Chapter 01 #3
He hesitates, tense and troubled. Of course, the answer is no.
The truth is the same for both of us. “For the next decade, you will be the only thing on my mind, Andrea. When I’m locked up, waiting for the years to pass, I’ll think of you.
I’ll be hoping you’ve moved on, that you’re having the life you deserve, the family you want, and a man who loves you as much as I do.
You have always been a breath of life, and I’ll be hoping this is exactly what you’re doing. Living.”
As if he can’t repress it, he takes a step forward, wanting to comfort and hold me. But his infuriating control takes over again, and he keeps a safe distance between us.
“I don’t want any of that if it’s not with you,” I argue.
“You will. Eventually.”
I won’t change his mind, will I? No matter how much I try, I can’t find more arguments, more reasons for him to fight. I feel drained—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Today was always going to be hard, but this … this might be the hardest conversation I’ve ever had.
“So this is it?” I sob in a last attempt to make him change his mind. “You’re taking the deal and ending us? Giving away ten years of your life without a fight? How can this be the best alternative, Lex?”
“This is the only way I can be in control. The only way I can decide what happens.”
Of course. This is about controlling the narrative, making a calculated decision, and leaving nothing to chance. The reasonable and thought-through decision makes no sense to my bleeding heart. Where’s the hope? Where’s our love? Where’s his faith?
By taking the deal, he’s delivering two sentences. His and our story’s.
“I can’t believe this is how we end,” I struggle to say.
My trembling sob is the last drop. His restraint breaks fully, and his arms wrap around me before I can even see him coming. This isn’t fair. None of it is. Not when we struggled so hard to find our happiness together.
“You’ll be alright, my love,” he whispers, over and over as I cry into his chest.
I hate him like I have never hated him before.
Fuck his resolve. Fuck his brain. Fuck his logic.
Fuck his pragmatic mind. I hate him for not fighting.
I hate him for deciding for me. I hate him so much that I want to tell him, to hurt him as deeply as I’m hurting.
But I know he already is. And he’s losing so much more than I am.
So, instead of telling him how much I hate him, I say, “I love you.” My words are muffled by the fine fabric of his shirt, but I know he heard them because his embrace tightens.
This is our last time doing this. Our last time together.
I can’t believe this is happening … I wasn’t ready for this wake-up call, this painful reminder that we’ve only been together for so many months.
Despite the immeasurable love we have for one another, I’m only a girlfriend, a momentary paramour. Not a wife. Not a lifelong partner.
We remain in this poignant silence, vaguely hearing the activity outside the room. His strong, familiar heart beats against my ear, and I try to memorize everything about it, aware I’ll never hear it again.
When his hands reach for my face, I look up, following their tender pull. His misty eyes intently scan my face, like he’s trying to remember all of me for the last time, like he’ll never get the opportunity ever again. That only worsens my tears, which he wipes away with his thumbs.
“You’ll be alright, Andrea,” he utters like a promise.
“Liar.”
The ghost of a smirk makes the corner of his mouth lift just a little. “I don’t lie, remember?”
“Unless it’s important.”
“Not to you. I never lie to you.”
I want to answer, but three soft knocks behind me pull our attention away. “Mr. Coleman, the Marshal is here,” Mr. Zucker says through the door. “We must be going.”
Fuck, there’s no way it’s been ten minutes already. Looking up with watery eyes, I beg, “Don’t do it. Don’t take the deal. Let us fight for your freedom. Give us a chance to win.”
Allowing himself one ultimate show of tenderness, he brings his lips to my forehead for a lingering, sad, and heartbreaking kiss. With my arms around his broad torso, I try to keep him right here, wanting this moment to last forever.
But my strength is no match for his, so he easily pries himself out of my hold. “I hope you can forgive me one day, freckles.” Stepping back, he straightens his jacket, squares his shoulders, and turns his impassive mask back on.
I watch, helpless, as he walks to the door. Gripping the handle, he turns to me one last time. “No matter what happens in there, I want you to know it isn’t your fault, Andrea.”
My eyebrows twist with incomprehension. What does he mean?
My fault? Why would it be my fault? Before I can ask, he opens the door to let his counselors in.
Mr. Goldberg comes to me and rests a hand high on my back to escort me to the second room.
I turn around in time to catch a last glimpse of Lex before the door closes, separating us forever.
Pain like I didn’t know existed spreads throughout my entire body, radiating from my heart to my every limb. This can’t be real. It can’t be our end …
It feels like months have gone by since my world tipped over, ripping me away from everything I’ve built, everything I cherish, and everything I’ve ever wanted. At the same time, it’s as though the hours fly by, my mind dissociating for most of it.
And then everything stopped moments ago, when I finally got to see my freckled dork again.
Of all the things I’m losing, she’s the one I’ll regret the most. I won’t get to see her grow old and wrinkled, after all, won’t get to hold our children in my arms, won’t get to spend a lifetime by her side.
Those ten years I’m giving away wouldn’t be such a hard punishment if I knew all that would wait for me when I got out.
But I can’t ask that of her. In fact, I hope with everything I have that she’ll move on, find someone better than me, and live the life she deserves.
The thought hurts my very soul, but I’d rather know she’s happy and healing than suffering through ten years of waiting for me to get out.
It would be in vain, regardless. The man I am now won’t be the man I’ll be then.
The things she loves about me, what makes me who I am, will probably be long gone by then.
That’s why I can’t keep her trapped in our relationship.
