Short story

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The detective did not look like the gumshoes from old dime-store novels.

He was a lot thinner and he wore a close-fitting bodysuit rather than a raincoat. He was, however, just as focused on getting his man and finding the facts as Sherlock Holmes ever was. However, he was always plagued by a sense of not quite knowing why he needed to find this or that man, or this or that fact. He was not, in fact, sure he was working for.

He was drawn to following perfectly ordinary men and women who appeared to have little background, and no history. Whatever their crime, it was subtle. They seemed to crop up in large cities, slightly off-kilter in dress and speech, youngish, handsome or pretty beyond the norm, and a bit credulous and naive in their behavior at times. He had watched in horror more than once when one of these targets of investigation had turned over his or her suitcase or watch to an obvious street criminal and thereby were neatly robbed.

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Clearly, these folks were not themselves pickpockets; they were just too innocent. They were also too often seized by waves of racking, hacking coughs after taking huge, enthusiastic lungs full of the city air. They seemed to have no fixed addresses, but found themselves bunking with one person after another, sometimes for a day, other times for longer, and then moving on.

He followed them assiduously, and noted their movements in his pocket computer. From time to time, he sent a report to an address through the computer with no identifying information and always felt better afterwards. Then the compulsion would return. Find the folks who look like they don’t belong, and follow them. There was nothing else in his life, and, as a matter of fact, he could not remember a life or a time before this job, this pursuit. No childhood, adolescence, no family, no loves lost or gained; just find the folks and follow them.

One late summer day, he located a small group of them in a hollow of ground in the main city park, surrounded by trees and quite out of view of passersby. If he had not been tracking one of them, he would never have found them. They shared that look of not being comfortable in their clothes, and the habit of gazing at perfectly ordinary objects such as pigeons, squirrels, trees, bushes, grass, and especially the occasional hawk or falcon with rapt appreciation. They also were all wearing sunglasses and long sleeves, in spite of the heat.

They were now directing their attention to, of all things, a pile of sticks, which they were adding to diligently. On the ground nearby were several bags of what looked like groceries, perhaps from the delicatessen that was close to the park entrance. To his astonishment, when one of the peculiar folk opened the bag, he could see that, indeed, the bag contained, of all things, some sort of sausages, nested together like pink snakes.

His surprise was so great that he made an unplanned move, and the branches around him rustled loudly. The group around the pile of sticks looked up, and he felt he needed to withdraw immediately to avoid detection. Imagine a detective being spotted – imagine the irony. He made no report, being too bemused even to conjecture at what was happening.

The next time he encountered any sizable number of them was when the autumn winds were blowing and the darkness was descending earlier and earlier. Again, it was outdoors, in a largely empty lot just on the river bank. This area had never been developed into condominiums or casinos or yacht clubs.

Only a few car carcasses blocked the wind, and he hid behind one of them. In the blowing, cloud-tossing dusk, a circle of people was gathering. In the center of the circle was a pile; again, a pile. And the circle was growing as more and more folk arrived, as if from thin air. Each one carried a handful of something, something that did not weigh them down, but something clearly treasured.

At a certain point: he could not have differentiated it from any other, there was a spark, and suddenly, a fire! The scent of burning leaves filled the air with a sharp and biting tang. He took out his hand-held computer and started describing the crowd, and the now-dancing fire in rapid, concise text.

Almost immediately, he found himself in a blindingly white room, along with the entire crowd that had last been surrounding the fire with grave and loving attention. He was standing before an authoritative looking fellow, who was inexplicable beaming at him.

“Well done! You nabbed them!”

“Who?” asked the detective.

“The time fugitives” said the other man, with a note of deep distaste. “They weren’t content with the domes, the recycled air, the recycled food, the unvarying light and temperature, and the behavioral constraints here in this century, and so they have to take their nasty perversions back in time and pollute in the past.”

“How? Why?” babbled the detective, thoroughly lost in this discussion.

