Considering the flimsiness of our case, Frank and Mr. Bates proposed a new tactic: “Your husband and I have decided it would be best if he went along with the prosecution’s accusations. They’ve already set it up for us; all he has to do is confess he purposely misled you. You’ll have a chance that way, a very good chance.” Frank squeezed my hand.

“No.”

Mr. Bates leaned forward. “Let me put it to you this way: it’s your only chance.”

“He’s not bowing to them and neither am I. I did it once; I won’t do it again.”

“Irene,” said Frank, “if this benefits the case, what does it matter how we bend?”

“Because it’s time to break it with them. They’ve held on to you all these years with the truth. I won’t let them hold on now with a lie.”

They left, but Mr. Bates soon returned alone. He sat facing me, but he watched the pen he was twirling between his fingers. He spoke deliberately.

“History is full of martyrs who died for the truth. I have my own theory that most of them didn’t happen upon a cause. They went out looking for one, one they knew could fulfill their fame-in-death wish.”

“I didn’t go out looking for a cause.”

“No, but when you found one, you took a gun to it. All right, you made a righteous accomplishment. Now you are being offered the opportunity for a second accomplishment—getting the verdict we want. And yet you turn down that opportunity.”

“I won’t buy a verdict with Frank’s name.”

“So you’ll risk a prison term and a long separation from him? Mrs. Mattison, your husband needs you more than he needs his name. You committed murder for your daughter, but you will not bend for your husband.”

“I did not commit murder for my daughter. I knew she was already lost to us before I fired that gun. I killed that woman for myself. I’ve had plenty of time to think, Mr. Bates, and I’ve thought about my motive. You talk about righteousness. My killing Vivian was not done out of righteousness. It was done out of humiliation and shame. Let me tell you something. I married a decent man. His decency, his integrity, his love for me, are as tangible as that pen you’re playing with. For nineteen years, I had daily proof of them. But when he ran up against this—this plot, I chose to doubt him, to wipe out years of evidence with one single suspicion. I chose to believe Regina even after I caught her lying to me about school and I chose to believe Vivian, a perfect stranger, because she flattered me with some cheap sympathy. And so did I love him any better than his daughter and his mother did? Vivian knew I didn’t; she told me so that night. And I shot her for it.” I was proceeding calmly, rationally, and yet my throat tightened and the tears started down my face. “I’m no martyr. Far from it. I turned Regina over to his family and in a way I turned myself over to them too.”