the documents, my mind racing.
This was it.
This was what I needed.
Alan Sanders wasn’t just an abuser. He was a serial abuser. A predator who targeted vulnerable women, manipulated them, and destroyed them.
And Sadie had been his latest victim.
His last victim.
“This proves Alan’s pattern,” I said, my voice tight with urgency. “It establishes him as a dangerous, violent man. It shows the jury exactly what kind of person he was and what he was capable of.”
Nav’s expression darkened. “There’s a problem.”
I looked up at him. “What problem?”
“These documents were sealed,” Nav said. “The court records, restraining orders, police reports... all of it is sealed or restricted.”
My stomach sank. I sat back, the weight of it settling over me.
This evidence was exactly what I needed to prove that Alan Sanders was a violent predator with a documented history of abusing women.
But I couldn’t use it.
It would take time to get a court order to have the records unsealed.
And they didn’t prove he’d abused Sadie.
I looked at the documents spread across my desk, then at the plea deal folder Rosalind had left behind.
Two impossible choices.
I had evidence that Alan was dangerous to other women, but nothing proving he was dangerous to Sadie. And the evidence I did have was obtained through illegal means. I rubbed my face, exhaustion and frustration warring inside me.
“Give me some time,” I said finally. “I need to figure out how to use this without getting disbarred.”
Nav nodded and stood. “You’ve got three days, Matlock.”
“I know.”
He left, closing the door behind him.
I sat alone in my office, surrounded by evidence I couldn’t use and threats I couldn’t ignore.
And somewhere in the middle of it all was Simon, the man I loved. The man I was supposed to protect, the man whose future was in my hands. The man who literally trusted me with his life.
I picked up the plea deal folder and stared at it.
Forty-eight hours.
I had forty-eight hours to figure out how to save him.
And I had no fucking idea how I was going to do it without losing him.