If you want to know how I feel right now, here it is. I'm angry, irritated, and dangerously close to losing what little patience I have left.
The second the hearing was adjourned, I didn't waste time. I went straight after Raymond before they could ship him back to the detention center. I caught him in one of the holding rooms, the same cold, empty space with metal walls and a table that had probably seen more bad decisions than I had.
"What the hell was that?" I snapped the moment the door shut behind me. "Do you have any idea what you just did? You just handed them a life sentence. No parole. No way out."
Raymond didn't even flinch.
He stood there, calm as ever, fingers moving to unbutton his shirt like we were discussing dinner plans instead of his future collapsing in real time.
"Raymond," I said, sharper this time.
"What?" he replied, finally glancing at me, voice flat, almost bored.
I took a step closer. "What is actually going on?"
He pressed his lips together, thinking for a second, then started walking toward me.
"I paid you," he said quietly.
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
"I paid you," he repeated, stopping just a step away. "So do your job. Make sure I get out in less than ten years."
For a moment, I just stared at him.
Then I let out a short, disbelieving breath. "Are you out of your mind? I can get you acquitted. Do you understand that? With what I have now, with the lab results, with reasonable doubt, and there's a real chance a jury walks you out of here."
"For now," he said, "I'd rather stay in prison."
I blinked. "You'd rather—what?"
"In prison," he repeated. "It's safer."
I stared at him. "Safer? In what universe is prison safer for you right now? You're the guy on the news, Raymond. The guy who supposedly raped, killed, and cut someone's head off. You're a walking target in there."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me now.
"Still safer," he said.
Something cold slid down my spine.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded. "You think you're safer getting beaten half to death in a cell than fighting this case?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at me, like he was deciding how much I was worth telling.
"Outside," he said finally, "is worse."
I narrowed my eyes. "Worse than this?"
"Yes."
"Raymond," I said, stepping closer again, "what is in your head right now? Because from where I'm standing, you're not making any sense."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You don't need to understand," he said. "You just need to do your job."
I felt my jaw tighten. "My job is to keep you out of prison."
"No," he corrected softly. "Your job is to keep me alive."
That made me pause.
Really pause.
Because suddenly, this wasn't about strategy anymore. And whatever game he was playing? I was already in it. Whether I liked it or not.
"Oh, one more thing," Raymond added, like he'd just remembered something trivial.
I let out a slow breath, already tired of whatever was about to come next. "What now?"
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, movements calm, almost too calm for someone standing on the edge of a life sentence. "After I'm sentenced and transferred to prison… we're going to have a conversation."
I frowned. "About what? You want me to negotiate with the warden so you can hide in isolation again? Because I'll tell you right now, that's not how this works."
He shook his head slightly, his eyes flicking to me. "No. Not that."
"Then what?"
"You'll know when the time comes."
I stared at him. "I love it when my clients start speaking in riddles. Really builds trust."
He ignored that completely.
"For now," he continued, voice dropping just a little, "you're going to do something for me."
I crossed my arms. "This should be good."
"You're going to talk to the prosecutor. Or the judge. I don't care which," he said. "Tell them I'm entering a full confession."
I blinked. "You already pleaded guilty."
"Not enough," he replied flatly. "I want it on record. No delays."
Something in my chest tightened again. "You're asking me to speed up your own sentencing?"
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"That's necessary."
I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "Do you even hear yourself right now? I'm trying to keep you out, and you're telling me to push you in faster."
Raymond held my gaze, unbothered.
"Tell them not to drag this out," he went on. "I want the sentencing as soon as possible."
"Why?" I demanded. "Give me one good reason that isn't completely unhinged."
"Because the longer I stay out there…" he said, "the worse it gets."
I narrowed my eyes. "Worse how?"
"You worry too much, Harold."
"I'm your lawyer. That's literally my job."
"Then do it properly," he said. "Go talk to them."
I let out a short, sharp laugh, dragging a hand down my face. "Unbelievable. You hire me to save you, then order me to bury you faster."
He didn't react.
"Raymond," I said, quieter now but heavier, "if I do this… there's no walking it back."
"I know."
"You're locking yourself in."
"I know."
I held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something. But there was nothing there. Just that same cold certainty.
"…You're a nightmare," I muttered.
A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes this time.
"Just do your job," he said.
Don't ask what I did after the hearing. Whatever dignity I had left packed its bags somewhere between the courthouse steps and the front door of my house. I didn't go to the office. I didn't call anyone. I didn't even pretend to be productive. I just went home and sat there, staring at nothing, replaying every second of that disaster like my brain had nothing better to do.
