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No one had ever tried to put themselves in my shoes before.
Something about his admission, the revelation of his personal tragedy, filled the air around us with an intimate honesty. It was a truth that echoed with familiarity, a poignant realization of how broken our lives were from an early age. Our experiences, though different, were cut from the same cloth of life’s suffering.
I guess I could’ve continued being evasive about my life, but Hunter was beingwin a badge of honornice, driving me to the ER, and even humbled himself by confiding that piece of his history.
So, I cleared my throat and answered his original question—where I’d learned my fighting instincts.
“Being the daughter of a convicted killer doesn’t make you very popular,” I started. “I was bullied in school, so I learned to defend myself.”
“Define bullied.” The protective flare in his voice took me off guard; it took me a moment to answer.
“A lot of verbal stuff, name-calling, trashing my locker, that kind of thing. But it was also physical at times.”
“Give me an example.” His jaw tightened.
“I was thrown into a dumpster once. I got jumped five times. I begged my mom to let me homeschool, but she was all righteous about how we had done nothing wrong, and we would not be chased out of our school or our neighborhood, yada yada. She went to the principal and demanded action, but you know how bullying goes. So, eventually, I got good at defending myself.”
Hunter clutched the wheel tighter, driving in silence for a minute as if he had to push an emotion aside.
“Can I ask a personal question?” Hunter asked.
“Admitting I had been thrown into a dumpster when I was younger wasn’t personal enough for you?”
The side of his lips curled up slightly.
“I know the salary of a public defender.”
“Let me guess. My entire salary is probably your coffee budget.”
His lips curved higher. Until today, I had never seen Hunter Lockwood smile, and holy hormones, did it do things to my lower belly.
“You should be able to afford a better car than that hunk of metal.” There was not an ounce of condescension in his tone, but rather curiosity.
“Unfortunately, I have this pesky thing called student loan debt. And then on top of it, I’m investigating a case on the side, and as I’m sure you know, investigations can be very expensive.”
He seemed to consider this.
“I heard you filed the writ of habeas corpus.”
Our eyes briefly met before he returned them to the road. He sat slouched in his seat, his right elbow on the center console.
I was surprised he’d taken enough of an interest in me to learn that tidbit.
“Last resort for your dad’s case, isn’t it?” he asked.
I hated how much of a long shot this was. Up there with getting Apollo 13 home safe. Normally, any motion for appeal had to happen within a short time after the verdict, which my family filed and lost. And typically, a motion for a new trial had to be filed within three years of the verdict. But there were exceptions. Still, I knew in my bones this was our attempt at a Hail Mary.
“The last resort is when he’s home, where he belongs. Where innocent people belong.”
He stopped at a red light, the hospital now within view.
“Is that why you’re a criminal defense attorney?”
I twisted my hands in my lap. “The justice system failed my fatherandthe victim he was accused of killing.”
Hunter tilted his head slightly. “So, you want to make sure everyone gets a fair trial.”
“If my clients are guilty, I advise them to plead so and then help them through the process. The way I see it,” I added, “better nine guilty men walk free than one innocent person goes to prison.”
