Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 85183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Leaning back in my chair, I say, "I'm not into dealing with government officials. You're wasting your fucking time with me. I already told that woman I wouldn't say anything."
"The FBI knows your list of contacts must be..." he falls silent, which causes me to look in his direction, "... impressive to say the least." His eyes almost twinkle with that statement.
I remain silent, my gaze locked with his in a cold stare.
He leans against the table and crosses his arms as he cocks his head to one side. "You know you've been sentenced to death, and you know they are trying their damnedest to hurry your execution along, make a spectacle out of you for all the other criminals? You won't get a fifteen years sentence to try and appeal time and time again. I bet you'll be in the execution room within two years, Pearson."
I keep my face expressionless. It doesn't matter to me if I die today or ten years from now. I'm going to die. And that's that.
He glances down at his black tie and straightens it. "You know, we could make a deal here, Mr. Pearson. A very generous deal for the names of the people you work with. Politicians, cops; we know you have people in government working for you..."
"Very smart of you. How fucking long did it take you to figure that basic shit out?"
Agent Wilson taps his shoe over the floor. "That woman of yours, she's pregnant? Don't you want to see that baby? Don't you want it to have a father?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. Really? "Are you really trying to play to the emotions of a convicted murderer? Execution, no execution. I'm behind bars for life. What kind of father do you think I'll be? You can just drop that shit right now."
He frowns, and he crosses his arms. Surely to God he knew that shit wouldn't work on me of all fucking people.
"Jude, I can see to it you get life in prison if you just cooperate with us. I mean, come on, who really wants to die?"
Who wants to die? I've seen Tor at that point—where death seemed like a beautiful escape. I've put men to that point of desperation because of her. "A lot of people want to die. Sometimes death seems like a much more pleasant option," I say.
Tidewell tosses his arms in the air before slamming them down on the table. "Oh, give me a break with the hard-ass bullshit!"
I laugh because he actually thinks he can entice me to sell-out other people for life in fucking prison. Rotting in a jail cell is not reason enough for me. One side of my lips flips up. "I have people underneath my fucking thumb that outrank you by a mile. Why in the hell would I make a deal with you?"
They both glance at each other.
"The only way I would tell you anything is if you could give me my fucking life back" I narrow my gaze, honing in on him. "Can you fucking do that?"
"Mr. Pearson," Tidewell glares at me, "let's not go to extremes here..."
"I have politicians, cops, people all the way up the chain of fucking command that have helped cover up my shit for years. I know an endless number of hitmen. Basically, if someone's in organized crime, chances are, they fucking owe me money." I slowly raise my eyes, shifting my gaze between the two men. "You make the fucking deal of the century, or I'm not saying shit. I don't take deals. I make them!" I shift in my seat and stare at them.
"Sorry to say, the government doesn't publically grant freedom to convicted murderers of your caliber. If you change your mind, Mr. Pearson," he throws his card down on the table, "you can have your lawyer contact us."
They both make their way to the door, shaking their heads as they exit. I sit back down in the chair, waiting for someone to take me back to my cell.
I haven't heard from Jude since he was sentenced. My calls and letters go unanswered, and I don't even know if he's receiving them. Worse, I worry that he is receiving them, but he hates me. I did what he asked of me. Is that justice enough for what I said? Of course not. Part of me died the second I lied to a courtroom of people about the man I love. But didn't I do it out of love? For our child? I don't know anymore. All I know is he will die because of me, and I can't forgive myself for it.
I haven't heard a peep from him, until now. My fingers glide over my name, scrawled across the envelope so heavily, it's engraved deeply.
I've been staring at this letter for hours, unable to open it, terrified of what it will say. I eventually pluck up the courage and open the envelope.