I’m sparing her the only way I know how—by letting her go. For good and forever.
The U.S. Marshal’s grip tightens around my arm as the door opens before us.
I stare forward, jaw tight, as he escorts me in.
I don’t need to look to know the gallery is full this time.
My attorneys informed me that a few friends and family would attend, but that wouldn’t take much more than a bench.
The rest must be curious civilians and journalists.
Quite a few of the latter, given the avid tapping on keyboards that arises when we step in.
Purposefully, I don’t look at the crowd. If I see Andrea again, with her teary eyes and red nose, I might change my mind and cave. But I’ve weighed the pros and cons, and I can’t let her or my heart change today’s outcome. I can do ten years. I can’t do life.
The Marshal sits me next to my lawyers and opens the handcuffs at my wrists. Will I ever get used to the discomfort of wearing these? I wonder, massaging my wrists.
“This is the matter of the United States versus Alexander Coleman,” the judge says with a clear voice.
He’s the same one who was assigned to the other two hearings, Judge Harold Ward, and I get the distinct sense he doesn’t like me.
“Today we’re here for a preliminary hearing.
Counsel, please identify yourselves for the record. ”
The prosecutor stands to say, “Good morning, Your Honor. Assistant U.S. Attorney Collins, for the government.”
“Ruiz, here to assist Ms. Collins.”
The lawyers at my table then stand to say, “Good morning, Your Honor. Goldberg, on behalf of Mr. Coleman, who is present and seated beside me.”
“Zucker, also appearing for the defense.”
The judge nods, and the counsel sits again. He then leans forward, addressing both benches as he says, “I understand there’s been a plea offer extended by the government. Is that correct?”
Ms. Collins stands again. “Yes, Your Honor. The United States has offered a plea agreement, which would resolve this matter with a single charge and a negotiated sentence.”
“And defense counsel, is your client prepared to accept this offer?” the judge asks.
“Your Honor, we’ve reviewed the offer thoroughly, and we’re ready to respond,” Goldberg answers.
“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge instructs.
I obey, my legs stiff, the weight of the moment pressing down like sandbags on my chest.
“Mr. Coleman,” the judge continues, “do you understand that the purpose of today’s preliminary hearing is to determine whether the charges against you are supported by probable cause and should proceed to trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And do you understand that if you accept the plea offer, you will be giving up your constitutional rights—including the right to a jury trial, the right to remain silent, the right to confront witnesses, and the right to require the government to prove your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?”
I already know what I’m giving up. And it’s so much more than all that.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I agree, the words like razor blades in my throat.
“Very well. If you accept the plea, this court will be adjourned and reconvene at a later date for a Rule 11 hearing to formally enter the plea. So I ask you now, Mr. Coleman—do you wish to accept the government’s plea offer?”
The word is on the tip of my tongue. Three letters that should so easily roll out, effortless, familiar. But nothing about this is easy, so I hesitate. It isn’t about the ten years. I don’t care about those. I’d gladly pay them if it means I get to keep everything else. If I get to keep her.
Although I’ve done my best to ignore Andrea’s presence since I walked in, I can feel it. I sense her pleading gaze on the back of my head, burning with its intensity. The awareness of it is enough to open a crack in the control I so fiercely cling to.
My body acts on an impulse, a rogue mutiny I have no control over, and I twist around, seeking her in the crowd.
Everyone there is holding their breath, waiting for my answer, but I pay them no mind, eyes gliding over the masses in search of the one face I crave to see.
I vaguely notice Evora, Kevin, Shelly, and my sisters …
And then her, doe eyes red with tears, makeup gone from her soft skin as she must have washed up after our encounter.
Everyone else disappears, leaving only her and me in the moment. She begs me with her eyes to refuse the deal. Her right hand lifts to her chest, flattens high on it, and draws a circle there over and over.
Please, Please, Please, she implores in sign language.
She’s wrong. She doesn’t realize what refusing the prosecution’s offer implies.
Her optimism blinds her, defying logic. It makes more sense to accept, to choose the safest route.
She will move on, meet another man—more like Oliver, less like me—have his children, and forget why she was ever this distraught over me.
It’s the right thing to do, no matter how much my chest hurts at the mere idea of another man having the privilege of being by her side, of witnessing the years on her face. Privilege that should have been mine. She was mine to hold, to have, and to cherish.
My love, my dork, my freckled fury.
“Mr. Coleman?” the judge calls, reminding me we’re not alone.
Again, my body acts on its own as I turn around. My voice is clear, free of hesitation as I utter, “Your Honor, I’m rejecting the plea.”
A collective gasp arises behind me, intent whispers erupting in the wake of my decision. I turn around again, immediately finding the brown gaze I crave. The sadness in it is already gone, replaced by hope, gratitude, and love.
“I love you,” she mouths with tears of relief and joy.
She must have told Kevin and Shelly about my decision to accept the plea, because they seem as elated as she is. He’s the one who breaks the link between us, taking her into his arms for a brief hug.
The judge smacks his gavel down a few times to restore order in the court, then announces, “We’ll proceed with the preliminary hearing, then.”
Once everyone is seated again and silence has returned, Judge Ward tilts his head to the prosecution and says, “Ms. Collins, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” She rises from her chair. “Before we call our experts to the stand, the government would first like to call a witness who can offer critical insight into the defendant’s behavior and intentions—someone personally close to him.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Ms. Collins smiles, turns around to the gallery, and continues with, “The government calls the defendant’s girlfriend, Miss Andrea Walker.”