Springfield man killed his uncle. He says he stopped a bully.

The judge wanted to know why.

Why were prosecutors letting Preston Watts off the hook with anything less than a murder charge?

Police had found Watts in November 2015 standing near the bullet-ridden body of his uncle.

Watts had a gun. His uncle was unarmed. Prosecutors wanted Watts to go to prison.

But by the end of the sentencing hearing in August, the judge — in what he called "probably the most difficult sentencing I've ever had" — let Watts walk out of the courtroom.

Early police documents in the case said a dispute over money precipitated the shooting.

The real story was much more complex.

Six months after his sentencing, Watts, 32, sat down with the News-Leader. He spoke about his life, his faith and his aspirations, which include building his auto-detailing business in Springfield.

He also talked about the day he killed his uncle.

His uncle, Watts said, was a bully.

And Watts stands up to bullies.

He always has.

Watts was born in the fall, so growing up in Florida he was one of the older, bigger kids in the classroom.

The first time he stood up to a bully was on the school bus, when Watts said a boy was making fun of a freckled girl with red hair. Watts intervened and was, briefly, a hero.

Then the bully's brother jumped Watts from behind.

Watts didn't have much growing up. His father wasn't around much, Watts said.

"I loved him, but at the same time I feared him," Watts said.

By about 15, Watts said he was taking care of himself. Watts said he earned good grades and excelled on the football field, but he was immature and got into trouble.

At 19, Watts became a father and decided he wanted to be the role model that he never had.

"I have never spanked my kids. I can't," Watts said. "It's just not who I am."

Watts worked for years as an armed security guard at a nightclub.

Watts had two brushes with death in his adult life in Florida. Once, he fished a french fry out of the mouth of a choking 1-year-old at a bus station. Another time, he was working at the nightclub when a patron was shot.

Watts said he locked eyes with the gunman and calmly told him to leave the club.

A few years ago, Watts said he felt as though God was telling him it was time to leave Florida.

He went to work to tell his boss, but before Watts could explain, his boss interrupted.

"It's OK," his boss said. "I understand when a man needs to grow."

Watts took his savings and bought a truck. He told his roommate he was leaving. Though court documents would later describe the woman as Watts's girlfriend, Watts described her as his roommate at the time.

They had only been rooming together a short time, but she asked Watts if she could come with him.

The next morning, they left.

"When I left home, I didn't tell anybody but my mom and my kids," Watts said. "I just wanted to head west."

They stopped in Ava because that's where his roommate's father lived.

One day they came up to Springfield to see a movie, and Watts saw "help wanted" sign after "help wanted" sign.

"I can sell water to a well," Watts said, and he knew he could get a job in Springfield.

Pretty soon, Watts was working at a hotel and at a restaurant.

Watts and his roommate started renting a house on State Street.

A month or so passed, and then Watts's uncle showed up.

At first, it was nice. His uncle had recently gotten out of prison, and together they would go downtown and shoot pool together.

His uncle started crashing at Watts's home, bringing a prostitute around and causing Watts trouble.

His uncle didn't like that Watts's roommate was a white woman, and one day he asked Watts if she wanted to be a prostitute. Watts was offended.

By that point, Watts said he and his roommate were in a relationship. They trusted and cared for each other.

Watts said he left town for a weekend, and when he returned, his uncle and the prostitute were at his home with his roommate.

Watts was surprised, but his roommate assured him that everything was normal.

A week later, chaos broke out.

Watts said he woke up to the sound of his uncle and the prostitute arguing on his front lawn. He was trying to go back to bed, but his uncle kicked in his bedroom door.

And that's when Watts learned about "their little rendezvous, menage a trois, whatever you wanna call it" that had taken place the previous weekend.

His uncle was demanding money because Watts's roommate had slept with the prostitute.

His uncle started threatening Watt's roommate, so Watts put his hands on his uncle.

"Are you gonna stick up for this white b----?" his uncle asked Watts. "I'll kill you, too."

Watts said he stood up to the bully.

"I'm not running nowhere," Watts told him. "This is my house."

Watts recalled his uncle repeatedly telling the prostitute to get his gun.

His uncle took off his jacket and shirt, Watts said, and they scrapped for a minute before everyone except Watts scattered.

Watts got locked out of his home in the fracas.

Twice that morning, Watts called 911. Police came once, but his uncle had fled the area.

Watts said he implored an officer to stay.

