Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1)

by Melinda Leigh

  But Lance wasn’t sure she understood the rage she’d encounter when her choice to defend Nick became public knowledge. People were going to be very angry—and angry people were dangerous.

  “You need to see this.” Lance pulled out his phone and played the video of the fight at the lake.

  Morgan paled. “Where did you get this?”

  “From a kid who was at the lake party last Thursday night, but it’s on YouTube.” Lance explained about his search for Jamie Lewis. “Your client has a temper.”

  “Shit.” Morgan hurried toward the house, calling over her shoulder. “Who is the boy Nick is fighting with?”

  “His name is Jacob Emerson.” Lance rushed to catch up with her. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to file an injunction to have that video pulled from YouTube before it’s all over social media and the news. Our entire jury pool will be tainted.” She opened her front door and went into the house.

  Lance thought the chances of an impartial jury pool had sailed halfway to China already. He followed Morgan into the house.

  “Morgan, you’d better look at this,” Art said from his recliner.

  A BREAKING NEWS banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen while the video of the fight between Nick and Jacob Emerson played.

  So much for preventing the contamination of the jury pool.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jail, day 1

  Naked, Nick shivered as he hustled into the room, a bundle of clothes under one arm.

  The door behind him closed with a surreal and metallic clank, muffling the moaning and shouting of the booking area. With almost everything made of block and steel, sounds echoed with a harsh intensity that made him jump constantly for the whole first hour at the county jail.

  The small room was built of cinderblock with a locked steel door on each end. There was one small, wire-reinforced window in each door. Every few seconds a guard looked in. The room smelled like bleach and piss. A puddle of urine surrounded the stainless steel toilet in the corner. Nick needed to pee but couldn’t figure out how to do that without getting piss all over his feet.

  But, on the bright side, this holding area was empty.

  For the first time since he’d been brought to the building, Nick could almost draw a full breath. Even though he knew the camera in the ceiling corner was watching, the absence of other inmates was a sweet, albeit brief, relief. Inside his belly, nerves hummed like a swarm of bees.

  Soon he’d be entering the general population. Worse yet, he’d been assigned to D-pod, where the most dangerous inmates were held, since he was accused of committing a violent crime. Nick wasn’t the only not-yet-convicted killer being held behind bars here.

  Innocent until proven guilty was pure fiction.

  He’d spent all afternoon going through the intake process. He’d been strip-searched, deloused, and showered. The delousing powder had gotten in his eye, turned it red, and made it tear. The process had been the most humiliating and frightening experience of his entire life. His humanity had been stripped away. He’d say he felt like an animal, but zoo animals were treated with greater respect.

  He hurried to the steel bench bolted to the wall, set down the orange uniform he’d been issued, and dressed. He was grateful he’d worn white boxers. All other colors were confiscated. If he’d chosen plaid this morning, he’d be going commando. Somehow he knew the lack of underwear would have made him feel even more vulnerable.

  Instead of the jumpsuit he’d expected, the uniform was more like scratchy hospital scrubs. He stepped into the pants and shoved his feet into the rubber sandals he’d been issued. They were like the soccer slides he’d worn in middle school. The shirt was several sizes too big. Cold seeped through the thin fabric.

  Sitting on the chilly, hard bench, he concentrated on breathing. Every thought that ran through his head terrified him. He needed to calm down. This was no place to show fear. He pictured a chess match in his head, calculated move after move—order instead of chaos.

  The door behind him opened, the metallic clack sending a bolt of fear right into his bowels. A big white man walked in, carrying his own orange uniform. Everything about him was huge, from his head-size fists to his giant, tattooed chest and arms. His beard was thick and blond, as was the hair on his chest. He dressed in a calm, unhurried, and resigned manner that suggested this experience was not new to him. Nick tried not to look scared, but from the amused expression on the newcomer’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

  “I’m The Man.” He pronounced the word like a royal title. Then he sat down on the bench across from Nick and gave him a casual glance. “Your first time?”

