“If Warren hadn’t pulled me off of him, I would’ve hit his face until my knuckles made it through to the asphalt.”
“Tell him why,” Lawson urges.
I ignore him.
“What?” Hound asks. “What aren’t you saying?”
“I’d like them to leave,” I tell my attorney, and I can feel the irritation rolling off of all three of them as chairs scrape across the floor and they make their exit.
“Do you want to tell me what your brother was referring to?”
“Mr. Crampton, I know I’m going to prison.”
“Getting off completely isn’t going to happen,” he sighs. “I think you knew that from the start.”
“I’m not asking for release.”
“But the way you’re talking, it’s sounding like you’d rather do the six years that comes with voluntary manslaughter rather than the eighteen months that involuntary carries.”
“Six years is the max?”
He nods. “For voluntary. I think we can get it reduced if you let me fight this out in court.”
“Six years,” I repeat.
As a police officer, I know some sentences are messed up compared to the crimes committed.
“Beating someone to death only gets six years? Doesn’t seem like enough.”
This entire room is going to be filled with nothing but hot air if this guy doesn’t stop sighing from across the table. “Voluntary manslaughter gets six years—things like catching your wife cheating and pulling a gun and shooting them both dead, or a parent catching someone raping their child and they kill the predator.”
“Like beating a man to death for killing an innocent woman while he was drunk.”
“Exactly.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“No. You couldn’t have known he was going to die. You used your fists not your side arm. We can prove to a jury that if you wanted to kill the man, then you could’ve shot him.”
“I didn’t pull my service revolver, Mr. Crampton, because he wasn’t a threat to me.”
“I can still convince a jury that this was involuntary manslaughter.”
“You can’t convince me that it was, though, and at the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me. I want you to cancel the jury.”
“But you said—”
“Cancel the jury, Mr. Crampton, and I’ll have you disbarred if you speak of my case with another member of the Cerberus MC.”
“Cerberus, huh?”
“Anyone, Mr. Crampton, and that includes my brother, the woman having my baby, and your own damn wife. Do you understand?”
“Mr. O’Neil, I urge you to—”
“I’m not changing my mind today, tomorrow, next week or the Monday morning before court. I’m pleading guilty to voluntary manslaughter.”
“Do you want me to ask the state’s attorney for the maximum sentence as well?” There’s something to be said about a grown, professional man rolling his eyes, but I ignore his frustration.
“Whatever the state is willing to offer is what I’ll accept.”
And since he’s said more than once the state wants voluntary manslaughter and a six-year sentence, I doubt he can change their minds before my court date.
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
“And as you’re well aware, it’s my mistake to make.”
“And when the other inmates find out you were a cop?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
“You will die in prison if they know.”
I swallow thickly, unable to look him in the eyes, and then I stand up and walk out of his office with my head held high. I don’t make eye contact with the three men waiting in the lobby.
Izzy accused me of being a martyr once, but I don’t see it that way. I call it integrity. Not many men would take the high road. Not many men would walk away from the chance to fight for a lesser sentence.
I don’t want to be like other men. I want to be able to look my son in the eye one day and explain to him what it means to make mistakes and face them head-on. Hopefully, this will be a lesson to him to fight hard at not making such mistakes.
Hopefully, I’ll be given the opportunity to meet him some day.
The knowledge that it may never happen sits heavy in my gut, feeling like a solid chunk of concrete by the time we make it back to Farmington.
Chapter 19
Isabella
“I can’t wait to dive into that,” Lawson says with a wide grin, his eyes gleaming as he looks down at the chocolate pecan pie. “Maybe I should hide it so I don’t miss out on getting a piece.”
“I made five of them,” I tell him, my smile not even getting close to reaching my eyes.
“Still. Didn’t you make the same amount last year?” I confirm with a nod. “I didn’t score a piece.”
“If memory serves, you and Delilah disappeared very shortly after the meal.”
He grins even wider. “Worth it.”
He playfully nudges my shoulder with his own before crossing the kitchen to ask Delilah if she needs anything.
His wife is wrapped up in holding Simone and Rocker’s little boy too much to even lift her head when he approaches.
“Soon,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the top of her head.
It’s a heartbreaking thing to see two people so in love, so desperate for a child of their own. My hand flutters down the front of my own stomach unbidden.
Life doesn’t seem fair some days, and that sad thought stays with me while I busy myself with anything that keeps me from going out into the living room.
Drew is in there. He arrived over an hour ago with Lawson and Delilah, but he’s yet to show his face in this part of the clubhouse.
Avoidance seems to be his thing these days. He was distant before his meeting with his attorney a few days ago, but since he’s returned, I’ve only been able to catch glimpses of him. I’ve become the fool watching from the window when I hear Lawson’s truck pull up after they get home from work, waiting to watch Drew climb out with his head down as he crosses the street to enter the Cerberus shop. Dad hasn’t mentioned him. Gigi’s been too busy with little Jameson to concern herself with my life, which is a blessing. The woman doesn’t usually know how to be subtle and having tact isn’t something she’s ever been accused of.
“Did you make them?” Sophia wraps her arms around me, her fingers settling over my huge stomach.
“Yes. Five of them.”
“Won’t be enough. Let’s hide one so we can binge on it later.”
I laugh at her suggestion. “My doctor urged me to cut back on sweets. My weight gain this last month was higher than she liked.”
“That sucks.” Sophia urges me to turn around.
I can’t look at her. I know what her eyes are going to say. It’ll be the same thing her mouth has said over phone calls and video messaging from the last couple of weeks. My heightened emotional state can’t handle the sadness and crying in front of everyone here isn’t a good idea.
I don’t want to ruin the holiday’s jovial mood.
“How long have you been up?” Soft fingers sweep under my eyes.