they needed to paint me as violent all over again.
But three years behind bars had taught me something brutal: anger without evidence only feeds liars.
I slept on the cold concrete floor of the storage unit, hugging my backpack with the USB drive, the letter, and the most important folders inside. I didn’t really sleep. I closed my eyes and kept hearing my father’s voice repeating:
“Don’t let her decide where my story ends.”
The next morning, I went to a legal aid clinic for people who had just
