Helen Marsh's attorney was named Douglas Pryce, and he had the particular polish of a man who billed by the tenth of an hour. He met with ADA Collins in November, and what he proposed was simple: his client would plead to criminal mischief — property damage, the tank, the garden beds, the chair. She would pay restitution. She would accept probation. In exchange, the attempted-murder charge would go away.
"She's in her sixties," Pryce said, according to Collins, who relayed it to Daniel over the phone with audible weariness. "He's painting it as a neighbor dispute that got out of hand. An older woman, frightened for her son, lashing out at a fence or a — well, a water tank."
"A water tank that weighed eight hundred kilos," Daniel said.
"I'm aware."
"And the chair?"
"That's the part he can't explain," Collins admitted. "Which is why he's offering the plea. He knows the footage is a problem."
Daniel sat with that for a while. A plea to property damage. Restitution, probation, and Helen Marsh walking out of the courthouse into whatever remained of her life — the house next door, the upstairs window overlooking his yard. He imagined seeing her at the mailbox. He imagined Emily walking past her gate.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think," Collins said carefully, "that I don't take the deal without talking to you. But I also have to tell you — juries are unpredictable. The video is strong, but her age, her demeanor, a good lawyer... I can't promise a conviction on the top count."
Daniel thanked her and hung up, and stood in the kitchen for a long time with his hands flat on the counter. Megan came in, took one look at his face, and put the kettle on without asking.
"They want to deal," he said.
She waited.
"Property damage only. Probation."
Megan poured water over the tea bag. "And what does your gut say?"
"My gut says she moved my chair into the path of a falling tank so I'd be sitting in it at four o'clock."
"Then tell Collins that."
He did. The next morning he called her back and said, "No deal. Take it to trial if you have to."
"I was hoping you'd say that," Collins said. "Now watch what happens."
What happened was that Pryce, faced with a prosecutor willing to go to trial, asked to see the full evidence file — everything, including the enhanced audio from the hidden camera. Collins agreed. And three days later, Pryce called back.
Daniel wasn't in the room for that call, but Collins described it with something close to relish. Pryce had listened to the fourteen-minute yard call. He had watched the chair footage frame by frame. He had read the transcript of the garage camera audio, and in particular the sentence his client had spoken into her phone at 7:24 on the morning of the crash:
"No, he sits here. Every afternoon. Tomorrow won't matter if he can't show up."
"You can't argue property damage," Collins told Pryce, "when your client is on tape confirming the victim's location, adjusting the target, and stating the motive in a single sentence."
Pryce was quiet for a long moment. Then he said he would confer with his client.
Helen accepted the plea the following week — not to criminal mischief, but to the full charge: attempted murder in the second degree. No trial. No jury to charm. The agreement included a sentencing recommendation, but the judge wasn't bound by it, and everyone in the building seemed to know that.
Daniel learned about it from Lang, who called on a Friday afternoon. "She folded," the detective said. "Pryce couldn't get around the chair. You move a man's chair under a falling tank, you're not redecorating."
"Did she say why?" Daniel asked. "In the end — did she say anything?"
"Only to her lawyer. And he didn't share it." Lang paused. "Some people never give you the why, Daniel. You have to decide if you can live with the what."
Daniel thought about that all weekend. The what was clear enough: a compromised frame, a moved chair, a phone call. The why — fear for her son curdled into something lethal, love with the safety off — was something he could see the shape of without ever being able to hold it.
On Monday, Megan found him in the garage, standing in front of the folded green chair.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"She pled," he said.
Megan nodded slowly. "Good."
"It doesn't feel like winning."
"No," she said. "It feels like it's over. That's different, and it's enough."
Daniel looked at the chair — the crushed aluminum frame, the torn fabric — and realized she was right. It wasn't victory. It was an ending. And after everything, an ending was enough.