Micah Jennings

1.24.05 Monday [so cold]

“So whatever happened to Nickolas?” I asked as I walked into Reginald’s apartment this afternoon.
“He’s in prison now,” the judge said flatly. “Came at me with a knife as I was comin’ out of the courthouse one day. Broad daylight, dumb kid. A guard nabbed him ‘fore he could get a piece of me. He’ll be in for a long time.”
“That doesn’t bother you? At all?”
“Why should it?” He asked.
“You took his mother away from him, for Christ’s sake! What would you expect?”
“I’d expect his mother to be more careful drivin’ in the firs’ place.”
“How can you be so cold?!”
“Not cold!” He shouted, “Just. You seem to have the two confused.”
“How is that just?” I asked. His face was red with fury as he marched to his black bag, flinging it open and dumping its files on the ground.
“Yew know why I have all these?” He demanded. “Yew know why the court is constantly givin’ me these cases dealing with the moms and pops of lil’ boys and girls?”
I shook my head.
“’Cause nobody else has the guts to do it themselves. I’ve seen it. Judges, staring down from their chairs, lettin’ sympathy get in the way of what’s right and wrong. It’s too hard. They give in, sustainin’ objections when they should be denyin’, preventin’ the prosecution from holding a fair interrogation.” He stared at me with sharp eyes and continued, “That’s NOT me. I’m the ‘strong arm’ because I believe in justice. And when I looked through the evidence against your mother on that day, no sad puppy-eyes were gonna get in the way of that justice. That’s my job.”
“And what happens when you’re wrong?” I asked.
“I’m too fair to be wrong, boy.”
“Or too proud,”
“Leave the word-twistin’ to the lawyers.”
“You didn’t give my mother a fair trial, Reginald,” I said forcefully.
“Yew think that’s the first time I’ve heard that?”
“You were wrong. You put away an innocent woman.”
“Don’t make me…”
“Make you what?”
He didn’t answer, looking at me angrily.
“Make you WHAT?” I repeated.
At that he got on his knees and began searching through the files spewed on the ground. Moments later he was on his feet, handing me the “Jennings” file.
“Everything’s in there. Leave. Please,” he said.
His voice had a strangeness to it, a sudden grievous solemnity that I couldn’t understand. So I took the file from him and came home. It’s still sitting there, untouched, on my desk, waiting to be read.

-M.J.

posted by Mr. Linty @ 11:54 PM