“I understand.” A blessing in disguise of sorts, I guess.
I imagined standing before a judge and getting sworn in many times, but I was always there to testify against a perpetrator rather than being one. I don’t miss the irony of being my father’s son, having become a felon before being awarded that opportunity to represent the state in any capacity.
“O’Neil.”
I refuse to turn my head toward the voice, just the familiar sound makes my throat seize.
“Mr. O’Neil, that man is wanting to speak with you,” my attorney says. “We have just a few moments before the judge arrives though.”
I turn my head, but I don’t make to move closer. Just the sad look in Warren’s eyes is enough to make me regret looking in that direction in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his throat working.
I clear my throat once again. The damn thing is going to be raw before this is over with. Looking into the desolate eyes of a man I respected, a man I learned so much from is another load of bricks to carry on my back. He nods before walking away.
“Ready?” I nod at Mr. Crampton as the bailiff asks everyone to stand.
My name along with my case number is verified. Legal jargon is used, and I blame someone having a cold for the sniffle I hear at my back. It has to be someone with a cold, because Hound fucking promised me. I lose track of what the judge is saying as my ears perk up, waiting and hoping to hear a cough or a sneeze, but all that comes is another sniffle.
An elbow hits my arm.
“And how do you plea to the charge of voluntary manslaughter, Mr. O’Neil?” The judge glares at me, making me wonder if he had to ask it twice.
“G—” My voice cracks, and I have to cough. “Guilty, Judge.”
“Are you aware, Mr. O’Neil, that entering a guilty plea will absolve the court of any further action on your case? You will not be allowed for an appeal?”
“Y-yes, Judge.”
He looks down, signing God knows how many pieces of paper as the court reporter types away, as if doing this so long she already knows what he’s going to say when he looks up at me.
He lists off the things he just signed, giving small details about each order before setting his pen down.
“Mr. Crampton, are you and your client prepared to move forward with the punishment phase?”
“The state and I haven’t come to an agreement on that, your honor. I would like a rec—”
“That’s fine, Mr. Crampton. The court isn’t willing to accept a plea agreement as it is.”
My pulse pounds. Mr. Crampton was sure this would be the way things would go if we proceeded today, but hearing it from the man with all the power has the ability to make my knees turn to jelly.
Another sniffle, this one getting dangerously close to a sob.
“Are you ready, Mr. O’Neil?”
“Yes.”
“Drew, no.” The two words are a whisper, a plea of their own.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Yes, Judge.”
“Having plead true to the offense of voluntary manslaughter, the court hereby sentences you to six years in the New Mexico State Penitentiary. Five thousand dollars in fines will be assessed.”
Sobs at my back, so broken and filled with so much pain, I couldn’t look at her if I wanted to.
The threatening tears make themselves known, rolling down my face in hot rivers.
The judge continues to speak, his words drowned out by Izzy’s crying. I only catch a few things like, “time served,” and “should be more.”
I’d openly agree with him, but from the look on the man’s face, he wouldn’t be impressed with it.
The judge’s gavel hitting the bench is the pin in the grenade.
“They’re going to take you back and fingerprint you now. There’s paperwork you have to sign.”
Before I can step away from the table, a bailiff wraps my wrists in cuffs. I hated the feel of them the night of the crash, and I hate them even more so.
“Drew!”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t you fucking look. You had another night with her. Stop being a selfish bastard and walk out of here like you swore you would.
I’m five feet from the door, being escorted by two uniformed jailers when I hear her cry. This one is different, not filled with sorrow and regret but genuine pain. Keeping my face pointed to where I’m heading is impossible.
I expect to find her hazel eyes, red-rimmed with tears, not her bent over in pain, her tiny hands clasping at her belly.
Hound doesn’t see me look either. He’s too busy trying to figure out what’s wrong with his daughter.
“Izzy!” I hiss, turning to go to her, but the men at my sides stop me. “Let me go!”
“Mr. O’Neil!”
“She needs me! Izzy! Is she okay? Let me go. I changed my mind! I want a trial! I want a trial!”
I’d do anything, say anything to go to her right now.
Wood hits wood, that same tool used to help seal my fate echoing around the room, then the judge’s booming voice calls out, “Mr. O’Neil, one more word out of you and you’ll also be held in contempt of court! You’ve been convicted of your offense, and your sentence starts now.”
I don’t say another word. Grunts and hisses are all I can manage as I try to fight my way to her. Jailers swarm me as if they were able to clone themselves with the snap of a finger, and I have to crane my neck to watch Hound and the other guys ushering Izzy out of the courtroom.
Chapter 23
Isabella
“You can,” Sophia urges. “You can do this.”
My head is shaking, the pain too much to allow for words.
“You can,” Gigi insists. “A few more pushes, and you’ll get to hold that sweet little boy of yours.”
The doctor is between my thighs, also whispering encouragement, but I’m spent. I’ve been in labor, my water breaking on the way to the hospital, for the last nineteen hours. I’m in Albuquerque, not Farmington where my doctor is. I didn’t meet the man at my feet until I arrived. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Babies are supposed to be born when both parents are present.
I know the waiting room is filled with everyone, all of them having driven down when they got word that I went into labor at the sight of Drew being dragged away in handcuffs.
“I need him here,” I hiss, unable to catch my breath long enough to push yet another time.
“You can do this,” Sophia repeats, avoiding my demand.
She can’t reason with me and I know it.
“Look at me,” Gigi snaps, her fingers on my chin making it impossible to look anywhere else but her face. “I thought your dad was dead when Amelia was born. This baby is coming whether you help or not. Prolonging it will only cause complications. I know you want Drew here, but that isn’t possible. Don’t punish your child by being stubborn.”
“Gigi!” Sophia whisper-hisses, but my stepmom doesn’t even look over at her.
“What’s it going to be, Isabella?”
“Another contraction is coming,” the nurse advises as I pull my jaw from Gigi’s clutches.
The pain in my body is tolerable in thanks to the epidural, but my heart is shattered. I want a do-over. I want the things Drew wished were different that night we met. I shouldn’t have walked away. I should’ve demanded his first name and told him my real one. So many things had to line up in the most tragic way for us to end up this way—for me to be here without him. This should be a celebration, a joyous occasion, but it’s marked with regret and bad decisions.