Chapter 7 - Confrontation In The Interrogation Room
Three days later, wrapped in heavy medical gauze, I sat in a wheelchair inside the downtown federal courthouse’s private interrogation suite.
Luke sat across the stainless-steel table, handcuffed to a floor ring, looking disheveled, unwashed, and completely stripped of his arrogant suburban pride.
His high-priced defense attorney sat beside him, whispering nervously into his ear while reviewing the mountain of physical evidence stacked against them.
“Caroline, please,” Luke whimpered softly, leaning his arms onto the cold metal table toward me. “You have to drop these absurd charges.”
“I did everything for us! I was stressed about the business! I lost my temper for one second in the kitchen!”
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I looked at him through cold, analytical eyes, feeling zero fear, zero love, and zero desire to offer him a single crumb of mercy.
“You didn’t lose your temper for one second, Luke,” I said, my voice razor-sharp and steady. “You executed a calculated, multi-year campaign of torture.”