  Nick didn’t know whether to admit it or not. He was so far out of his element, he could have been on Mars or some other hostile planet. All he could think about was trying to make his hands stop shaking. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that showing weakness in jail would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

  “You don’t have to answer. I know you’re a fish.” The Man snickered. “Quiet can be a smart play, but don’t let them think you’re afraid to talk. Ignore the pod boss and you’ll get your ass kicked too. Same goes for not standing up for yourself.”

  Nick nodded as if he understood, not that he did. He only had one thing figured out. He was so far over his head, there was no way he could reach the surface before he drowned.

  The Man stretched his massive legs out in front of him. “This is my third time in here. I’m going to give you some advice. Inside, we stick together. Whites hang with other whites. We’re outnumbered, and there ain’t no such thing as fucking political correctness in here. It’s all about survival. You stick to your own kind.”

  Nick listened without speaking.

  “You keep your head down, and your mouth shut. You don’t ask questions. You don’t repeat anything anyone tells you. Snitches end up with stitches.” The Man turned his arm over. A series of blue tattoos covered the white underside of his forearm. “You see these?”

  “Yeah.” Nick wasn’t sure about the meanings of the twin lightning bolts or the number 88, but it was impossible to misconstrue a swastika.

  The Man was a white supremacist.

  “A young fish like you needs protection in here or you’ll end up as somebody’s boy.” He tapped the swastika. “This is how you get it.”

  Shit.

  Nick hadn’t thought about gangs. His lack of knowledge of jail life was one more element to his fear. Joining a gang felt like a commitment, a decision that couldn’t be changed once it was made.

  A serious undertaking that could have permanent consequences.

  “Some of the other cons have a thing against rapists. Me? Doesn’t bother me one bit.”

  Nick’s spine snapped straight, a wave of coldness sweeping over him. “You know who I am?”

  “Everyone will know who you are. Ain’t nothing to do in jail but talk. Word spreads fast.” The Man shrugged. “Like I was saying, I ain’t got nothing against you. Women need to learn their place, and some seem to need harder lessons than others. But some dudes might want to kill you just because of what you done. Then again, some dudes might want to kill you for the sheer entertainment factor. Always remember, once they’re convicted, some of these guys ain’t never getting out, and they know it. They’ve got nothing to lose.”

  The words slipped out of Nick’s mouth. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Sure. Everybody in here is innocent. We all got a bum rap.” The Man chuckled. “You got one chance to survive.” He tapped the swastika.

  “What are you in here for?” Nick asked. If the fact that he was being charged with rape and murder didn’t faze The Man, he must be up on serious charges too.

  “Manslaughter, but it goes without saying that I’m innocent too.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “If I were you, I’d play the bum-rap card for all it’s worth. Every man can empathize with being railroaded by the pigs. And if that don’t work . . .” The Man point
ed to his tattoos. “Because the guards don’t give a fuck.”

  The door opened and two more naked men entered. The black guy was about twenty-five and big and beefy. His entire back was covered in tattoos. The white kid was maybe nineteen, tall but skinny as a toothpick. Nick could count his vertebrae from across the room. The Man snorted as the kid put on pants three sizes too big. He looked scared enough to piss himself.

  Nick wondered if he had the same scared-rabbit gleam in his eyes. He’d better not. He was silently grateful that he was too lazy to shave daily—his thick four-day stubble aged him—and for the physical labor that had muscled his body since he’d graduated high school. The skinny kid looked like a walking target.

  Like prey.

  The Man went silent. Eventually, the other door opened. The guards barked some orders, and the four inmates were escorted down the hall. They were each handed a thin, folded plastic mattress and a threadbare blanket to carry into the pod.

