Flash Fiction, by C. N. Nevets
"You know I did this right?" He wasn't looking at me.
"I know you did this." I nodded, and looked squarely at him, my hands stuffed in my pockets, my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, stuffed with files.
He nodded. His upper lip disappeared into his mouth. "But you still did right by me."
"I still did right by you." I nodded again.
"You a church goin' man?" he asked, his chin still tucked low, his eyes only briefly meeting mine, and at an oblique angle when they did.
"I'm a church goin' man." My words were paced, my tone even.
He scrunched up his face and kicked stubbornly at the floor. "And you're alright with this?"
My posture was relaxed. "I'm alright with this."
"I'm not sure I am." He turned and walked away, without looking back.
Author's Note.
I'm not a public defender. I've known and respected a few. I'm not trying to represent any real person or moment or sentiment, apart from my own unwavering belief in the right of all persons in the United States to due process and earnest representation, that eternal and temporal justice are not and need not be the same, and that issues of rights and constitutionality are core facets of justice not "technicalities."
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