I should walk away. That was the logical move. I should drop the case. Cut my losses. Let some poor, underpaid public defender deal with Raymond and his apparent death wish. But then there was the small, inconvenient detail of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
I let out a dry laugh, dragging a hand over my face. "Right," I muttered to myself. "Morals versus money."
And the worst part? He'd probably pay more. If I actually managed to get him out in under ten years, like he so casually demanded, that number wasn't staying at three-fifty. It would climb. It would get ridiculous. Enough to make even my better judgment start negotiating with my worse instincts.
I'd talk to Evelyn tomorrow. Maybe even George if I had the chance. Because despite everything—despite Raymond practically begging for a prison sentence—I knew I wasn't the only one thrown off by that plea.
No prosecutor likes a case that suddenly becomes too easy. Something was off. And I wasn't done figuring out what.
The next morning, around ten, after a breakfast I barely tasted, I got dressed and headed straight for the District Attorney's office. I walked straight down the hall, already rehearsing how this conversation was going to go in my head.
But just as I turned the corner, I stopped. Because standing there, talking like they owned the place, were the last two people I needed in the same room.
Evelyn and George.
I exhaled slowly, forcing a tight smile as I stepped forward. "Well," I said, "this saves me a lot of walking."
Both of them turned. And Evelyn bring us to her office right away.
"Okay, what the hell happened with your client?" Evelyn cut in, she crossed her arms and speak with tone sharp as ever. "Wasn't he the one insisting he didn't do it? And now suddenly he's confessing? Just like that?"
I let out a small breath through my nose, tilting my head slightly. "People change their minds."
She stared at me like I'd just insulted her intelligence. Which, to be fair, I kind of had.
"Don't do that," she said flatly. "Not with me."
I gave a half shrug. "You want a cleaner answer? Fine. Pressure. Reality setting in. He saw the evidence, heard the charges, and decided he didn't like his odds."
"That's not a 'change of mind,' Harold," she shot back. "That's a complete reversal."
George stayed quiet, but I could feel him watching, weighing every word like he always did.
I glanced at him briefly, then back to Evelyn. "You've been doing this long enough. You know it happens. Defendants panic. They fold. Especially when the picture you've painted is… unpleasant."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. "He didn't look like he was panicking."
Yeah, he didn't.
I forced a small, dismissive smile. "Not everyone screams when they realize they're in trouble."
She held my gaze for a second longer, clearly not buying it, but she didn't push further.
I shifted the conversation before she could dig deeper. "Look, whatever his reasons are, we're here now. He's willing to cooperate. That should count for something."
Evelyn let out a quiet scoff. "Cooperate? He decapitated a woman, Harold."
"Allegedly under the influence," I corrected smoothly. "And you know that's not a minor detail."
That got George's attention.
I continued, "We both saw the report. GHB in his system. Not part of standard screening. Meaning it was missed initially. Meaning he was impaired, significantly."
Evelyn shook her head. "You're not seriously trying to spin this into diminished responsibility."
"I'm not spinning anything," I said, meeting her eyes. "I'm stating facts. You have a defendant with no prior history of this level of violence, a confirmed central nervous system depressant in his system, and a complete blackout of memory. That affects intent."
"It doesn't excuse what he did."
"I didn't say it did," I replied calmly. "But it changes how you charge it."
George finally spoke. "What are you proposing, Mr. Campbell?"
There it was.
I straightened slightly. "Manslaughter. Reduced charge. And a fixed sentence."
Evelyn let out a short, humorless laugh. "You're joking."
"Fifteen years," I said, ignoring her reaction. "He pleads out, no trial, no media circus dragging this for months. You get a conviction. Clean, and fast."
"For a decapitation?" she snapped. "You want me to stand in court and explain that away as manslaughter?"
"I want you to consider the alternative," I shot back, "We take this to trial. I introduce the drug. I introduce reasonable doubt. I question intent. And suddenly your 'open-and-shut' case isn't so clean anymore."
George leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once against his armrest, while Evelyn looked at me like she was deciding whether to argue or throw something.
"He confessed," she said finally. "You don't get to play both sides."
"I'm not," I replied. "I'm giving you an option that saves time, resources, and risk."
Her jaw tightened. "Or I take the confession, push for the maximum, and put him away for life."
"You could," I said quietly. "But then you're betting everything on a narrative that now has a crack in it."