  Nick followed The Man’s example and hoisted it up on one shoulder. If nothing else, it provided him with what felt like a partial screen. Only half of the pod residents could see his face. The skinny kid clutched the mattress to his chest like a shield, and as they entered the pod, he went whiter than bleached bones, his eyes shining with terror.

  Nick schooled his face into what he hoped was no expression.

  He had been expecting a row of locked cells, like the prisons he’d seen on TV. But D-pod in the county jail was one big concrete room. Men walked around the pod freely. Open doorways lined one side of the room. The cells? Nick glanced in as he walked by. Each tiny cell contained two metal bunk beds separated by three feet of concrete, clearly designed to hold four men. Inmates stood in the openings, assessing the newcomers. Nick could feel their predatory scrutiny.

  The cells must have all been full because more metal bunks lined one wall of the main room. Every one of those already held a bedding kit, and more mattresses were lined up on the floor. The center of the space held metal tables with attached benches.

  Some quick math told Nick that the space was designed to house forty men, but he counted at least sixty inmates. Other inmates in the SFPD holding cell had complained about overcrowding at the county jail, but Nick hadn’t considered the ramifications. So did that mean no one was locked in at night?

  Instead of the possibility that three cellmates would try to kill him, Nick had to worry about the whole pod? He’d expected order, discipline, even claustrophobia, but locking sixty criminals in a room together with nothing to do was an experiment in pure chaos.

  He tried not to flinch at the comments emanating from the doorways as he passed by.

  “Look at that tight white ass.”

  “I’m gonna get me a piece of that.”

  “Mm. Mm. Mm. Fresh meat.”

  Were they referring to him or the skinny kid? Selfishly, Nick hoped it wasn’t him.

  Another hairy white guy bumped fists with The Man, and he was welcomed into a sea of beards and scary-looking tattoos, like a Viking warrior’s homecoming after a successful pillage.

  Someone scurried to move his mattress and blanket, and The Man was given a top bunk. Nick didn’t know much about jail protocol, but The Man garnered respect—and fear.

  Nick watched the black inmate get absorbed into a group of African Americans. He seemed to know his way around.

  The kid was trembling like a scared kitten.

  Instinctively, Nick put some space between them. The kid was fodder, and there wasn’t anything Nick could do about it. He had no room for guilt. Assessing the danger and his chances of survival was eating up every bit of his attention, and he was hardly in a position to protect anyone else. This group of men had gone all Lord of the Flies times a hundred. Being an accused sex offender, Nick already had one strike against him.

  He eyed the floor. Unlike the holding cells, the concrete appeared relatively clean. Not knowing what else to do, Nick set his mattress on the floor at the end of a row. No one gave him any shit about it, so he figured he was good.

  He sat on it, keeping his back to the wall.

  The kid had already been singled out as a weakling. Who knew what would become of that, but at that moment, everyone seemed to be eyeballing Nick. He’d come into this situation with a game plan of keeping his head down and blending in with the cinderblock walls. But obviously that wasn’t going to work. He needed a new plan.

  For the first time, the full weight of the charges hit him.

  Unless there was a serial killer amongst the inmates, there probably wasn’t anyone in this pod accused of more serious crimes.

  How could this have happened?

  He hadn’t even had the chance to mourn Tessa. Her image popped into his head, and sadness pressured his sinuses. He shut that down and channeled some healthier anger. Crying would put him in the same category as the skinny kid.

  Deep inside Nick’s chest, rage and frustration boiled. He was stuck in here while whoever killed Tessa was running free. Who had done it? Jacob? He wouldn’t put it past that arrogant prick.

  A wolf whistle brought Nick’s thoughts back to the present.

  At this point, Nick was an accused rapist and murderer. Hopefully the serious and violent nature of those charges would give the other inmates pause. But in reality, if they wanted to beat Nick’s ass, rape him, or even kill him, there wasn’t much he would be able to do about it.

  There were sixty of them, and he wasn’t even in a cell that locked.

