“I told you not to lie to me.”

“I haven’t,” he says, and sips the latte.

We are less than twenty-four hours before the initial hearing. I swallow, trying to quell my frustration at the smugness of his square-jawed face. “There is DNA evidence on the body. Your DNA.”

“Planted by Megan.”

“Your fingerprints are all over the freezer, on the frozen sweetcorn and peas, on the body.”

“I moved the freezer. To make sure that Megan wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“I can’t say that in your defense, though, can I? You’d be admitting to covering up the murder. Plus, your prints are all over the chain Leah was shackled with, and there is a lot of evidence of harm against her.”

“That’s why she knocked me out the first time. So she could press all those things against my fingers.”

I throw him a withering look. “How convenient.”

“I thought you believed me.” His voice sounds small. Child-like.

I close the file and look at him. He is wide-eyed, one step away from tears. Crocodile tears. I know that face. It is the same face my daughter used when I refused to buy her a brand-new car last year, right before she told me in a soft voice that sometimes she wondered if I would have been happier if she hadn’t been born. She got her brand-new Audi A3, with a custom paint job and the soft-top that folds away at the touch of a button.

“I need you, Jeremy,” he says as he spreads his hands out on the table, palms down. “You’re the only hope I have.”

I am being played. I know it, and Chris knows it. I just hope he can play the jury this well.

Chris pleads not guilty during his initial hearing. It’s a small affair; making court “COVID-secure” entails spacing everyone out so it’s essential people only. The judge calls me to her chambers after and asks me what the hell we are playing at. She pushes me to get him to change his plea and take a deal.

“It’s a no-brainer, Mr. Crumpton, and you know it.”

Even if it were, I still wouldn’t recommend he changes his plea out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Who the fuck does the bitch think she is to talk to me like that? “My client is innocent,” I say sweetly, hands in my pockets so she can’t see how much her condescension angers me. My fists clenched.

“Is that so?” She’s openly baiting me. I get this kind of vibe from most of the female judges, to be fair. Too many years of trying to prove themselves makes them prickly and defensive against a well-dressed male defense lawyer. But it’s not misogyny that’s the problem in the legal system, it’s misandry. Even if she, and all those other progressive types, keep banging the old “down with the patriarchy” drum. The system is designed to stack the deck very firmly in favor of the women, always upholding the poor darlings as victims of male depravity. Mix victim culture with ball-breaker judges and female prosecutors who think that all men—professionals and criminals alike—are out to get them, and you have a perfect storm for the overrun male-only prisons. This bitch isn’t doing much to change my opinion.