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