“Oh, of course, you’re still in your 22nd century persona. Here, let me switch you over to present time.” He tapped out a command on the detective’s mobile computer, which was still clutched in his sweaty hand, and suddenly, the detective’s head whirled. As though a foggy window had cleared, he recognized the other as his supervisor, Sterling, in the Temporal Special Crimes Unit. When he turned to look at the crowd of people from the empty lot, the fire-starters, he realized that many were the same as he had seen in August, preparing, he now realized, to start a fire in the park glen, and, yes, they were going to roast wieners. That was it. They were holding a – what was that term – a “barbecue”, and in a location where it was not, strictly speaking, allowed, for forest fire prevention reasons. But where else could they have staged a “barbecue”? In his 25th century mind, the mere word gave him shudders of revulsion and terror. Polluting the domes, polluting the air, eating animal flesh; horrible ideas!

And, just a few moments ago, what had they been preparing for in that deserted, chilly lot? A – again the memory of the term came to him from an official glossary, probably in his training manual – a “bonfire”.

And again, with returning understanding, welled up the sense of horror.

He looked around him. These individuals had not been willing to accommodate themselves to the constrained life of their own century. They could not accept the limitations of their post-holocaust world. They never got used to the precious and many-times re-used air, water, and essential proteins, all sequestered in the dome and protected from the toxic human-generated nightmare outside.

No, they wanted to breathe unfiltered air, and eat animal flesh seared over a flame, and, burn things for no reason but to smell the perfume and incense of autumn.

Thinking back to the scurrying clouds and the smell of cold and the sweet smoke rising from the tiny fire, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could understand why they went to the effort of time travel and secretive burnings of meat, wood, and leaves. But he was not going to share that opinion any time soon. He grasped the returning memories that were even now washing away the artificial life history that had served him adequately back in the past as a detective in 22nd century North America,

He straightened up, and summoning his most official voice, said, “You have the right to remain silent…” Just then, the door opened. An even more imposing fellow walked through, this one surrounded by bodyguards.

“Well done! You’ve finally returned.”

“Who?” asked the detective.

“You spotted their aberrant behavior and triggered the temporal return mechanism. It was strictly against the law to build bonfires back in the 25th century due to the ongoing atmospheric deterioration. Luckily, that problem has been solved with today’s technology.” said one of the man’s bodyguards.

“How? Why?” asked the detective, once again thoroughly lost.

“Oh, of course, you’re still in your 25th century mind. Allow me to brief you on what has changed in the last century.”

The detective shook his head. He was just now getting used to the idea that time travel was possible, and he was not sure how much more he could accept in the way of revelations. He had just seen his 22nd (or was it 21st ?) century self disappear like a bathtub ring down the drain.

The imposing fellow jabbed a finger at the screen of his mobile computer, and the image of a folder opened up in front of them and rested on his lap.

“An aircraft of unknown origin crashed into the Brooks mountain range of Alaska in 1944. Military forces rushed in to lock down the whole area and the survivors were determined to be of non-terrestrial origin. We’ve kept those we rescued in a special facility ever since.”

Several holograms of the crash site and the survivors popped up out of the virtual folder and hung between them, glimmering slightly at the edges. The apparently human figures were, to all appearances, about 24 years of age, and very attractive by the standards of 1944. And, the detective observed to himself, the standards of the 25th century, as well.

“Over time, as we observed them in their containment facility, we started to realize they age at a much slower rate than we do. Scientists at the time of the crash had no knowledge of DNA, but as soon as the implications of Watson and Crick’s work with chromosomes dawned on them, the ETs were tested genetically.

Even by the late 1960s, we could tell that there were slight variations in their DNA composition. They look just like us and it is nearly impossible to distinguish visually between a regular human and those biological entities. Unless”, he added, “you can stare at them for 20 years or so, as their initial observers did, growing gray and wrinkled while the ETs stayed vibrantly youthful.

The ETs also seemed to be able to time travel, even without their damaged ship. We have not ever figured out the knack, but the genetic differences probably explain a great deal.”

“This is spectacular news, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

One of the imposing fellow’s assistants leaned over and poked at the computer screen, extracting an image of the detective and his immediate boss to pop up in front of them.

“In 2472, you’re part of a special operations team run by your boss, Sterling, here. You’re last seen…”

“What year am I in now?” the detective interrupted.

“The year 2572. The individuals you were asked to follow all the way back into the 22nd century weren’t just ordinary criminals or terrorists. Instead, they were extraterrestrials who managed to make their way out of the crash site before our forces could arrive. We called them the Sleepers.

They had melted into the crowded cities of that globalized era, managing to survive on the margins of society. In fact, they actually thrived, since they had the appearance of youth and beauty on their side.

