Means of Justice: Scene #2

     This is the second installment in Means of Justice. Hope you enjoy it! Comment, follow, and share. Thanks for reading, guys. :)

~*~

     A technicality. That's what the judge released me on. Tuesday morning you're arrested and charged with murder, possible life sentence. A few weeks later, you're playing monopoly with the judge and have a get out of jail free card.

      Ryne straightened the sides of his blue jean jacket as he walked down the street towards the taller apartment buildings. He ran a hand through his dark hair, brown eyes sparkling and lips twisted in a crooked smile at the irony of it all. His fingers brushed the gun in his pocket as he pushed passed people on the street.  The cool steel was comforting. He shouldered his way through the thick of the crowd and then into his apartment building.

     He pressed the button for the elevator and waited for the door to open. A bell rang and the doors parted. A woman slipped off as he climbed on. Ryne leaned against the cold metal wall and stared at the silver doors, waiting for the jerk of the elevator. The elevator moved up the shaft and the doors slid open at the correct floor. Ryne stepped out and stuck his left hand in his back pocket as he walked down the right hall to his home. He stepped out of the way as movers carried a large couch into room 212.

     "Well, it looks like I have a new neighbor."

     Ryne looked at the couch. It was in pristine condition. Shiny, well kept black leather. Looked designer but tagged with a copycat brand. He snorted softly and went to the door of the apartment to introduce himself.

    Because that's what good neighbors do.

     A tall woman in corduroy jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt with the A&W brand on the back was speaking to one of the movers in the living room. Her straight white-blonde hair fell to just below her shoulders, it swished as she looked down to check something off a scrap of paper.

     Ryne chuckled. "You know, it's funny," he commented aloud to her back. “I was just looking at your couch and thinking to myself: Lawyer, banker, or preacher. Do you know what those three people have in common, Miss Murphy?"

       Imogen jerked around, "Mr. Jefferson." She frowned and excused herself from the man she was speaking with and stepped up to him, "I heard they released you this morning. I'm no longer your lawyer and house calls aren't very appropriate," she tipped her head, "You'll have to make an appointment if you want to speak to me."

       His lips stayed framed in the same amused smile but tightened a little bit. "Answer the question, Miss Murphy."

       "I'm the lawyer, Jefferson. I ask the questions. What are you doing here?" she folded her arms, giving him a look as blank as the apartment’s white walls.

       "Why, Miss Murphy," he stepped closer, adopting a hurt expression. "I'm surprised at your behavior. "I'm welcoming my new neighbor to the block."

       A look of confusion crossed her face, then her lips pulled into a smile, "Of course. Forgive me for my lack of hospitality but I don't often welcome known killers into my home."

       "Well, you're welcoming your neighbor. Who is not a killer. Therefore, your problem is null and void." He reached out to shake her hand.

       Imogen just shook her head quickly and took his hand, "Thank you for the welcome. I'll be sure to keep my doors locked."

      "If I was such a criminal, Miss Murphy, a door wouldn't keep me out."

      She let her hand fall from his and crossed her arms loosely once more, "I suppose you're right."

      "Since I'm not and I'd like to get back to my own home, I'll leave you in peace." He turned and then stopped, raising his hand slightly. "But first, kindly, answer that question. Lawyers, bankers, preachers. What do they have in common?"

      She sighed and stepped back near her coffee table. The movers had dispersed and the house was empty, "I don't know Mr. Jefferson, is it their bank account?"

      "No," he stopped in her doorway and looked back at her. Lips pressing into an innocent, almost tender smile. "They preach the truth, but they're all fakes."

       Imogen just shook her head, "Believe what you want. My goal is justice."

      "Even justice has two faces, Miss Murphy," he replied, leaving the apartment. "Who are you to say which is which?"

     She said nothing as he left the house. He walked to the end of the hall to his apartment, digging in his pocket for the key. Ryne found it in the bottom of the pocket and inserted it into the lock. He pushed the door opened with his foot and slipped inside, nudging it closed behind him.

The door shut with a squeak and he locked it.

    Sighing to himself, Ryne removed his jacket and threw it on his couch. "Home sweet home."

      

"Horace!" he yelled, looking around for the three legged calico furball of a cat.

