Apparently they’d brought the big guns for this hardened criminal.
The bailiff announced the judge—Magnusson—and Jensen rose as she entered. She seemed a stern woman, her blonde hair fluffed back, a pair of reading glasses dangling around her neck.
Yeah, he was going to jail—do not pass Go.
Jensen stared at his hands as the bailiff read the case file number, the charges against him, the reason for the hearing.
“Mr. Atwood, I see here that you are defending yourself. Why is that?”
He looked up. “Your Honor, I knew the terms of my probation, and I violated them. I have nothing to defend.”
He knew that, behind him, Claire was cringing, having fought for the past two weeks to get him counsel. But he was tired of trying to wrangle the law and wage a defense.
He’d killed a woman. A friend. His buddy’s wife. There was no defense for that, despite the fact that he’d never meant for it to happen.
And innocent or not, he couldn’t take one more day of living in this town pretending he hadn’t hurt people, pretending that he didn’t have some culpability. Going to jail might be a thousand times easier.
Except, of course, for Claire.
“Very well, Mr. Atwood. Prosecution, bring your case.”
He heard a chair slide back. “Your Honor, before we get started, I’d like to address the court, if I may.”
Jensen looked at Ivy. She stared straight ahead, at the judge.
“Go ahead, Miss Madison.”
Ivy stepped up to the podium. “As a clerk in my final year of law school, I worked for Atwood and Associates. I was given a file and asked to find a way to help the defendant in the case escape the mandatory vehicular homicide sentence. See, his father was my boss, and he loved his son, but he wasn’t representing the case. So he asked me to help.”
Her hands curled around the sides of the podium. “I didn’t know Jensen Atwood at all. He was just a case to me, but I was an eager young law student and I wanted to please my boss. So I studied the case and discovered that much of it was circumstantial. The prosecution couldn’t prove that Jensen had been negligent, although with his cell phone open in the vehicle, it was certainly suspect. The cell phone usage law, by the way, hadn’t held up a single successful conviction in the state of Minnesota at the time. I reviewed the facts, and in my opinion, the state did not have a substantial case. However, knowing the venue where the court case would be tried—here in Deep Haven—and knowing the outcome in the event of a guilty verdict, I proposed a rather unorthodox plea. Jensen would plead guilty, and I submitted a substantial memorandum proposing setting aside the sentencing guidelines and instead offering probation that included three thousand hours of community service.”
Jensen couldn’t breathe. She’d crafted his plea agreement?
“In a twist of fate, today I find myself wanting to defend Jensen’s innocence. But as the court knows, I can’t because he’s already pleaded guilty and been sentenced for his crime. So I’m recusing myself as prosecutor and joining his defense to plead for clemency.”
Then Ivy closed her file. The court fell silent until the judge finally said, “Mr. Atwood?”
He nodded dumbly.
Ivy walked over and sat down beside Jensen. She didn’t look at him, just touched his hand. Squeezed.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He had no words. Except . . . he leaned over. “Thank you, Ivy.”
For believing in him, for giving him a life here, even if he had blown it.
Judge Magnusson finally nodded at DJ. “We’ll hear the prosecution’s complaint.”
DJ stood and outlined the probation violation, his voice tight, ending with “And pursuant to his suspended sentence, the state of Minnesota asks that Jensen Atwood serve out his full sentence at a correctional facility of the court’s choosing.” DJ took a breath as he closed the file. “Although, granted, he is only twelve hours short on his community service.”
Twelve.
Even with the hours he’d earned at the Garden—thanks to Joe Michaels, who’d submitted the appropriate paperwork to Mitch. And Mitch’s generosity in allowing him double time for hazardous duty. And the extra hours he managed to put in since then. Twelve hours short.
But twelve hours short was still . . . short.
“Thank you, Mr. Teague. Defense?”
Ivy rose. “I would like to submit a request for clemency to the court, Your Honor. I know this is a bit unorthodox, but in this case, I believe it may be relevant.”
The bailiff took the clemency petition.
How Jensen wanted to turn, to thank Claire for the hours she’d spent writing it, keeping him from balling the entire thing in a wad and throwing it against the wall. But now, it felt like too little, too late.