Page 82 of The Inmate
“I’m your lawyer,” he repeats, although it doesn’t seem more plausible the second time he says it. “I’m Archie Ferguson.”
He holds out his smooth white hand, but I don’t take it. “Howoldare you?”
He flinches. “I’m twenty-five.”
I suppose that’s better than what I first took him for, which is sixteen. But not much better. This kid does not look like he is in any position to be defending somebody in a murder trial. He looks more like he should be working the drive-through at McDonald’s.
“You’re a lawyer?” I ask.
He nods proudly. “I’ve been practicing since June.”
Great. He’s been a lawyer for five months. I want to bury my face in my hands and burst into tears. But somehow, I manage to hold it together.
Ferguson settles into the chair across from me. His suit is at least two sizes too big for his skinny frame—it must belong to his dad or a big brother. He’ll grow into it, I suppose. By then, I’ll be serving twenty-five years to life.
“So let’s talk about your case, Ms. Farrelly,” he begins.
“Farrell.” I glare at him across the almost comically tiny table. “My name is Farrell.”
Ferguson frowns. He looks down at a stack of loose papers in front of him and starts shuffling through them. “Farrell? Are you sure? I thought—”
“I know my own name.”
“Right. Right, of course.” Ferguson’s voice cracks because he’s apparently still going through puberty. “Sorry. Ms.Farrell.”
I don’t say anything to that.
“So…” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Yes?”
He clears his throat, which turns into a cough, then a series of coughs. Finally, he jumps up, explaining that he has to go get some water. He runs out of the room, grabbing his sweaty stack of papers, and then he returns about ten minutes later.
“Sorry about that,” he says as he plops down in the chair across from me.
I just stare at him.
“So…” He coughs again, and I swear to God, I am going to lose it if he has another coughing fit. “Let’s discuss your, um, case.”
“Listen,” I say, “no offense, Mr. Ferguson, but this case is kind of a big deal. This is amurdertrial. Is there anyone else who could help me? Like, somebody with a little more experience?”
Ferguson’s cheeks turn bright red. “I’ve been doing this for almost six months. I’ve tried lots of cases. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”
“Iamworried though.” I chew on my thumbnail. “This is a murder charge, you know?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah, this is a tough one. They have a pretty good case against you. A lot of stuff.”
A lot of “stuff”? How could that be? How much “stuff” could they possibly have against me when I haven’t done anything? “Like what?”
“Like they got into that Schiff woman’s emails and she wrote all about the things you did to her.” He tugs at his tie, which doesn’t seem to be knotted correctly. “She cataloged the way you bullied her at work, and also that she caught you embezzling money from the company where you both worked. And that the two of you were supposed to meet that night.”
“That’s complete fiction.” My heart is pounding. “I was nice to Dawn. And we weren’t supposed to meet that night. I don’t know what she could possibly be talking about.”
“Also,” he says, “your fingerprints were on the handle of a knife in her house.”
“I explained that. I picked up a knife to defend myself in case there was an intruder in the house. And it wasn’t like she was stabbed to death.”
Ferguson smiles apologetically. “Also,” he adds, “the police found blood and hair in the trunk of your car. It matched up to what they found in Schiff’s house.”
