pills four times,” he told the jury. “I counted. I wrote it down because I knew someday somebody would need to know the number. I asked the sheriff twice. He said, ‘She’ll live.’” Miller studied the table. “She didn’t live.”
In the gallery, a young man in his late teens with a fade haircut and a tight jaw put his face in his hands. That was Jaylen Greene, Hattie’s great-grandson, the boy who’d written one of the thirty-one letters on yellow legal paper. He was eighteen now and a freshman