They sometimes traded on their physical appeal to obtain housing, food, or travel. They made out like bandits in the 21st century, and did decently in the 22nd, as you witnessed, but in the subsequent centuries, the changes around them made life in this marginal niche more difficult.”

The computer responded to another fingertip prodding by issuing forth more pop-up images – this time from space. “Here is the earth in the 21st century.” The blue marble planet hung in the blackness of space, gorgeously jeweled. “Here is the 23rd century – note the changes at the equator”.

In this picture, the band of brown desert was massively larger, and was engulfing Europe. The next image was terrifyingly dun colored. “The ETs ran into trouble once really strict government controls were imposed. Things got really difficult for them once the domes were built to shelter the remnant of humanity in the late 2300s.

Most of them had serious problems adapting to the constraints that became necessary in the 25th century. They clung to a lot of the customs and privileges of the 21st century such as building bonfires and eating meat, and daily bathing. We conjecture that in their home world, they were either able to do these things freely, or had had to give them up, and were delighted to find them available here.

For the most part, they don’t want to talk to us very much, even after all this time, for perhaps understandable reasons. Additionally, few of them ever wanted to work. In a word, many were mooches, and never paid their way in life. Naturally, such behavior got them evicted from everywhere they wanted to live, whether indoors under domes, or outdoors. They were eventually branded as criminals, as resources all over the globe became tighter and tighter.

They became truly outcasts and fugitives for having broken environmental laws and laws of trespass over and over again. They had an immense advantage over any other lawbreakers, because they could flee in time, as well as space. They tended to gravitate towards the 21st century because that was the last time that the world was both beautiful and fertile and it was relatively safe to breathe the air and drink the water and eat ‘real’ food from animal sources.

Efforts were set in motion to have local constabulary round them all up in our century. Soon after this initiative, another group from the higher-ups captured you along with most of the rest of the Sleepers. Your blood was tested along with others and as it turns out, you’re one of them.

This was a bit of a surprise, since you had always been a very dedicated worker and a credit to the Temporal Crimes Unit. You must have been an anomaly amongst your kind. We are still not quite sure what you were doing with them when that group was detained.”

In the detective’s mind there blossomed a memory – this one seemed real, and his own – of a week spent by a small, relatively unpolluted river, with days full of skinny dipping and nights full of campfires and glimpses of stars beyond the persistent scum of polluted air. Was he a time fugitive then, as well? Did he have a secret life spent with his fellow…what did they even call themselves?

“I don’t see how this can be possible… and why are they, no, we, called Sleepers? And all these centuries of life: how is this feasible…?” anxiously, the detective interrupted once again.

“Please allow me to finish. Your appearance is just as fresh as the day you were hired by Sterling, your boss for the last decades. When you showed up in the round-up, we decided to inject you with a denatured toxin known as Atroxium. It was originally designed for individuals who had troubles sleeping at night. We took the liberty of enhancing the effects of the toxin to a point where one could sleep for literally hundreds of years without ill effects. Needless to say, it was put into use on you, and some of your people.

Atroxium has the sometimes unfortunate side effect of wiping memory rather efficiently. In your case, it was exceedingly helpful. We were able to teach you a new set of only the most basic memories by hypnopaedic methods. You were awakened to help us find the whole group, since you could time-jump just as easily as your fellow sleepers. You have done so very efficiently. Now, you’re free to go. All of you.”

The man stood up and put started closing down the holographic images that still hung in air.

“After all these years, you people have decided to acknowledge and give free access to your world, and your past, to me and my people. There must be a reason for that?” asked the one who still thought of himself as a detective.

“It wasn’t my decision. The newly elected president decided that you’ve suffered enough. To be honest, I am strongly against this but I have no choice but to act accordingly. It seems extremely dangerous to me to release a race with largely unknown characteristics into our gene pool.”

The detective and his fellow aliens walked out and were never seen again.

