I Spent 10 Years In Prison For My Husband’s Murder. My Sister Framed Me To Steal His Insurance Money. Now I’m Out, And I Discovered I Wasn’t Her Only Victim. How Do I Make Her Pay?

The next morning I went to the public library and used their computers. I wasn’t good with technology before prison, and ten years had made things even more confusing. But I managed to search for news about my case and about my sister.

What I found made my blood run cold. Patricia’s husband, Martin Phillips, had died five years ago. Heart failure, the obituary said.

He was fifty-eight, in excellent health, a regular at his country club’s tennis courts. The obituary mentioned that he had been sick for several weeks before his death with flu-like symptoms. Patricia had inherited everything: the mansion, the real estate business, an estimated $12 million.

Something about this felt wrong, terribly wrong. I printed the obituary, adding seventy-five cents to my expense list. Then I searched for wrongful conviction lawyers in Texas and wrote down four names.

The first lawyer wanted a $500 consultation fee; I didn’t have that kind of money to spare. The second lawyer was on vacation for two weeks. The third lawyer, a woman named Diana Reyes, worked out of a small office in Montrose.

Her waiting room smelled like coffee and old books. When I told her my story, she leaned forward with interest.

“You have an eyewitness who saw your sister tampering with the sugar bowl?” Diana asked.

“Yes, my husband’s granddaughter. She was fifteen at the time.” I replied.

“That’s potentially significant. But here’s the problem, Mrs. Crawford. You were convicted ten years ago. The appeals process is long over.” Diana continued.

“To get your conviction overturned, we need substantial new evidence. One eyewitness who was a teenager at the time and admits she didn’t come forward for ten years, that’s going to be challenged hard by any prosecutor.”

“But she saw Patricia do it!” I insisted.

“Did she see her pour antifreeze specifically? Can she identify the bottle? Does she have any physical evidence?”

“No.” I answered. Diana sighed.

“I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it would take time and money, a lot of both. Do you have resources?” I looked down at my lap.

“$4,079 as of this morning.” I said.

“That won’t get you very far. I’m sorry.” I left her office feeling defeated.

On the bus back to the transitional home, I stared out the window and thought about giving up. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I should just accept my fate, get a job doing something, anything, and live out my remaining years in quiet anonymity.

But then I thought about Robert, about his warm laugh and the way he made pancakes for me every Sunday morning. About how he had held my hand when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and sat with me through every chemotherapy session. About how we had beaten the cancer together and celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary with a trip to Hawaii.

He deserved justice, and so did I. If lawyers couldn’t help me, I’d have to investigate myself.

The Pattern of the Perfect Poison

I started by researching Patricia’s current life. She still lived in the River Oaks mansion. She had remarried two years ago to a man named Victor Sandival, a retired surgeon.

They had traveled to Europe three times in the past year. She drove a Mercedes, she donated to charity, she was on the board of the Houston Opera. From the outside, she was a pillar of society.

I needed to know more about Martin’s death. The library became my second home. I spent hours reading old newspaper articles, medical journals, anything that might help me understand what had happened.

I learned that ethylene glycol, the main component of antifreeze, was called the perfect poison because it was sweet-tasting and colorless. Victims often didn’t realize they were being poisoned until it was too late. Symptoms mimicked the flu.

By the time doctors figured out what was happening, the kidneys were often destroyed. Martin had died of kidney failure. Robert had died of kidney failure.

My heart pounded as I put the pieces together. Two husbands dead, both from kidney failure, both married to my sister at some point. Wait, Martin was never married to Patricia before, but Robert was my husband, not hers.

Unless. I thought back to the months before Robert’s death. Patricia had been coming around a lot, bringing casseroles, offering to help with housework, insisting on spending time with us.

I had thought she was just being a good sister, but Robert had seemed uncomfortable sometimes. Once I had come home early from work and found them in the kitchen together. Patricia had been laughing at something, touching Robert’s arm.

He had looked relieved to see me. Had there been something going on between them? I felt sick to my stomach.

My money was running out fast. By the end of my second week of freedom, I had spent $380 on food, transportation, library printing, and a prepaid cell phone. I needed help and I needed it cheap.

I posted an ad on Craigslist: “Research assistant needed for legal investigation, must be discreet, pays $12 per hour.” Most responses were unusable, but one stood out. A young man named Marcus Williams, twenty-four years old, recent graduate from the University of Houston with a degree in criminal justice.

He was working as a security guard at night and looking for experience in investigation. We met at a coffee shop near the transitional home. Marcus was tall and serious, with intelligent eyes that missed nothing.

“So you’re saying your sister framed you for murder?” he asked after I told him my story.

“I know how it sounds, but yes, I believe she did.” I replied.

“And you want me to help you prove it?” he asked.

“I can only pay you for about fifteen hours a week. I know that’s not much.” I admitted.

“It’s more than nothing.” He studied me for a long moment. “My grandmother was in prison for something she didn’t do. Drug charges. My uncle planted the drugs in her car because she wouldn’t give him money. She died in there before we could prove she was innocent.”

He set down his coffee cup.

“When do I start?” Marcus was worth every penny. He knew how to find information I would never have found on my own.

Within a week, he had discovered something crucial.

“Your sister’s first husband,” he said, showing me documents on his laptop. “Before Martin Phillips. Did you know she was married before?” I stared at him.

“What? Patricia was never married before Martin. She met him when she was thirty-five.”

“According to these records, she was briefly married at twenty-two to a man named Daniel Foster. They were married for eighteen months in Louisiana. He died of kidney failure.” The room seemed to spin.

“That’s impossible. She never told me.”

“It was before your family moved to Texas, before you even met Robert. She kept it quiet.” Daniel Foster had a life insurance policy worth $150,000. Patricia was the sole beneficiary.

Three husbands, three dead from kidney failure, three insurance payouts.

“She’s a serial killer,” I whispered.

“It looks that way. The question is, how do we prove it? And why did she frame you for Robert’s murder specifically?” I thought hard. The insurance money.

Robert and I had a $500,000 policy on each other. If he died naturally, I would have gotten the money. But if I was convicted of killing him, the insurance company wouldn’t pay me.

Patricia was the contingent beneficiary. Marcus’s eyes widened.

“So she killed him and framed you so she could collect the money herself.”

“She got $250,000 from the insurance company after my conviction. I remember hearing about it at the trial.”

“That’s a lot of motivation.” We spent the next two weeks gathering evidence. Marcus found that Patricia had purchased antifreeze at a hardware store in Katy three days before Robert died.