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Authors: Christina Morgan
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kind. Adultery. Money. Revenge. None of those applied to our marriage. We still loved each other very much. I couldn’t have killed him. I just couldn’t. But that still left the question of who did kill him. And I was still at a loss on that one.
***
The thought that twelve random people all came to the conclusion that there was enough evidence to suggest I might have killed him hurt my feelings. That’s all that was needed for an indictment—just enough evidence to prove probable cause. But these people didn’t know me. It was hard not to take it personally. It’s not fair that I wasn’t allowed to plead my case. I knew if they’d met me, heard my side of the story, they’d believe me. Instead, I was just some nameless, faceless woman who, according to the prosecutor, had flown into a blind rage and murdered her husband with a large-caliber pistol. Of course they believed Dorne. There was no mitigating evidence presented to a grand jury—just the prosecutor’s case. So unfair.
But here I was. Nothing I could do about it; I had to resign myself to my fate. I was going to jail, and there was nothing I could do to get out of it.
I eventually fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning. I usually didn’t dream, or at least I never remembered my dreams. But when I woke up Friday morning, I was covered in sweat, my t-shirt sticking to me in all the wrong places. I was breathing heavily.
In my dream, I was standing next to Ryan’s side of the bed, holding a gun which was almost too large for my small hands, pointing it right at his head. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, trying to decide whether or not to pull the trigger. But before I could make up my mind, Ryan woke up and looked right at me. Instead of begging for his life, a Cheshire Cat-like smile spread across his beautiful face. “Go ahead, do it,” he said confidently. When I didn’t pull the trigger immediately, he let out a loud, maniacal laugh. “You can’t do it, can you? You’re weak. Weak and barren and no good for me. Go ahead. You’ve already killed me. I’m dead in this marriage. You can’t even give me a child. What do I have to live for?” That did it. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. The imagined sound of the gunshot was what woke me.
I shook the dream off as best I could and padded into the upstairs bathroom. As I went through my normal morning routine of showering and brushing my hair, then my teeth, I wondered how on earth I was going share a shower with dozens, maybe hundreds, of other women. I was never all that modest; nakedness never bothered me. But something about actually parading around naked in front of hardened female criminals made me uneasy. I wondered if they really put soap on a rope. Or was that just for male prisoners?
I debated on whether to fix my hair and put on makeup. After all, what’s the point? By noon I’d be in jail wearing a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a chain around my ankle…okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. Ultimately, I remembered there would probably be news reporters there, taking pictures of me as I did my perp walk into the jail. I wanted to look my best, vain as that may sound. I knew that whatever pictures they took of me today would be plastered all over the television, newspapers, and internet, which meant they’d be out there forever. So I applied some of the makeup I’d bought at Walmart and blew my hair out with a round brush. Those stupid roots still bothered me, and I wished I had thought to get them touched up before today. But I quickly realized that in the grand scheme of things, imperfect hair was the least of my concerns.
I said goodbye to Mom, which was more difficult than I had imagined. She hugged me as if she never wanted to let me go. I’m sure she didn’t; I didn’t want to let her go, either. But ultimately I was running late, and we had to say goodbye. She kissed me on both cheeks and then my forehead, just
***
The thought that twelve random people all came to the conclusion that there was enough evidence to suggest I might have killed him hurt my feelings. That’s all that was needed for an indictment—just enough evidence to prove probable cause. But these people didn’t know me. It was hard not to take it personally. It’s not fair that I wasn’t allowed to plead my case. I knew if they’d met me, heard my side of the story, they’d believe me. Instead, I was just some nameless, faceless woman who, according to the prosecutor, had flown into a blind rage and murdered her husband with a large-caliber pistol. Of course they believed Dorne. There was no mitigating evidence presented to a grand jury—just the prosecutor’s case. So unfair.
But here I was. Nothing I could do about it; I had to resign myself to my fate. I was going to jail, and there was nothing I could do to get out of it.
I eventually fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning. I usually didn’t dream, or at least I never remembered my dreams. But when I woke up Friday morning, I was covered in sweat, my t-shirt sticking to me in all the wrong places. I was breathing heavily.
In my dream, I was standing next to Ryan’s side of the bed, holding a gun which was almost too large for my small hands, pointing it right at his head. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, trying to decide whether or not to pull the trigger. But before I could make up my mind, Ryan woke up and looked right at me. Instead of begging for his life, a Cheshire Cat-like smile spread across his beautiful face. “Go ahead, do it,” he said confidently. When I didn’t pull the trigger immediately, he let out a loud, maniacal laugh. “You can’t do it, can you? You’re weak. Weak and barren and no good for me. Go ahead. You’ve already killed me. I’m dead in this marriage. You can’t even give me a child. What do I have to live for?” That did it. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. The imagined sound of the gunshot was what woke me.
I shook the dream off as best I could and padded into the upstairs bathroom. As I went through my normal morning routine of showering and brushing my hair, then my teeth, I wondered how on earth I was going share a shower with dozens, maybe hundreds, of other women. I was never all that modest; nakedness never bothered me. But something about actually parading around naked in front of hardened female criminals made me uneasy. I wondered if they really put soap on a rope. Or was that just for male prisoners?
I debated on whether to fix my hair and put on makeup. After all, what’s the point? By noon I’d be in jail wearing a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a chain around my ankle…okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. Ultimately, I remembered there would probably be news reporters there, taking pictures of me as I did my perp walk into the jail. I wanted to look my best, vain as that may sound. I knew that whatever pictures they took of me today would be plastered all over the television, newspapers, and internet, which meant they’d be out there forever. So I applied some of the makeup I’d bought at Walmart and blew my hair out with a round brush. Those stupid roots still bothered me, and I wished I had thought to get them touched up before today. But I quickly realized that in the grand scheme of things, imperfect hair was the least of my concerns.
I said goodbye to Mom, which was more difficult than I had imagined. She hugged me as if she never wanted to let me go. I’m sure she didn’t; I didn’t want to let her go, either. But ultimately I was running late, and we had to say goodbye. She kissed me on both cheeks and then my forehead, just
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