      

     The fluffy cat came ambling out from his bedroom. It paused to stretch in the hall, then continued on to him. Horace rubbed his head against Ryne's pants, purring. He gave the cat a light shove with his foot and went to the fridge. He pulled out the milk, uncapped it, and wrinkled his nose. He set the jug on the floor.

      "Here, you can have it." The cat ran over it to, sniffed around the jug, then turned and pranced away. Ryne chuckled and shut the fridge.

      "Hey, Horrace. You should run off and clean your room." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled a little. "We might have company tonight."

        It would seem that most of my confrontations with Imogen Murphy usually ended with me being put down in some manner for my alleged crimes. But I'm a free man. And now I have a new mission to work on. My father used to sit down with me on Saturdays and watch the Justice League cartoons. All the superheros. The ones who killed for justice. The ones who killed to protect and save. How many of them were arrested, tried, and convicted for their crimes? None. But that's not how the real world works.

Means of Justice - Scene #1

Hello readers,

Tess, here. We're up and running. Yay! This is a story called Means of Justice written by Cherise Taylor and I. We're going to be posting pieces of this story each week, so check back often. This is a short story part of a larger book - a collection of crime stories called Once Upon a Crime. We hope you like it. Keep reading and enjoy!

...

      Ryne leaned back in his chair across the prison table from the well dressed woman with a smile. His prison suit scratched his light skin uncomfortably. His brown eyes never stopped sparkling as his thin lips smiled. He shook his dark head.

      "Look, baby,” Ryne Jefferson drawled. “We've been over this. Yes, I shot him. No, I didn't kill him. The bullet killed him. No, I don't plead guilty. Capiche?"

   The long-haired, blonde lawyer in the chair across from him folded her hands on the cold metal table, "Mr. Jefferson, I understand what you've told me but the judge will be given solid evidence to negate it. The truth is, you did kill him, and admitting to that might get you out of prison alive. Take the deal."

 

by nyloninmate

     As if to punctuate her words, the long tubes of florescent lights flicked off and on. Through the brief moment of blackness, brown eyes held blue ones. Both sets firm and unyielding. The lights flickered on and Ryne’s eyes stung slightly, starting to water from the sudden sharpness of the light. The young lawyer looked away, blinking her eyes.

     
     Once he’d regained his composure, Ryne shook his head again, tsking. "Imogen, Imogen...May I call you that? Of course I can," he dismissed his own question with a slight wave of his hand. "Why would I take a deal when the truth is the truth?"

      "Because it might save your life," she laid a manilla folder on the table so he could see it. Ryne almost scowled, eyes flicking over his name: Jefferson, Ryne, printed in sharpie on the tab. Imogen Murphy spoke again, "Let's make sure we understand each other." She traced her finger over the tablet of scribbled notes sitting in front of her. "You shot Mitchel Chaff in the chest with a .44 caliber gun last Tuesday at 1am. You cornered him behind a bar, you were not intoxicated, and you shot him, then went back to your apartment on fifth street. Am I correct thus far?"

       "Proverbially speaking, yes," he looked at her, amused.

       "The court will charge you with premeditated murder, Mr. Jefferson. Is there anything you can tell me that might help your lot here?" she bent down, drew a pen from the briefcase at her feet before she straightened up again, waiting for him to speak.

       "Premeditated?" He huffed and rolled his eyes,"You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to decide to pull that trigger."

        Imogen Murphy’s lips twisted in disgust and her blue eyes darkened, narrowing slightly. She set the pen down and informed him,  "This was not about money. You knew Mitchel personally. I have statements from the cops saying witnesses saw you at that same bar, talking to Mitchel, three nights before you murdered him." She reached down and grabbed another file folder, placed it on the table, but kept it closed. "There was a case last year about a woman murdered in her car outside of I-91. Mitchel Chaff was a suspect in that case, but the killer was never found." Imogen kept her gaze on Jefferson, she didn't blink.

        "You think you have me all figured out, don't you, Murphy?" He purred.

        Imogen shook her head, blonde hair looking sticky from the hairspray in it, curls fallen out after a long day’s work.

       "Believe it or not, Jefferson,” she replied firmly, “I am on your side. If you would just let me cut a deal for you, I think I could lessen your sentence."

      "You say you're on my side," he disagreed, scooting his chair back as the guards came in to retrieve him from his meeting with the lawyer. "But the truth is, you just want justice."

       That was the last thing he'd said to her that day in prison. But it was the first and only meaningful thing he'd say to her during their time together.