“I’m no longer a cop,” I protested. “I don’t think I’m the right person for this.” Even as the words tumbled from my mouth, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to say no. How do you say no to the organization that’s responsible for the very freedom I was learning to enjoy once again? CAJE believed in my innocence when no one else would listen. Well, them and my mother. God bless my mom, who hadn’t given up on me for even a second. I smiled over at her as Robert tried to convince me to get involved. The much too innocent look on her face old me she knew what the call was about.
Prison had not been easy. Ex-cops don’t have many friends on that side of the concrete and steel. I’d surpassed my own and everyone else’s expectations by surviving eight long years. The first few hadn’t been easy -- half a dozen severe beatings and three stabbings. Believe it or not, isolation was even worse. Whoever said ‘that which does not kill us makes us stronger’ probably never spent time inside. Eventually, my fellow prisoners tolerated me. Well, most of the time. However, that was all behind me now.
“I’ll look into it,” I relented, while being certain there’d be very little I could do. From what I’d read in the papers and seen on the news, the case against Stan Connelly was solid. Despite the lack of a body,
forensics had discovered evidence of blood in the Connelly kitchen and on the deck of their boat. The DNA findings had confirmed that the blood belonged to Amy Connelly. Things didn’t look good for Stan, but he steadfastly claimed he’d been framed.
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