Categories: Housing

…the upon completion of the Virginia State BAR

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…the names of those involved have been changed to protect the innocent…


March 1, 2001 5:39 p.m. – Nerves, nerves, nerveshow can one letter enclosed inside of an envelope determine so much? Michael Livingston had plenty to lose. Try four years of undergraduate school at Morehouse University, two years of Notre Dame graduate school, and Harvard Law. Yes he had plenty to lose. Walking into the door of his closed-space apartment, he sits down with the letter in plain view. Thump, Thump, Thump! His heart races like greyhounds at a race track. The time is here. The time is now. Michael opens the letter to find his results of the BAR exam he had taken
“Dear Mr. Livingston,
It gives us great pleasure to inform you that you are in the ninetieth percentile upon completion of the Virginia State BAR Examination. Congratulations on your success.”
Experiencing a seventh heaven elation, Michael throws the life-saving letter up in the air, and yells to the top of his lungs. He sits down on the couch with a sudden thrust as if he were lightheaded. He picks up the letter again and reads it a few more times before disregarding it for the last time. As he catches his breath, the tight brown belt from his khaki trousers digs into his stomach making for an even more uncomfortable pose. Pulling his white Geoffrey Beane button-up shirt out of his trousers, Michael then gets up and walks into his room as if he were in a drunken stoop. The excitement he was experiencing tired him more than the 9 to 5 internship at the courthouse. While his heavy head sunk into the pillow, Mike hears a mysterious knock at his apartment door. “Who in the hell?” he says emphatically. Mumbling words that would turn his mother in her grave, Michael looks out the peep hole he normally uses to look a Cynthia’s ass.(Cynthia is the 24 year old film student that lives in front of Michael.) He then notices three gentlemen; all dressed in fine tailored suites with matching hats and coughing handkerchiefs. Michael shouts, “Who is it and what do you want?” “Mr. Livingston,” one gentleman replies. “We are representatives from Sampson, Heath, Jacks, and associates. May we have a word with you Sir?” Michael tells the gentlemen to hold for a moment while he puts on a shirt. He comes back and opens the creaking door. “Good evening fellows, what can I do for you?” he asks. “Well Mr. Livingston, we would like to discuss a matter that we feel would be very beneficial to you,” one gentleman explains. “We recruit young, smart men who are fresh out of law school, and we want you.” Michael stares off into the distance as if he sees something on the wall.” We’ve been notified of your outstanding examination scores, and we’re willing to offer you a deal you can’t refuse. Returning back to the world, Michael looks at the gentlemen with a stern, unyielding glare and says, “Excuse me for asking, but how do you know about my scores being that I just received them today?” “We know all,” one gentleman says boldly. We want to offer you a position in our firm with a set salary of $360,000.00 a year, along with full benefits, and other perks. We’ll consider you a friend of the firm,” he said jokingly. “You’ll be your own boss. You control how far you progress in the firm Michael.” “Give it some more thought; here’s our card. Stop by the office so we can iron out the details.” Michael, stiff and in awe, shakes the gentlemen’s hands, and sees them to the door. “How about I meet with you all tomorrow at 10 a.m.?” Michael says. The gentleman looks at him and with a sharp smirk, touches the brim of his hat and walks away with the other two.


11:11 p.m. – Dazed and hypnotized by the dripping faucet, Michael lies awake in his full-sized bed starring into nothing. Continuous contemplation happens beyond his control. He finds it extremely bizarre that three men who he’s never seen before in his life would show up on his doorstep and offer him a job. “There has to be a catch,” he thought. Given his current financial situation, and his educational debt, $360.00.00 sounds very appealing. But, there has to be a catch “I’m gonna go check it out for the hell of it; and they way things are right now, I just may take it,” he pondered. Tossing, Turning, Tossing, Turning…the bed offered him no comfort throughout the night as he lay restless on the cold, wet sheets. 3 a.m., 5:24 a.m., 8:46 a.m. The time crept by with each sleepless moment for Michael. He suddenly became conscious as the sun grazed his eyes and warmed his body. It was time for him to awaken to a new day; a new career perhaps; in what? He did not know. He got dressed as soon as he could, and ran out the door as only a rookie lawyer could. The card that he had received from the gentlemen gave precise directions to the building. It was a very new building; something that looked like a glass monument just for him. Just as Michael walked up to the door, an extremely hefty man met him almost simultaneously. Michael was nearly startled by the heavily built stature of the man, but he then realized that the man had to accompany him to the “office.” Admiring all of the paintings on the wall on the way to the “office,” Michael nearly collides with the hefty gentleman. Once he gets to the door, the hefty fellow leaves his presence and returns to his outside post. “Here I am,” he says to himself. He slowly pushes the door open, and to his surprise he finds…

