The Lonely Prisoner Virtual Book Tour

At just 25 years old, Michael Fletcher is wrongfully convicted of murder and
sentenced to 26 years in prison. Despite his desperate pleas of innocence, the
system turns a blind eye, leaving him trapped behind bars. But Michael refuses
to surrender to fate. Within the sterile confines of his cell, he educates
himself, mentors others, and clings to the hope that justice will one day
prevail.

• • • • • High-stakes legal drama
        • Powerful themes of injustice, resilience, and redemption
        • A thought-provoking journey through the flaws of the justice system

Keep reading The Michael Fletcher Series with Accused Again – Freedom
Was Just the Beginning

Chapter 1

The Cell

“One-two-three wall. One-two-three door, one-two-three wall.”

Michael Fletcher counted his steps slowly in his new stay, the place where he just entered and where he would spend his next twenty-six years. The echo of the heavy steel door, closing behind him, still rang in his ears. He turned and sat on his new bed, which ran along the side wall, fixed securely to the ground. He looked up and stared at a stainless-steel toilet and a sink just in front of him. A toothbrush and toothpaste were provided. The walls were bare and white, with one single empty shelf on the opposite side. The floor was a hard, dark single surface, the ceiling was low, and the room smelled of disinfectant. Michael just sat there, stunned, both hands grasping his knees. 

He was only twenty-five years old when he was found guilty. Tall, clever, friendly and handsome with his dark-brown hair and matching eyes, he had all the traits for a successful life. However, now it had abruptly ended. He sat there, still staring at the pale wall in this small prison cell, for something he had not understood and would never come to terms with. He was now locked away in a tiny corner of the world. It was like a bad dream from which he hoped to be awakened at any moment. 

He looked down at his only possession that remained: his white sneakers. An orange jumpsuit and a pair of dark socks were given to him; all the rest he was asked to put in a cardboard box when he entered prison, one arm attached to a bulky police officer by a pair of handcuffs. The box was labelled with his name and birth date, then taken away for storage. 

He had to strip down, naked, and endured an uncomfortable procedure that seemed to last forever to ensure he had nothing unwanted with him. He felt like a member of a lost cattle herd, driven, beaten from one room to the other, just enduring time.

He was then handed his new clothes and asked to dress under supervision. He was escorted through endless corridors, separated by sliding barred gates, when finally, he arrived in an open space with gangways passing on several levels, lit by bright fluorescent lighting along its ceilings. He was guided past countless doors, plain, fully sealed, green-painted. He could not see who was behind any of them, but he guessed other prisoners. Now he was one of them. At one moment he was instructed to stop walking while one guard took out a set of keys, opening his new stay.

Reality brought him back to his cage, sitting on a springy bed. The mattress was foam, wrapped by a clean, grey sheet. At one end were two brown blankets and on top of it a cushion, covered by a matching grey pillow cover. He was alone, locked away and felt betrayed by the world. So, what shall I do now? Michael thought, looking around, his hands grasping his knees even tighter. Blurred images, the torment of his trial and the mysterious night that all led to his arrest, were flashing in his head.

When Judge Carter slammed down the hammer, condemning him to spending the best years of his life behind bars, little explanation was given, even though the proceedings seemed to last an eternity. Michael remembered that there was a witness who saw him at the scene of the crime, but little remained in his recollection of what had possibly happened.

He vaguely recalled that he returned quite drunk after a good time at a bar with some friends. It was a chilly night in February 1996. He folded up the collar of his coat, tucked his hands deep into the pockets, and started walking down the doomy lanes of the older part of the city in the early morning, towards his newly rented flat. The streets were deserted, minus the odd homeless folk sleeping on the ground, wrapped in blankets on the warmth of the occasional ventilation hole. 

His footsteps were echoing in the alleys, and then suddenly all went incredibly fast. The body, the weapon, the flashing blue lights. And, before he knew what had really happened, he found himself in the rear of a police car, his hands tied painfully behind his back with a plastic tie-down cutting into his wrist. He was taken to the local police station and into a small bright room by the officers, where they questioned him about his whereabouts during the evening and what he did after he left the bar. Michael was tired and kept repeating that he did not remember much. His rights may have been read to him; his recollections were vague, and the questioning continued almost till dawn. He woke up on a hard bench in a small single cell and was then given a black coffee. The occurrences of the previous night were fazed. Neither did he recall that he signed his name onto some papers that were put in front of him. The real implication of this was only revealed by Vincent Graham.

