I am doing something fun, usually watching a recently-released film in a theatre or ice skating (my body won’t permit that anymore, but I remember it as being my very favorite activity) when my cell phone rings. It’s my oldest boy. “Something’s wrong with Dad. I called 911 and they are on their way, you need to come home NOW.”

I hustle home as quickly as I can, but am stopped by the police on the way. The policeman walks up to my car and says, “Ma’am, you need to come with me. Leave your car here.” I try to explain about my husband and I’m sorry if I was speeding, but the call sounded urgent. The policeman isn’t impressed, and says, “Yes, Ma’am, we know all that. Please get in the patrol car.” As I step out of the car, he puts handcuffs on me and takes me to the patrol car. As he pulls out into traffic, he starts reading me my rights!

We arrive at the hospital and he takes me, still in handcuffs, to the Emergency Room. He asks at the desk for the location of my husband’s body and we are directed to the morgue. I am absolutely in a daze, in shock about his apparent demise, my arrest, what caused his death, my children, I’m almost unable to speak for the confusion and fear.

In the morgue, the policeman opens the cold, blue metal drawer containing the shell of my husband’s body. He asks, “Is this your husband, ma’am, can you positively identify him?” I say yes, and he tells me I am under arrest for murder. I call my mother with my one phone call and ask her to arrange care for the kids and find me some kind of criminal lawyer. My cell is dark and I am alone.

I am still in shock and have nearly convinced myself I am dreaming several hours later when the lawyer arrives. My husband, he tells me, died of congestive heart failure, and that he had a single massive heart attack so extreme he was dead before he hit the floor. I ask how it could possibly have been murder. “Aren’t you his wife?” the lawyer asks. “This didn’t happen instantly you know, this heart failure was brought on by years of your cooking.”

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