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10:01 a.m. – A room full of middle-aged white men sitting at a round table. All had on similar suits; mostly black and blue. Michael noticed the gentlemen that stopped by his apartment were in attendance also. Mr. Sampson, one of the founders of the firm, (who also looked like a watered-down version of Stanley Kubrick) stood up and asked Michael to have a seat. “Mr. Livingston, you do know why you’re here don’t you?” he asked. Michael silently nodded. “A few of my colleagues met with you yesterday to discuss future employment here at S.H.J. & A correct?” Michael locked eyes on him and gave a simple “yes.” “We trust that you’ve made a decision regarding this, and we would like to hear it. Michael stood as if someone had trodden his legs and watered is palms. He cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, I have reviewed your generous offer, and unfortunately I have decided to decline it. I feel a bit uneasy about doing a job that I have yet to gain information about. Mr. Jacks, another firm founder, looks at Michael with a vengeful, tactless vogue and says, “Mr. Livingston, you don’t have much of a choice!” Michael knew at that point he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He looked at the blank faces on all of the lawyers and rapidly came to the conclusion that everyone of them was in on it. Mr. Sampson walked towards Michael and escorted him to a seat next to the round table. “Now that you are employed here Mr. Livingston, it’s time for us to tell you about your first case, and who you will be defending. Ice water ran through Michael’s veins as he looked at the men with a vacant face. “I would like for you to direct your attention towards the screen,” Sampson said. “Here you see Anderson Heath…a very good man who is not only a founder of this firm; he’s also a victim of a system he so aptly tried to uphold.” Now Michael, for your first case as a defense attorney, you will be defending Mr. Heath on charges of first degree murder. He is accused of murdering this woman…
1:18 p.m. – Michael looks to the screen and without hesitation, begins to cry. The infamous woman is none other than his mother Bernadette. A shrieking “NO!” escapes from his voice, and his body language follows closely behind. First, he turns to look at the door as if he wants to run, but it seems extremely distant to him. He turns back around to see Mr. Sampson while a million thoughts overrun his mind. “Mr. Livingston,” Sampson says. “This is what you will do. You will accept this case in which you will be defending Mr. Heath. You will argue that he did not murder this woman, and furthermore, you will not reveal to the jury that this woman is indeed your mother. Have I made myself clear Mr. Livingston?” Sampson says. Before Michael had the opportunity to stress any syllables, Mr. Sampson adds, “If at any time you decide to go the other way on this case, cinderblocks will be placed on your feet, and you will die a slow agonizing death in the Chesapeake Bay… once again, do you understand these terms that have been presented to you Mr. Livingston?” Michael could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He answers “yes” in a pitiful, weary tone. He then gets up and makes his way to the door. Just before his hand embraces the door knob, Sampson says, “Remember, you’re being watched…don’t lose.” Michael exits the door, and soon after, the building in a heaping, crying mess.
March 4, 2001 8:36 a.m. – “I’ve been lying around for the past couple of days: not eating, not sleeping, not anything. My world has turned upside down, and I don’t know what I am going to do. Those bastards murdered my mother, and now they have me painted into a corner with no way out- I can’t deal with this. I drink this vodka with no remorse, not caring for anything or anyone. Maybe I should go to the police…hell, they won’t do anything. What do I do? I can’t just sit here and do nothing. “Michael,” I tell myself. “Put the vodka down.” So I do. I must come up with a way to get those assholes for what they did. I look up to the sky and say “Momma, they won’t get away with this…I promise.”- Michael Livingston
Michael gets himself out of bed, and wipes the dried tears from his face. He puts on his sweatshirt with the maroon “H” on the front, along with some old Nike sweatpants. After getting himself together emotionally, he jumps into his car and takes a ride to his mother’s old house. Twenty minutes later, he arrives at the old house only to see windows boarded up and the old Pacer his mother used to drive. He sits in the car wanting to cry, but he realizes that this was something he had to do in order to make “the firm” pay for what they did. He walks up to the door with a stoned face and heavy heart. AS he enters the house, memories instantly begin to raid his mind. “My old room,” he thought. He stood in the door frame with the sun warming his back reminiscing over old times…his mother cooking by the stove, he and his friends running in and out of the old, metal screen door, the jar full of lightning bugs” he used to catch. Yes, it all came back to him. Clearing his mind, he begins to look around the house for anything suspicious or unordinary. He goes through all of his mother’s old documents, prescriptions, and Sunday school notes… nothing. As he begins to give up, he looks on the floor near a corner and notices a video tape that had no reason for being there. He goes over, picks it up, and places it inside of the old GE VCR. As soon as he presses the play button, all of the air leaves his body as if someone had gut-punched him. He watches the tape in complete astonishment. He quickly grabs the VCR system and tape, runs to his car, and rapidly peels off.
10:22 p.m. – Michael knew the information on the tape would be exactly what he needed to put those murderers away for along time. He paced back and forth all night attempting to find a way to meet with Judge Emerson in her chambers without the firm knowing. Thinking, Thinking, Thinking… Finally, he did it! He decided to call Judge Emerson at her residence to explain the situation in which he needed her help. “Mr. Livingston, I will do everything I can to assure your safety at the trial tomorrow. However, I cannot help you knowingly, but off the record, if you are able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that these men murdered your mother, they will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” “Thank you Judge,” Michael replied before hanging up the phone. Preparing for the trial tomorrow, Michael stays up making sure everything is set and in order. He worked every angle for what he was trying to do. His plan is to defend Mr. Heath throughout the trial, and when it came time for the closing argument, he would show the jury the tape, and explain to them that Mr. Heath murdered his mother, and that the firm he was an accessory to the murder.
I am ready. I need this. “Be smart Michael,” I tell myself. I work for the very people who took my mother’s life; not by choice, not by choice. If I don’t do this, I die so what do I have to lose? Mom, I hope you’re proud of me. I will seek justice for you. I promise. – Michael Livingston
March 5, 2001 Day of Trial- Michael wore his best suit for what would be a fascinating trial. Just before it was time to go into the courtroom, Michael sees Sampson standing in a corner along side two other men from the firm. Mr. Sampson had been looking at Michael for quite some time, and when he caught his eyes he said silently, “Don’t lose,” and gave him the gunshot-to-the-head hand motion. Michael, unfazed and resilient, walks into the courtroom and takes a seat beside Mr. Heath. Heath looks at him, gives him a smirk and says, “This will be easier than I thought.” Michael looks at him and with the same smirk and says “You have no idea.” “All rise for the Honorable Judge Emerson,” the bailiff says. Michael stands up and soon after, begins his rebuttal. Michael seems to be putting up a good defense argument for Heath while Sampson looks on in approval. Everything sees to be going well for Mr. Heath, or that’s what it appears to be. Now it’s time for the closing argument. Michael hurriedly gets up and takes his place next to the jury.


