Chapter 13 - THE JACKET
Blood on Gregory’s jacket sounded like the case-ending revelation.
It wasn’t.
Contact possibilities mattered.
If Gregory exited the SUV after hitting Dad, blood transfer could occur.
But Gregory claimed he never approached Dad.
His archived voicemail:
I thought he’d jump. I panicked. I left.
No mention of getting out.
The blood therefore challenged his story.
DNA testing confirmed the trace was consistent with Dad.
Small.
Degraded.
Strong enough statistically.
How did it get there?
Prosecution theory:
Gregory stopped after impact.
Exited.
Approached Dad.
Touched him or his clothing.
Then left without calling for help.
Defense theory:
Transfer occurred months earlier during the parking-structure confrontation.
Could Dad’s blood have been on Gregory’s jacket then?
No documented bleeding at that earlier incident.
Unlikely.
Not impossible abstractly.
The jacket added weight.
Then an old fiber from Dad’s coat matched material recovered from the torn cuff.
Again.
Contact.
The medical examiner reviewed whether Gregory’s failure to call for help caused death.
Could not conclude.
Dad’s injuries were severe.
He might have died regardless.
No homicide enhancement based solely on delayed aid.
Correct.
But leaving-scene liability remained.
The trial judge admitted the jacket after extensive chain-of-custody hearings.
Malcolm’s storage history was imperfect.
Still sufficiently documented with photographs and family inventory.
Elaine Porter would attack it before the jury.
She should.
Rachel the avenging daughter was no longer the defense’s only theme.
Now:
A tragic drunk-driving confrontation.
Not murder.
Gregory panicked.
Dad stepped in front.
Gregory made a catastrophic reckless choice.
The distinction could reduce decades of prison exposure.
I told Julia Bennett:
“If manslaughter is what you can prove, say manslaughter.”
She nodded.
“We charged alternatives for that reason.”
No one needed murder as a moral title.
Gregory killed Dad.
That was established.
Law would classify the mental state.
Meanwhile, I finalized my divorce.
The settlement took months.
House sold.
Joint debts allocated.
My separate trust confirmed.
Gregory’s Mercer economic interests remained his, subject to creditor claims and restitution.
No revenge seizure.
No magical transfer of company shares to me.
I kept the bronze insignia.
I sold the dining table.
Not because it was haunted.
Because one leg cracked when Gregory kicked it.
Furniture can just be damaged.
At my new apartment, I bought a round table.
Cheap by our old standards.
I liked it.
No place at the head.
My mother laughed.
“Symbolic?”
“No.”
“It’s literally round.”
“Fine. Slightly symbolic.”
That night I cooked pasta.
Dropped a plate.
It shattered.
My entire body froze.
Then I breathed.
Picked up the pieces with a broom.
No Gregory.
No raised hand.
No tactical calculation.
Just a broken plate.
I started crying anyway.
Healing is irritatingly physical.
Then Detective Ellis called.
“We found a witness from the service road.”
“After seven years?”
“He wasn’t listed as a witness because he never came forward.”
“Who?”
“A delivery driver.”
“What did he see?”
“Not the impact.”
My disappointment came too quickly.
“What then?”
May you like
“He saw Gregory standing over your father afterward.”
The jacket finally had a story.