Vincent was a young, local lawyer working for the city. He held a black leather binder in his left hand, while offering his right promptly to Michael, as he walked into his cell. He was a bit shorter than Michael and slim, probably in his late twenties or early thirties and debonair. He was smartly dressed in a dark linen suit, white shirt, and a red tie. His hair was pitch black and nicely slicked back. After the first introduction, he explained that he took his case pro bono. Michael knew the meaning well. He was a graduate, not in law, but understood that there was no charge for representing him. 

Vincent had asked to speak to him alone, so they were taken to a small bare room. The lawyer took a seat directly across a square table and opened a leather binder, which revealed a cream legal pad with a pen stuck across the top. A flickering neon strip on the ceiling emitted a buzzing sound, which made Michael dizzy, and the exposure to the harsh light put a strain on his sagging eyes. He had had a rough night in custody, had barely gotten any sleep and his brain struggled to function.

Vincent took his pen, clicked it, and smiled weakly. “Okay Michael, I am here to represent you, and everything we discuss will remain between us and in this room.” He paused and looked at his client intensely. “So, do tell me Michael,” Vincent said in a smooth tone, leaning forward, “what happened last night?”

Michael was not quite sure how to answer, as he still did not recall what had really occurred. “Hmm, why am I actually here?”

“You do not remember anything from last night?”

“Not a great deal, honestly. I left the bar and now I am here. I’ve had a very tiresome night, haven’t slept, I have a throbbing behind my eyes and my brain is switched off. So please believe me, somehow my memory is very foggy.”

“Okay, let us start with the basics. I am here to help you, to defend you. You are a suspect in a crime that was committed last night. Are you sure you do not recall anything?”

Michael placed his elbows on the table and leaned his head on his forefingers, massaging his temples slowly. He looked up, took a deep breath, and then glanced at his lawyer.

“Well, as I just said, I was at a bar, had some drinks, then left on my own and wanted to walk home. Then, suddenly there was a body on the ground … yeah, I sort of remember that. He was not lying there like all the other homeless on one side of the pathway, well tucked away on their cardboard. He was in the middle of the pavement … that was strange. I remember kneeling down and seeing this person still moving, but there was something sticking out of his body. He had his back turned towards me. I really do not remember, but I must have touched or grabbed it when I turned him on his back. It was dark, and this person was groaning. I was not really myself, as I had quite a bit to drink. My actions were not exactly controlled.”

“And then?”

“Well, nothing really, I do not know what to say, I don’t remember much more, apart from the flashing blue lights that arrived shortly after. Hmm, what happened to this guy and where is he?”

The attorney scribbled something down, looked up, held the pen firmly in his hand, and spoke. “Okay, let us start from the beginning. Which bar did you go to? And who was with you?”

Michael answered all his questions, starting from meeting up for a get together with some colleagues from work. They were new friends really. Michael had been in town only a few weeks since graduating in economics. He worked as an accountant in a local tax office. It was Friday night and after some fast food at the corner of a street they headed for some drinks at a bar called The Duke. It was the usual chit-chat, girls, sports and before he realized it, it was about one in the morning. He left alone. Yes, his new friends wanted to shoot some pool in an adjacent room, but he decided to leave. He was tired and was due to take the train in the early morning to see his parents for the weekend. He was on his own as he left and walked home.

About the Author

 Michael J. Kundu was born in London, Great Britain, in 1969 to an Indian
father and a German mother. He has lived in various places in Europe. His love
for reading has prompted him to write this book giving this crime novel more
than an edge of mystery and suspense, but also a contemporary perspective on
life.

He has a great passion for learning languages and travelling across the globe.
He enjoys spending time with his family and lives in Luxembourg with his
Italian wife and two teenage children.

My multinational background, coupled with my marriage to someone of a
different nationality, has endowed me with a wealth of diverse experiences.
Having traversed the globe, speaking multiple languages and immersing myself
in various cultures, the profound value of each individual has become a
cornerstone of my worldview. These multicultural encounters have not only
fostered a deep appreciation for the uniqueness of every person but have also
instilled in me a commitment to promoting mutual respect, free from the
shackles of prejudice related to color or religion. In composing my book,
these experiences have permeated not only this narrative …but also the
forthcoming sequel.

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