“But three months ago,” I continued, “something changed. Marcus’s mother delivered a letter to our home. She stood on my porch in tears, begging me to read what her son had written.”
I withdrew a worn envelope from my vest. I had unfolded and refolded it enough times to crease every edge. “This letter explained something the authorities never told me. Something I did not know until I read his words.”
The judge leaned forward. “What did the letter say?”
I unfolded it slowly. “It said Marcus was never meant to be driving that night. He was supposed to be home. But he received a call from his closest friend, who was drunk at a party and preparing to drive. Marcus went there to stop him. He ordered an Uber for his friend. Paid for it with money he had saved for a school trip. Watched him get into the car.”
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