The Midnight Hour Part 7
Truth whispers like soft rain, speaking a language he would never understand. But truth was truth was truth. He didn’t deal in real truths, only the truths or untruths able to be proved.
He took a long drink from the bottle, staring out the window. He’d never really understood how he’d gotten here, except he’d been too scared, too lazy, to walk the other side of the aisle. On this side, nobody gave a shit about his clients. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. As long as he got them off, or a reduced sentence, he earned his fee. He’d learned early-on how to live in that world.
This kid now, this Bobby Wymith, was one of them things, a mystery inside a client inside a….. Mystery inside a riddle inside a…. Why the hell couldn’t he think of the words? He was a damn lawyer, for gods sake, his livelihood was words. So why were they slipping away so damned fast?
His eyes rested on the bottle, then away. That was a truth he couldn’t face, not yet. Not when he’d been hired to defend this kid who was probably going to go down, guilty or not. He knew the signs, the evidence, the hear-say. And he’d never seen the Sheriff so hot for the takedown.
Should he care? He’d get paid jail or not, guilt or innocent, thought innocent used to pay better, at least when he’d still had a soul. Times changed. Lives. Was it even possible for people to change?
He’d never thought so, not after 15 years behind the defence table. A kid was a kid. He was a bad kid, a rough kid; if he hadn’t done this he’d done something else or other to warrant jail.
Dropping his eyes to his paper-scattered desk, he flipped through several pages of the file, tossed them aside. Liquid over ice.
Far in the distance, the whine of a siren startled the night. Papers slipped soundless towards floor.