"He didn't do anything at all," Watts said of the officer. "He just stood there like I was the suspect."

Then the officer left.

Watts was alone.

He was kneeling outside his house, crying and praying. In one hand, Watts held his phone. His mother was on the line.

Then his uncle walked back to the house, past Watts and up the driveway to where he had parked his car.

Watts heard the car start, then the trunk slam.

Watts looked up and saw his uncle walking toward him. His uncle had his hand in his jacket.

"You think I'm kidding?" his uncle said. "I'll do it right now."

Watts said he thought his uncle was going to pull out a gun, so Watts pulled out his own.

What happened next was an out-of-body experience, Watts said.

Years have passed, but he still wakes up sweating, his heart pounding, his mind replaying this moment.

From across the lawn, Watts fired.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

His uncle fell to the ground.

Watts ran up and fired four more shots into his uncle.

A few moments later, police arrived.

According to Watts, what happened that day was part of God's plan.

"He was reaping what he sowed," Watts said, paraphrasing a verse from St. Paul's epistle to the Galatians.

But to police and prosecutors, it looked more like an execution.

Watts was arrested, jailed and charged.

He felt bullied, Watts said, and this time, he needed someone to stand up for him.

Watts was sitting in a cold room of the jail when he heard an electronic wheelchair coming down the hall.

"Here he comes rolling," Watts said.

Rod Hackathorn, a public defender, was the man in the wheelchair.

"He saved my life," Watts said.

For the first time since the shooting, Watts said he had someone who believed in him.

The pair quickly bonded.

Hackathorn said he was happy to have a client willing to work with him. Many people don't trust a public defender to handle their case properly, he said.

"When you have a client like Preston, it's just that much more pressure," Hackathorn said.

There were a lot of facts that weren't included in the court documents used to initially charge Watts with murder, Hackathorn said.

Possibly the most important fact was this was no execution-style killing.

Based on shell casings found at the scene and an examination of the gunshot wound, it was proven that Watts fatally shot his uncle from as far as 80 feet away.

Hackathorn said that was crucial in getting the charges reduced from murder to manslaughter.

Then it came time for the sentencing hearing.

It was an unusually long hearing. The hearing began in the afternoon and lasted until the rest of the lights in the courthouse were turned off and the doors were locked.

More than a dozen people came to court to speak on behalf of Watts's character or submitted letters that Hackathorn read aloud.

Co-workers and managers called him a model employee. Friends and family described him as calm, kind and nonviolent.

The prosecuting attorney, Jonathan Barker, read two letters from the family of Watts's uncle.

"Losing a child is one of the worst pains a parent can feel," the dead man's mother wrote. "Preston (Watts) should be held responsible for his decision."

Barker asked for the full seven-year sentence for manslaughter.

Judge David Jones closed his eyes and sat in silence for about 15 seconds.

Then he gave Watts a seven-year prison sentence, but suspended the execution and put him on probation. Watts would not spend another night behind bars.

Watts and Hackathorn embraced.

The next week, Hackathorn and his wife, Watts and Sherry Dowdy, the investigator who worked the case for the public defender's office, all went to dinner.

Watts spares no praise for Hackathorn.

"He's taking his skills and caring for the little people," Watts said. "I think Rod was sent to me by God."

Watts told the News-Leader he's even dreamed about Hackathorn.

"He was walking for me. He was the one holding me up," Watts said. "I will never forget about that man."

The elation was short-lived.

Despite the victory in court, Watts said life hasn't been easy since the shooting.

Part of his family hates him for killing his uncle, he said.

He refers to it as "my whole little incident" in one breath, but talks about its indelible psychological effect in the next.

The shooting left him with anxiety and stress. He's less trusting.

Even though he avoided prison time, Watts still has a felony on his record. It makes it harder to get a job.

Watts said he'd like to visit his children — a 13-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son — more often, but he has to get permission from his probation officer at least two weeks in advance.

In late February, Watts went down to celebrate his daughter's birthday.

Now, Watts said he's just focused on becoming a successful businessman.

It's just a side business for now, but Watts has high hopes for his auto-detailing business: Presto's Mobile Detailing.

"If I fail, there's something else I'm gonna do," Watts said. "If I fail, I never give up."

Barker, the prosecuting attorney, disappointed with the sentence, said he thought prison was appropriate for Watts.

Barker said it will be clear in 20 years whether or not Watts has made the most of the opportunity the judge gave him.