On the morning of July 17, 2005, Michael Jeffries walked somberly through the door of Room 319 of the Augusta County Courthouse. His orange prison suit was bright, and his ankles were fettered to a foot-long chain. Hands together and wrists locked by cold-steel cuffs, Michael paced forward until he reached the seat next to his attorney, Margaret Matthews. “Good morning.” Margaret said, noticing Michael sitting down. “How are you today?” Michael raised his sullen face and produced a distant mutter. “I’m well.” he said softly; he didn’t bother addressing her with his eyes. Margaret placed her newly-married hand on the small of Michael’s back and leaned in. She uttered a phrase Michael heard all too often from her posh lips, “Today is going to be a good day, Mr. Jeffries.” A childish smile tiptoed across her budding cheeks. Margaret removed her palm from his back and wiggled a shimmy in her chair, like a cheerleader with pom-poms. Michael glided his eyes to the left in a roll-like fashion, away from his all-too-optimistic attorney. Shoot me now, he thought to himself, take me out back like a sick dog and end it. Michael Jeffries had every right to feel defeated. Life was unfair, he knew firsthand. Twenty-three years ago, he celebrated the birth of his first-born, Anthony. Two years later, twins, Annalisa and Olivia. He had had a grand-slam of a family back then; memories that brought harrowing tears of pain these years later. Michael’s wife, Noni, was the extroverted fire-cracker he needed to propel his life forward; and with three kids, the couple made a generously, lovely pair — Michael made dinner, Noni washed dishes. Michael gave baths, Noni did the drying. They gave hugs and kisses, and filled the little tikes’ minds with wonder as story time concluded at days end. But life has a funny way of changing when you become too comfortable. It started after a long night at the office for Michael Jeffries. He pulled his black Audi into the family’s two-car garage and powered off the engine. As the garage door fell, Michael brandished his musky cologne from under the drivers-seat and spritzed a fresh haze upon his lapel – casting a masculine odor that overpowered that of Bethany Phillips’s (the office intern and twenty years his junior) heavily lilac perfume and dried saliva on his neck. A weekday ritual for the Accounts Manager. He entered the house through the garage and walked tentatively into the kitchen. The house was eerily silent. The kids, Michael recalled, were staying at their grandparent’s house for the weekend. As the stillness wandered throughout the house, Michael made his way up the stairs to the master bedroom, anticipating the snores of his wife as he made his way closer to the double doors. The silence mounted. Michael cracked the door, peeping an eye through the opening like a periscope; no movement. A small patch of light glowed faintly beneath the master bathroom door, but no noise came of it. Gliding smoothly across the pale carpet, he put his ear to the door like a thief to a safe. He could feel his heart beat in his neck as his knuckle padded the door lightly. “Honey?” Michael said coolly. “You in there?” Nothing. Well someone has to be in there, he thought matter-of-factly. Unless Noni left the light on again after a post-shower beauty session, but those were few and far between. These days she sported the rugged warrior look; the look a mother-of-three had after doing battle with blood-curdling, screaming youngsters. Michael liked it; the greying strands of hair made him feel like he was married to someone older. A younger girl was great, sure, but an older woman had the mileage and erotic know-how to satisfy a man in a way only she could. So, why Bethany Phillips? That answer could be summed up in a single word – greed. He wanted his cake, and he made damn sure to eat it, too. “She’s probably soaking in the tub.” he muttered to himself in a small voice. It was Friday night after all, love-making night. Although freshly squeezed an hour prior, Michael had the mojo of a sixteen-year-old boy and the endurance of The Tasmanian Devil — thanks to the Doc’s new testosterone-boosters. He twisted the handle and entered the room… Michael Alan Jeffries was sentenced to life in prison, without the possibility of parole, for the drowning of Noni Ann Jeffries (nee Roberts) on February 12, 1994. The sentencing came with mixed emotions for Michael. Mostly because of the lack of evidence. The jury was made of five housewives, three middle-aged men, two college feminists and two ex-convicts – the ex-cons having served minor delinquencies in the late 70s. The case was said to be cut and dry – a case of accidental drowning on the night of July 17, 1993 – according to most media outlets. That is, until Bethany Phillips made front page news two weeks leading up to the trial; thanks to an exclusive tell-all interview. The blonde haired, blue-eyed beauty was chewed up and spit out by the rampant jaws of the media circus. From there, an avalanche of scrutiny fell upon the head of Michael Jeffries. Newspapers and tabloids from across the United States published headlines in varying degrees of backlash and bombardment. It was trial by media, and in the eyes of the nation, he was a guilty man. Thus stood Mr. Jeffries, presently, at the conclusion of his second retrial; a tumultuous process spanning the length of 12 long years. Glancing back at his children in the first pew, their eyes a promising glimmer of hope, Michael felt a change in fate waft through the air as the honorable Judge Burnstein read aloud a sentence of wrongful conviction. A flawed man, he was gifted his freedom.