Morgan gestured to a chair facing her desk. “Please, sit down.”

He lowered his frame into the seat, resting trembling hands on the arms of the chair. Morgan opened her credenza drawer and found a package of cookies. She put a few on a plate and brewed a cup of coffee. When it was finished, she handed the mug to Mr. Olander and set the plate of cookies on the desk in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”

“No, thank you.” He picked up a cookie.

Morgan settled behind her desk, content to wait until he was ready to talk. Understandably, he seemed to need to collect himself. While he did, she held her phone in her lap under the desk and sent Lance a quick text, letting him know Mr. Olander was here and not at his farm. After Mr. Olander had eaten two cookies and sipped his coffee, his color improved.

He settled back in the chair and stared into the coffee. “I’d like to say I can’t believe my wife killed herself, but that would be a lie. It didn’t surprise me one bit.” He wrapped all his fingers around the mug.

“I’m sorry for all that has happened to you.”

His life had been destroyed.

He nodded once. “She was at a breaking point. I honestly thought she was going to do it when Erik was convicted. I’m almost surprised she held out this long.”

“Did she get counseling?”

He huffed. “No. She refused. It was almost like she didn’t want to feel better. Plus, our health insurance deductible is so big, we can’t afford to use it. We mortgaged the farm to hire the best lawyer. We even sold off some of our furniture. We eventually put the farm up for sale, although it took a while to find a buyer. No one wants a dairy farm these days.”

He’d lost his son, his wife, and his home. What did he have left?

Hope that his son might win an appeal.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“We’re moving to a small house in town. I can’t imagine living so close to other people, but it’s all I can afford. But I guess it doesn’t matter. The farm is just an empty shell now. I sold the equipment. The livestock is gone.” He sighed. “Everything is gone.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Olander?” Morgan asked in a soft voice.

“My wife wanted to hire you right before she . . .” He inhaled and steadied himself.

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Erik’s conviction broke her, until that writer lady came to see us. She got Lena all fired up.” He dug into his pocket and produced a wrinkled business card. “Olivia Cruz.” He shoved it back into his pocket. “Ms. Cruz told us she was researching Erik’s case. When she said the jury foreman had lied about her background, Lena went ballistic.”

“Did Ms. Cruz actually say the juror lied?” Morgan asked. Olivia’s previous book had been based on one of Morgan’s former clients. Olivia knew legal procedure. She would have understood the technicalities of the jury selection process.

“I don’t remember if she used the word lie.” His forehead wrinkled. “She might have said something like neglected to disclose, but that’s the same thing.”

Not exactly.

So often, people heard what they wanted to hear.

“Ms. Cruz said she was going to continue researching and she’d let us know if she found anything else. Erik’s lawyer already filed a notice of appeal, but he doesn’t think we’ll get any traction with what Ms. Cruz discovered. He’s working other angles.”

Morgan agreed with the attorney, but Mrs. Olander hadn’t.

“For all I paid him, he should be able to get some results!” Mr. Olander’s voice rose. He looked away, his jaw sawing back and forth, as he composed himself.

Morgan gave him a minute to cool down. Then she changed the topic. “How did your wife find me?”

“She saw you on TV a while back, about the same time Erik was first arrested. She wanted to hire you to represent him then.” He shifted his weight. “But our funds were limited. I wanted someone with more experience in criminal defense. Your practice had just opened.”

Morgan had additional experience as a prosecutor, but now was not the time to mention it. She wasn’t selling her services. She’d already refused the case.

Mr. Olander set his mug on the desk. “Here’s the thing. The damned prosecutor was such an arrogant prick in the courtroom. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew all about the juror and picked her on purpose.”

ADA Anthony Esposito had prosecuted Erik’s case. Morgan had a sometimes adversarial, sometimes cordial relationship with Esposito. His moral code seemed as gray as the charcoal suits he favored. He could be arrogant, and he liked to win. But Morgan couldn’t see him committing an ethical violation and jeopardizing his career by withholding critical information from the defense, especially not in a case where he already had a clear advantage.

Morgan said, “In most cases, neither the prosecutor nor the defense counsel would know about an event from a juror’s distant past.”

“Well, he treated Erik like dirt.”

Of course he had. Esposito had wanted the jury to feel his certainty that Erik was guilty. He had wanted them to feel—and share—his disgust. Much of what happened in the courtroom was theatrics. The truth was irrelevant if an attorney could not convince the jury.

Olander’s fist suddenly slammed down on her desk, rattling it—and surprising Morgan with the rapid shift in his demeanor.

“Erik’s trial was a farce.” Olander’s face twisted until he barely resembled the man she’d let into her office. “I paid a lot of money for a good lawyer, and the first thing he did was suggest Erik plead guilty.”

The firm the Olanders had hired was based in Albany. Morgan was familiar with their attorney’s reputation. He was experienced and seemed competent.

The skin of Mr. Olander’s already-lean face had tightened with anger. Maybe Erik had inherited his father’s volatile temper. She considered Olander’s behavior on the doorstep. He’d lost his entire life. Some emotional instability should be expected, but Morgan had interviewed hundreds of suspects, victims, and witnesses. Mr. Olander set off her well-honed bullshit detector.

Was he truly volatile, or had his depression been an act? Had he been trying to manipulate Morgan’s sympathy and cooperation? Which one was the real Mr. Olander?

Morgan remembered Mrs. Olander’s statement when she’d first entered Morgan’s office: Kennett doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t approve. At the time, Morgan hadn’t thought much of the comment, but now she wondered if Mrs. Olander had been afraid of her husband.

Erik’s wife had been researching domestic violence shelters on the sly. Maybe wife beating and being a control freak ran in the family.

“Our fucking lawyer should have found out about the juror’s partiality,” Mr. Olander said. “We shouldn’t have learned about it from a reporter.”

“As I explained to your wife, being a domestic violence victim more than twenty years ago would not automatically disqualify her from serving on the jury.”

“That’s bullshit!” Mr. Olander spat out the words. “I hate lawyers.” His voice rose, and he banged a fist on his thigh. “Can’t I get a fucking straight answer from you either?”