He did not beg for himself.
He asked people to protect his daughter.
He did not curse the victim’s family.
He said he understood their anger.
And whenever he spoke about the night Martin Hale died, his story never changed.
Mitchell stared at the request for several minutes.
Then he signed it.
“Bring the child.”
Three hours later, a white state vehicle passed through the prison gates.
A social worker stepped out first.
Beside her walked eight-year-old Chloe Cole.
She had pale blond hair tied into a loose braid, bright blue eyes, and an expression far older than any child should have worn.
She did not cry.
She did not ask where they were going.
She simply followed the social worker through the long corridors.
Conversations stopped as they passed.
Even veteran officers looked away.
When the visitation-room door opened, Gavin was already waiting.
His wrists were secured to the steel table. His orange uniform hung loosely from his thinner frame.
