The Divorcee Murder Club

Setenta Y Cuatro ~ 74

                 Spiders are crawling over me, and I'm in a jungle surrounded by webs, but no matter how much I swat my arms, the critters keep coming. A machete appears in my hand, so I hack through the sticky labyrinth, looking for a way out. However, it's useless. With each step, more spiders latch on, to the point I can no longer see my flesh underneath them. The only thing I can do is chop off my limbs so they can't bite them anymore. Taking a deep breath, I raise the sharp blade and bring it down with a thwack!

I flinch awake, my heart racing.

Fuck. That was a wild dream. I pat myself down, and thankfully, my body is still intact, but my arms are tingling all over. I must have fallen asleep with my head resting on them, which would explain the sensation crawling up my arms like little bugs.
The clock on the wall shows that two hours have passed since requesting to speak with an attorney. Maybe I'm never getting out of here?

However, there's a familiar voice somewhere distance, so I rub my eyes with a yawn and listen.

"I said, which one is he in?" my mother barks, and the shadow of her silhouette moves behind the closed blinds of the interrogation room windows.

"Now, Mrs. Gomez, you cannot come here and boss us around. If you continue this charade, we will escort you out."

"I'm not leaving my son alone with you crooks for another second!" my mom exclaims. "Now, show me where he is."

The interrogation room door flies open, and in marches, my mother, with her platform wedges, clomping across the scuffed linoleum floor. She must have been running errands because she's wearing skinny jeans and a black leather jacket with her hair quaffed in a stylish bun and her purse slung over one shoulder. She smells like her sweet perfume, too.

"Don't tell them another word, Mijo. I've brought your attorney," she says, her face twisted in a scowl.

An older man is with her, wearing a designer pinstripe suit and a gold watch that probably costs more than my bonus check from Augusta. He rests his Italian leather briefcase on the table and flicks the lock release buttons with a clack clack. Then, he glances over his shoulder at Shapiro in the doorway.

"We need privacy and the camera off."

Shapiro rolls her eyes but closes the door, and my new lawyer waits until her shadow retreats from the windows before turning to me.

"Alright, Miguel. I am Henry Kominsky, and your mother hired me to represent you. From what your girlfriend told me, the police have no tangible evidence against you."

"But what about his friends?" my mom asks. "They confessed."

He shrugs. "It doesn't look good, and if this goes to trial, they'll use that against him, which means we have to be smart and devise a solid plan."

"What will happen with my friend Jackson? They said they would offer him a deal. What does that mean?"

"Likely, they'll try to get him to rat on you so he gets less time. I'll look into it."

"Jackson wouldn't sell himself out. He's not like that. If he refuses a deal, what happens?"

"Depends. They might want to get a trial out of this. Perhaps one with a jury, which means his fate will be in the hands of twelve strangers."

"I see." I stare at the table. "And if they find the body?"

Henry looks up from his glasses. "Will they find one?"

"Shapiro said she's going to get a judge to sign off on a warrant to search my storage shed and property."

"I see." Henry scribbles across the notepad, then turns it to face me.