Page 12 of Parker
“Smith,” she barks. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I ask as she reattaches the brutal cuffs.
“The Chief Inspector wants to speak to you. Now.”
“Am I under arrest?”
She turns to me. Revulsion spread across her face. “I think that goes without saying. The question is how serious the charges are.”
Interview rooms make detainees feel at ease. They are bright, with an endless supply of coffee. PC White passes me to a kind-looking gentleman called PC Stevens. He gets me settled and removes the cuffs, ensuring I’m comfortable, then switches on the tape recorder.
“You do not have to say anything,” he says. “But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned somethingwhich you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
One side of the room has a wide mirror. From watching TV, I know that on the other side, they are watching my every move. Perhaps a body language specialist has been called in to assess my guilt for the crime committed. For the first time since leaving my cell, my father and his side piece come to mind. I wonder how they are.They’re probably at a fancy hotel, fucking like rabbits, laughing at my demise.
His indiscretions, not to mention his long-term affair, will devastate my mother again. Goosebumps scatter over my skin as my blood boils with anger. Sitting in the quiet of the interview room, I have time to torture myself with thoughts of my mother. She will be completely lost without the cheating bastard. Her life has been spent looking after him.
The Chief Inspector enters the room—that’s who I assume it is. He’s a large man with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard. Astute eyes meet mine as he takes the seat directly across from me. Upon glancing at the mirror, I notice his gigantic frame dwarfs my petite one. I don’t look nineteen years old now; I would barely pass for thirteen.
“Nicola Smith,” he says, and I nod. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No comment.” I’ve seen that said in the movies, and it seems the most sensible course of action to take.
“Can you tell me what transpired tonight at your family home?”
“No comment.” He narrows his eyes.
“Nicola. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you tell me what happened, we can arrange the best possible solution for all involved.”
I interrupt him before he can continue his speech. “Where’s my lawyer? Legally, am I not supposed to have one?”
“Do you need a lawyer, Ms. Smith?” Accusation weighs heavily in his voice. PC Stevens enters the room again followed by a gentleman dressed smartly in a blue suit, but his white shirt has seen better days. Dark bags under his eyes tell me he’s had a tough night, or maybe not even been to bed.
“Can you give my client and me some time to get acquainted please, Chief Inspector?” the gentleman says.
“Be quick, Graham. When I come back in, we’re charging her with murder.”
My stomach drops to my toes, and I recoil in fear.
“Murder?” I squawk. “I didn’t kill anyone!”
The Chief Inspector ignores my words, leaving the room with both officers trotting behind him. The gentleman called Graham introduces himself as my appointed lawyer. He explains my father died of his injuries on the journey to the hospital—head trauma caused a massive bleed on the brain. His girlfriend is in intensive care; she’s likely to survive but will be permanently disabled, her left leg mangled. The fire service had to cut her from the twisted metalwork.
I stare at him, unable to speak.
“We have ten minutes maximum, Miss Smith. Tell me what happened.” His face is open, and he looks like the kind of person who would listen to what I have to say.
My rational mind reappears. I tell him everything. About walking in on my father and his other woman in bed. About my attack on them with my childhood hockey stick. And about the car chase, which spiraled out of control.
“I snapped,” I explain. “I don’t know what came over me. I saw them together, and I lost it. I never wanted to kill anyone.”
Panic engulfs me. At nineteen years old, I have thrown my life away in the pursuit of revenge. My body shakes, and my hands cover my face as dirty tears roll down my cheeks. The disasterthat would be my life unfolds before my eyes, ending with me dying alone in a jail cell in fifty years.
In the beginning, I hadn’t wanted to kill them. I just wanted them to feel hunted. To languish in the fear of revenge. But once we hit seventy on the highway, I knew I had gone too far. But I didn’t care.
“Nicola, can I call you Nicola?” Graham, my lawyer, asks, and I nod.
“Nicola, we have options, but we need some time to prepare for the interview. You should plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility. From what you have described, I’m sure we could prove that.”
