Chapter 6: Dead Ends and New Evidence
A good lawyer doesn’t quit after one try.
I went back to Mark’s wife seven times, hoping for a letter of forgiveness. She never opened the door again.
Meanwhile, the police dug into Tom Reynolds, the project manager at Oak Ridge.
Tom wasn’t a gangster. No record, just a regular guy—$6,500 a month, a leased Ford pickup, softball on weekends, sitcoms at night. His assets barely hit $300,000, savings only $30,000—nowhere near $180,000.
No evidence tied him to Caleb—no calls, no texts, no footage.
When the cops questioned him, he looked up from his phone, chewing gum, construction badge swinging on his belt.
“Look, I’m just a worker. I don’t have beef with anybody. If I did, I’d offer what I could afford. If I had $180,000, why would I be here?”
He even asked about the supposed blackmail money. The cops checked—every penny in his account was accounted for. No big withdrawals, no secret payments.
With nothing to go on, the cops closed the case in nine days.
No appeal. The court scheduled the second trial.
…
September 5, 2014.
Second trial.
A few of Caleb’s classmates and some local reporters were in the gallery. The air was thick with tension—everyone waiting for a headline.
The prosecutor had more to say this time, including Caleb’s accusation against Tom Reynolds.
He put it simply:
“We investigated the murder-for-hire claim. No evidence connects Tom Reynolds and Caleb Myers. No proof of a grudge between Tom Reynolds and Mark Sanders. Without evidence, we can’t charge Tom. The prosecution’s position is unchanged.”
The gallery erupted in boos. Reporters grumbled—no story here. Caleb’s friends jeered, convinced Tom was untouchable. The judge’s gavel echoed off the wood paneling, finally restoring order.
…
Caleb leapt up, shouting:
“Everything I said is true! Tom Reynolds hired me! It’s the truth!”
I wanted to scream at him, shake him, anything to make him see what he’d done. But all I could do was stare at the table, heart pounding.
I glanced at Tom Reynolds on the witness stand. He shot me a look as if to say, “What can you do to me?”
My hands balled into fists so tight my knuckles went pale, jaw clenched like I was biting back a scream.
But the outcome was no surprise.
No proof against Tom. No forgiveness from the family.
The verdict was upheld: death penalty.