Chapter 2: A Stranger’s Request

In the summer of 2012, the county jail called my office. A suspect in a first-degree murder wanted me, of all people, to defend him.

I nearly dropped my coffee. This had to be a mistake. No way was this real.

I was only in my second year as a lawyer, and all I’d handled were messy divorces and family spats—garden sheds, not graves. My criminal defense experience was exactly zero. This was a job for a seasoned pro, not some rookie who still got lost in the courthouse basement. He’s gotta have the wrong guy.

I told the jail they had the wrong person and said no, flat out. I could almost hear my law school professor in my head: "Don’t go looking for trouble, Amy."

But nothing is ever that simple.

The next day, the jail called again. The suspect had named me specifically. He was dead certain I was the one he wanted.

When something this weird lands in your lap, there’s always a story behind it. This time, I bit back my nerves and asked the case officer for the details, curiosity outweighing caution.

It was a murder case: a college lecturer, killed at home. The victim was beaten, then strangled with a rope. Two days later, a student found the body and called 911.

The police moved fast. Their prime suspect? The victim’s own younger brother.

Neighbors spotted him at the scene around the time of the crime; his fingerprints and footprints matched; his hands were scraped up in ways that lined up with the victim’s cause of death.

And he had a rap sheet—juvenile record, fifteen years served, out two years. Not exactly the picture of innocence.

During interrogation, the suspect was a wall. Beyond name, age, and hometown, he clammed up. Not a word about the crime.

Luckily for the DA, the evidence was airtight. Once forensics came in, the facts were basically locked. He never confessed, but the case was handed to the DA’s office—no wiggle room left.

In the middle of this, the suspect insisted on hiring me—a civil lawyer with no criminal experience. We’d never met, never crossed paths. It wasn’t about my reputation or my resume. I just couldn’t figure out why he was so set on me.

The jail staff were just as baffled. Even a public defender would make more sense than picking you, they said.

...

On a strange impulse, I agreed to meet him. What did I have to lose—besides a quiet afternoon and, maybe, my sense of security?