  At that moment, every gaze was directed at Nick. He wanted to run and scream and pound on the D-pod door.

  I didn’t do it.

  I’m innocent.

  The Man’s comments rang in his mind: The guards don’t give a fuck.

  His gaze strayed to the door, as if it would open and he’d be escorted out while everyone apologized for locking him up by mistake.

  But that didn’t happen. Shit, he didn’t even have a lawyer who gave a fuck. The one they’d given him for the arraignment read the charges against him exactly three seconds before the hearing and hadn’t protested when the judge had set bail at one million dollars. His dad didn’t have that kind of money.

  Nick kept his eyes on the group of men, his ears tuned to the conversations around him, and his mouth shut. In his head, he played his imaginary chess game and forced his posture to relax.

  He contemplated his options.

  Play badass. Stupid idea. He was a middle-class white kid from a nice neighborhood. He was about as far away from badass as he could get. The only tattoos he’d ever worn were temporary SpongeBob stickers. With no ideas, he settled on staying put and minding his own business. Sooner or later, the other inmates would come to him, and Nick would have to do the best he could. For now, he’d watch and wait.

  But night was coming. Would he make it until morning?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Everyone looked guilty in an orange prison uniform.

  Friday morning, Morgan sat at the table in a cell-sized interview room at the county jail. The cobalt blue of her suit was the sole spot of color in the gray-on-gray color scheme. She’d tried to see Nick the previous afternoon, but his official transfer from the SFPD and intake into the county jail hadn’t yet been completed.

  Nothing was more important to the law enforcement system than paperwork.

  A guard escorted Nick into the room and removed his handcuffs. Rubbing his wrists, Nick slid into the chair opposite Morgan. His face was expressionless, and a bruise darkened his chin. He stared at the wall as the guard retreated.

  “He hasn’t said much since we booked him,” the guard said.

  Good. He’d listened.

  “I’ll be outside the door.” The guard shot Nick a warning look.

  “We’ll be fine, but thank you.” Morgan waited for the guard to withdraw to the other side of the door.

  Once the door had closed, Nick’s gaze shifted to her face. “Are you really going to be my lawyer?”

  “Yes.�
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  “Why?”

  “Because I know you.”

  He leaned back. “They all think I’m guilty.” He inclined his head toward the door.

  “They don’t know you. I do.” Morgan leaned over the table and pinned Nick’s gaze with her own. “I’m going to ask you one time and one time only. Did you kill Tessa?”

  Most defense attorneys Morgan knew never, ever asked their clients if they were guilty. Not only did they not want to know, but an attorney could not allow a client to perjure himself and claim innocence on the stand. Defense attorneys skated around this ethical dilemma with a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy.

  The justice system wouldn’t work without lawyers who were willing to support both sides. Intellectually, Morgan understood that every accused criminal deserved the best possible defense, but she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she helped free criminals who were released and subsequently committed more violent crimes.

  Nick didn’t flinch or fidget at her question. Nor did he break eye contact. His gaze held hers, steady and sure without any trace of guile. “No.”

  “Then I believe you.”

  Nick didn’t seem to know what to say. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me later. I want you to tell me exactly what happened last Thursday night.” Morgan poised her pen over her legal pad.

  “I met Tessa at a party at the lake.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About nine,” Nick said. “Anyway. Right after we got there, the guy she used to date, Jacob Emerson, came over and called her a slut. I told him he should—” Nick paused, looking away, his face flushing.

  “I need you to tell me everything, Nick, even if it’s not pretty.” Morgan leaned her forearms on the table. “I worked for the DA’s office for six years. You can’t shock me.”

  But he wouldn’t meet her eyes when he said, “I told him he should go fuck himself.”

  “And then?”

  “And he said he didn’t need to because he’d already fucked Tessa and so had every other guy in town.” Nick took a breath. “Tessa tried to pull me away, but I shoved Jacob. He’s such a privileged, entitled asshole.”