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The man slumped, tired, into the third chair from the left. The usual bustle of the law firm’s waiting room was withdrawing for the night, until its return at seven o’clock sharp the next morning, always stylishly prompt. He sighed and ran two fingers through his dark hair. It had been a long day. The next employer had fired him, just like the last two. Can’t take money from me, Mike, he’d said. I don’t care how many mouths you’ve got to feed. And then he was out of work yet again. And so the pattern of misfortune would continue like it had. The faded tan of his coat contrasted the deep red of his shirt, bought only last week, after his previous one had been too threadbare to tolerate. His denim jeans were headed down the same path, an obvious conclusion upon taking a single look. At last the door opened and the man stood up, straightened his coat and the already-straight-enough tie, made a half-hearted effort to tuck in his shirt, and walked into the office. The lawyer sat there, left arm placed on the corresponding armrest of his large office chair, the brown leather pleasantly reminding the visitor of an elderly man’s worn face. The pen click-tapped on the wooden desk and then alighted on the lawyer’s ear, both arms now up on the desk, his right hand supporting his chin. “So,” he asked, “what brings you here tonight, Michael?” and smiled emptily as if he didn’t already know. Playing along with this charade of obliviousness, the visitor replied, “Looking for a job.” “Well, I’m sorry to tell you,” the lawyer winced with false sympathy, “I don’t run a hiring agency, and I’ve already got a secretary. Oh, and a janitor, too.” “Yes, I know. Are you sure there isn’t any small way I could help a very competitive man like yourself in his endeavors?” “Now that you mention it, the Burton - Graham case is getting a little out of hand. Of course that simpleton isn’t innocent, but he did hire me and now I’ve gotta clear him.” Michael looked across the mahogany desk at the lawyer. He knew that it’d be like this before he had entered. That didn’t make it any easier to accept; but when you were as close to broke as you can be, you had to do some things you wouldn’t want to otherwise. The system was his scapegoat, the target of his blame; the judiciaries were the ones responsible for his troubles. If only the defendant hadn’t hired the best lawyer in the state, he’d be fine. Of course, the best lawyer in the state was, and had been, Jason Nichols. But there was nothing Michael could do now, really. “Then how would you like me to help?” he grudgingly asked. The lawyer eyed Michael from across the desk, and sighed as he spun his pen between two fingers. “Well let me see…” the lawyer trailed off, looking at the bland grey ceiling while mumbling to himself. “Ah, that’s it- here.” So saying, he handed a small round pill bottle to his visitor. The white cylinder was unmarked save for three carefully made green dots on the lid. “Graham’s lawyer, rival of mine, takes regular medication for a minor liver condition. Perhaps there would be unexpected side effects if, say, his prescription were to be changed?” As he said this he reached into his desk and removed a pair of perfectly smooth, crisp fifty-dollar bills, then handed them to Michael. The visitor nodded and sighed. Pocketing the cash and the blank bottle, he stood up and bowed his head. When he next spoke Michael’s voice was choked by a sudden biting resentfulness. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this, Nichols…” “Of course,” replied the lawyer who had taken apart Michael’s life, arguing against an innocent man, five years before. His mock sympathy had returned. “I know just why you’re doing this, and of course, you have my sympathy.” Jason grinned coldly. And Michael noiselessly left, hands in his pockets. Four days later Jason Nichols was dead. The scene of the crime- his office- was sealed off in accordance with police protocol. The old leather chair had recently acquired a red-rimmed hole from which leaked sickly yellow cotton. On the desk there was a bullet shell, a scorch mark, and fifty dollars, forlorn and crumpled. Under it there was an empty pill bottle with three green dots on the lid. Michael hadn’t wanted to do it- he wasn’t one for revenge- but Graham’s lawyer had paid him four hundred. That would be enough to feed his family for a month or so. It would be fine, for a while at least. Some say that in a time of crisis the need outweighs the guilt. And at the end of the day, are we only human after all? I've had this in progress for a little while, and honestly I do like it. This has gone through a lot of changes and edits to the point where I'm satisfied with it; and it sort of fits the theme for this week's FFFFC, so I'll be entering it for that, too. So, tell me what you think, if you want.
