The Trial Of Lizzie Borden

My grandmother is, as far as the law is concerned, a dead woman. She faked her own death so she could go off with the boy she'd grown up beside, and she left evidence behind that made my grandfather her killer. He went away for twenty years. She sold his house and ran to Port Halcyon with the other man. One of them became a famous attorney who talks about justice in courtrooms. The other became a philanthropist who talks about compassion under television lights. My grandfather carried the word wife-killer for the rest of his life. My father grew up on whatever the neighbors could spare. He never spent a day in school, and he wore his hands raw laying brick until he'd put me through college. Two generations, two pairs of ruined hands, lifting me one step at a time out of Pinebarrow. Fifty years after my grandmother's fake death. I sit on the felony bench of the Dunstone Superior Court. In front of me are five young women charged in a murder. The case against the first four is airtight. Against the fifth, there's half a fingerprint at the scene and a witness who accounts for her entire night. Even the police call her the least likely of them. The murder charge won't hold. I go through her file. Under family, there's a name. Evelyn Harrow. My grandmother. I look at how much the two of them resemble each other. And when her lawyer moves to have her released from this courtroom a free woman, I bring the gavel down lightly. "This court denies the defense motion for dismissal. This court further recommends that the district attorney formally charge the defendant with murder."

I am the biggest female drug lord in Riverdale, who gets shot in the head during a crackdown operation. As soon as the news breaks, the entire internet celebrates. People even crowdfund to take over a giant screen in the city square to display my obituary photo. They say I filled Riverdale with drugs and single-handedly destroyed countless families. They accuse me of leaking operation routes, causing the deaths of my ex-husband's 13 anti-drug force teammates. Hundreds of thousands sign a petition demanding my ashes be crushed and turned into tiles for public restrooms. To calm the overwhelming public anger, my ex-husband, Tyler Lowell, who is now captain of the anti-drug force, decides to launch a public hearing across the internet to livestream my entire life of alleged crimes. On the day of the trial, people thronged the city square. "A woman like her deserves to be cut up into a thousand pieces! How many families are destroyed because of the drugs she sells?" "I hear she is ruthless. She would even stoop to making a three-year-old do her bidding. She is inhumane!" "She got so many anti-drug officers killed. I want to see her end up in hell!" Tyler presses the start button with a blank expression. The crowd's furious curses come crashing down like waves. It is as if they want to tear me apart and condemn me forever. But in the next second, what appears on the giant screen is me in a uniform, standing under the national flag and taking a solemn oath. In that instant, the entire square falls silent.

My grandfather, Tanner Kane, valued loyalty above all else. When his adopted daughter, Alanna Meyer, was sentenced to death for murder, he sent my mother, Florence Kane, to her death. All to preserve the bloodline of his late childhood friend. Alanna took my mother's name, married, and lived a privileged life free from hardship. Meanwhile, my mother died carrying a crime she never committed. My father, Graham Hart, and I changed our names and wandered from place to place. For years, I was mocked as a motherless child. Forty years later, after enduring humiliation and dedicating myself to my studies, I became a judge in Arbor Falls. Today, I am presiding over a controversial campus murder case in which the victim fell to her death from a building. There were no surveillance cameras. Only two girls were present, and each insists the other is the killer. One of them, Nova, comes from a poor family. Her parents are divorced, and she associates with local delinquents. She is known throughout the school as a feared bully. The other one, Scarlett, comes from a wealthy family. Her parents have a loving marriage, and she excels academically. Her grandmother is a beautiful and kind-hearted artist. Her great-grandfather spent his entire life doing charity work and was recognized as a nationally renowned philanthropist. Everyone believes she is a good girl who would never lie, so Nova the bully must be the killer. However, when I looked at the name listed under Scarlett's grandmother, I saw my mother's name: Florence Kane. Without a second thought, I turned to the person beside me and said, "Reject her request for acquittal."

Murder Inquiry is a crime fiction, whose plot is about Edwin Wolfgang, a rich New York based banker, who gives out loans for which he accepts artworks as collateral, but kills his customers before they are able to pay back the loan. And a FBI agent attached to the New York field office, who's charged with the task of bringing Mr Wolfgang to book. The story is set in three cities, in three different continents, and is full of twists and turns from the killing of Wolfgang's last two victims, up to his eventual arrest.

The prettiest girl in our class, Mandy Smith, died unexpectedly in our dorm. When the police took statements, my two other roommates and I pleaded guilty. I took out Mandy’s love letter to my boyfriend. “I killed her because she was seducing my boyfriend.” Anna Anderson took out a purchase history for cyanide. “I killed her because she snatched my overseas studies spot from me.” Fiona Lee took out an expulsion letter. “I killed her because she reported me for cheating.” All three of us hated Mandy. However, the police found that all of us had alibis during Mandy’s time of death. The counselor also asked us to stop lying. However, the three of us sneered. “Whether you believe it or not, one of us is the murderer.”

I was an extremely selfish person. I drained my parents’ life savings, abused my young nephew, and extorted my husband’s premarital assets. My family could no longer endure it and took me to court. If the charges were proven, I would be flayed alive, my tendons torn out, tortured until death.