Good evening everyone. I come to you today in a dilemma of character and of courage. You have been lied to today. Yes lied to. You have been deceived beyond words and I want to clear up this horrible misconception. I am guilty of defending a murderer, yes a murderer. This man, along with other members of S.H.J. & A is guilty of killing the most important woman in my life, Bernadette Livingston. Ms. Livingston was my mother and these men selfishly decided to end her life because of her refusal to pay lawyer fees for a trial she never had a part in. The fees amounted over millions of dollars. I was blackmailed into taking the job and the case. My life was threatened by the gentleman you see in the back, Mr. Sampson. The whole firm is corrupt, and it would be completely unjust if these men were to go free. Please. Do the right thing. Thank you. I also have a videotape I would like for the jury to examine.

– Michael Livingston
The courtroom was completely shocked and appalled. Everyone turned and looked at the gentlemen who represented the firm before watching the tape. The bailiff played the videotape, and on it Mr. Heath verbally admitted killing Bernadette Livingston, and everyone from the firm was in the tape. The men were full of alcohol when the tape was shot so confessions came easily. That was all the jury needed before deliberations started. Michael felt he would win. He knew he would win. The jury came back out with the decision…


We the jury finds the defendant Anderson Heath guilty of the crime of murder. We the jury also finds Sampson, Heath, Jacks, and Associates guilty of conspiracy to murder.


The judge sentenced Mr. Heath to life in prison, and the rest of the firm twenty-five years each. Michael, smiling and joyful, goes over to a handcuffed Sampson and says “I didn’t lose.” He continued his career as a prominent lawyer in Washington D.C.

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