Coming Home
They've given me a murder case.
A murder case.
So much for a vacation. I return to the States with a monstrous head cold, only to find that New Orleans is gone, gas prices are out of control, the Iraq situation is still out of control, my air conditioner is out of freon, Brad is out of town, I'm out of Kleenex.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I'm in my apartment, reviewing the evidence, reviewing my client's statement. An eighteen year old. His best friend was murdered, and he is being accused of doing it. He says he didn't, that he dropped his friend off at his apartment and left. But somehow his friend ended up shot to death inside the apartment. The neighbors are saying they saw him go inside too.
I put off viewing the photographic evidence. I can't deal with it right now. Too much reality. Instead I look around my apartment, almost as much an escapist environment as the beach on my vacation had been. Everything is nice. Everything appears clean because I've shoved it all into my closet. Everything is a sort of mauvish pink color. My mind wanders to the dead friend's apartment. What did it look like? Maybe I should get a pet. Maybe I should call Eugene. No, he's busy. Maybe I should leave a message for Brad.
A murder case.
So much for a vacation. I return to the States with a monstrous head cold, only to find that New Orleans is gone, gas prices are out of control, the Iraq situation is still out of control, my air conditioner is out of freon, Brad is out of town, I'm out of Kleenex.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I'm in my apartment, reviewing the evidence, reviewing my client's statement. An eighteen year old. His best friend was murdered, and he is being accused of doing it. He says he didn't, that he dropped his friend off at his apartment and left. But somehow his friend ended up shot to death inside the apartment. The neighbors are saying they saw him go inside too.
I put off viewing the photographic evidence. I can't deal with it right now. Too much reality. Instead I look around my apartment, almost as much an escapist environment as the beach on my vacation had been. Everything is nice. Everything appears clean because I've shoved it all into my closet. Everything is a sort of mauvish pink color. My mind wanders to the dead friend's apartment. What did it look like? Maybe I should get a pet. Maybe I should call Eugene. No, he's busy. Maybe I should leave a message for Brad.