Conscience Money, fiction by M.E. Proctor
T he show was about to begin. The judge was behind his desk. The court secretary was primed to type. The prosecutor, a lanky type with a ponytail and hipster glasses, had his stack of files ready. The jury was seated. At the defense table, the man whose freedom was at stake, chafed in clothes too tight for his bulk. He was big. The hard wooden chair, the dimensions of the courtroom squashed him. It was eerily symbolic. This giant of a man was about to be crushed by the judicial machine. He studiously avoided looking at the lawyer assigned to his case, and said lawyer, an elderly gentleman who should be fishing instead of haunting a courtroom, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Fishing on the lake, indeed, with beer in the cooler. Deputy Sheriff Maeve “Mae” Rollins sat in the back of the room, close to the exit doors. She didn’t come to trials often, she had enough on her plate to keep her busy, but the circumstances around this defendant interested her. She was familiar ...