The Verdict of Silence

I practice law in a high-rise office, while the innocent man who put me there rots in a cell.

Every Friday, without fail, a beige envelope arrives at my penthouse apartment. The handwriting is jagged, the paper cheap. It smells faintly of industrial disinfectant. These letters are from my older brother, Jason. He tells me about the prison yard, the books he’s reading, and the gray food. He always ends the letter the same way: "I’m proud of you, sis. I forgive you. Don't worry about me." But I do worry. I worry because he is serving a life sentence for a crime he didn't commit.

Fifteen years ago, on a rainy Tuesday night, our lives shattered. I was 22, drunk on cheap champagne, celebrating my full scholarship to a prestigious law school. It was my ticket out of our poverty. I insisted on driving home. The roads were slick. The pedestrian came out of nowhere. The thud was sickening. I panicked, hyperventilating behind the wheel, screaming that my future was over before it began.

"He looked at the flashing sirens in the distance, then he looked at me. He took the keys from my shaking hands."

Jason wiped my fingerprints off the steering wheel. He told me to run home through the woods and never speak of it again. When the police arrived, he was sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette, waiting to confess. He has been in jail for 15 years. He gave up his freedom so I could wear a suit and argue about "justice" in a courtroom.

The irony suffocates me every day. I am a respected defense attorney. I fight for the innocent, yet I let my own brother rot. Everyone thinks he is a monster who killed a man and fled. But the truth is etched into my soul: I was the driver. His letters of forgiveness don't bring me peace; they are a weekly torture session, reminding me that the person in the mirror is the real criminal, and the saint is behind bars.

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