Free Ride to Freedom by Sophia Hampton

 
    RIDE TO FREEDOM
     
    When you are told your Miranda rights—which is unfortunate because it means you’re going to be arrested—they say: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
     
    I am one of those provided attorneys.
     
    My mother thinks my career choice is a terrible one. She thinks it provides little income and that helping the dregs of society is a waste of tax money. But, I don’t see criminals when I talk to my clients. I see a man who spent his life being abused by foster parents or a woman who needed to steal groceries for her hungry children. I see the possibility of innocence hidden under the heavy weight of judgment.
     
    My latest case involves a woman who tried to steal TV dinners for her three kids by hiding them in her coat. It could have worked, if it wasn’t July.
     
    I look over her police statement with a glass of merlot in my hand. I wish people listened more to their Miranda rights and used their right to remain silent. It would make my job as their public defender so much easier. I see this woman as a mother more than a thief, but I need to convince a jury of that conception. The problem is that people tend to be unforgiving, especially when it comes to impoverished strangers.
     
    The wind slams against my house and I hear something crash outside. It could be a tree branch or my trash can rolling into the road. I set down my glass and rush to the door. When I open it, I see the rain has begun to pour down.
     
    I step outside and I’m immediately soaked. My garbage can is still upright, shielded by the house. I circle around my home and see that there are no tree branches down. I open the sliding glass door in the back of my house and I step in. I wring out my auburn hair and peel my wet shirt away from my skin. It clings back onto my body, hugging every curve.
     
    I walk into my bathroom and look in the mirror. In an attempt to try to fix my hair, I search for a hairband in the drawer underneath my sink. After moving my brushes and combs out of the way, I find one. I glance back at the mirror and see a man staring back at me.
     
    I spin around to face him. He’s tall and almost too broad to fit in the doorway. His hair is pitch black, cropped short, and dripping wet. His gray irises cut through me like a blade. As lightning strikes and fills the house with light, his muscular build becomes more apparent and menacing.
     
    “Tobey,” I scowl. “How did you get in here?”
     
    He grins, leaning against the door frame. “Your front door. How could you work with criminals and not know the distracting noise trick to break into houses?”
     
    “I suppose the same way I dated you and didn’t know you were full of shit,” I say. He raises an eyebrow, my vulgar language foreign to him. “I haven’t seen you in almost a decade. How do you know what I’ve been doing?”
     
    “I’ve kept tabs,” he says. “You’ve defended a few of my friends, too.”
     
    “I’m sure I have,” I say. “I suppose that means you’re still hanging around with your biker gang? You still fuck people over for your own benefit?”
     
    “Damn, Grace,” he says. “You’ve acquired a mouth in the last few years. Do you kiss your bitch of a mother with those lips?”
     
    “No,” I say. “I kissed you. Obviously, your lips were tainted with something offensive.”
     
    A flicker of regret passes over his face, but he blinks and his cocky expression returns. “I’ve heard you’re quite good at your job,” he says.
     
    “I do my best,” I say.
     
    “Have you ever had to defend a person accused of murder?” he asks.
     
    “A few. Why?”
     
    “What were their verdicts?” he asks and I swallow hard.
     
    “One received a lesser sentence of manslaughter,” I say. “The other two were found guilty. It’s a hard