Page 1 of Justice

PROLOGUE

“All rise.”

Justice watched as the middle-aged man in a black robe stepped into the room. His salt and pepper hair ruffed around the sides, a contrast to the slicked back style he wore prior to the recess he’d called for lunch. The door to his chambers barely closes before the raven-haired woman, with big tits and a short skirt, scampers out of the room behind him, resuming her place at the stenotype machine. Charlotte ‘The Harlot’ King, as she was known to the other hang arounds, paid her way through stenotype school by the favors she performed for members of the Devils Disciples, a one percent motorcycle club.

Her apparent job of sucking off the judge in his chambers, evident by the smudge of her lipstick and the wrinkle of her clothing, would give Charlotte a leg up in becoming an old lady to one of the many available Disciples.

A cold and bony hand gripped her arm, urging her to follow the instructions of the bailiff. Turning to her left, she lets her raised eyebrow tell the useless public defender exactly what he could do with his hand.

He drops her arm like a bad habit, adjusting his tie and standing ramrod straight while facing the judge. She turns her attention to the kangaroo court before her, staring down the judge who was as twisted as a pig’s dick.

She’d listened with clenched fists in her lap as the prosecution presented its case, parading one paid off motherfucker after another who’d sworn to tell the truth, only to lie like a goddamn rug instead. She listened while they painted her as a rebellious teen who’d turned her back on her loving and supportive family, killing them in cold blood instead.

She’d been ignored when she demanded her attorney have an independent lab examine the blood sample taken after her arrest for drugs had come back negative. Instead, she was told System-One was the best lab in the state, their reputation for being nearly perfect known throughout the legal community.

She was called a liar when she told the public defender she had gone to the nurse at the jail, begging for something to help with a headache, as there was no record of her visit. Her public defender’s excuse to not review the lab tests.

She had bitten her tongue hard enough to taste blood as she listened to her stepfather, Dusty ‘Red’ Campbell, tell the jury how the family had been to church the day in question, a practiced look in his eye as he lied through his teeth. In the years since he had begun a relationship with her mother, the only time they had stepped foot inside a church was so she and her sister could distract the minister, while Red and his crew robbed the place blind.

She’d watched as several jurors refused to look in her direction, while Red sat on the witness stand with crocodile tears in his eyes and told the jury of how he woke with a knife in his back and his daughter standing over his dead wife’s body, covered in her blood.

Red was a natural born con man, able to take her devoutly Catholic mother and turn her into a heroin-addicted shell of her former self. Using her until she had nothing left and when he wanted to move on to his next victim, he chose Justice to take the fall.

“Has the jury reached its verdict?”

Justice knew the answer written on the slip of paper in the foreman’s hand before the jury had deliberated yesterday. From the moment the public defender assigned to her case took a seat opposite her, laying out plea bargains and avoiding a jury trial by admitting her guilt, she knew this was pointless. She could have followed his advice, took the deal which would have given her five years with the possibility of parole in three, but she didn’t.

“We have, Your Honor.”

Justice stood in her borrowed suit; the itchy fabric soon to be exchanged for the bright orange jumpsuit she’d worn since her arrest six weeks ago. She was certain the man who represented the jury had met with Red numerous times needing a loan, or to purchase drugs. She would accept the sentence the group of twelve well-compensated individuals handed her, knowing the money Red promised them would never make it into their greedy little hands.

“What say you?”

Judge Nolen took the sheet of paper from the bailiff into his dirty hands. He, like the others, had been bribed or blackmailed into his role of sending her to prison. She had seen this a dozen times in the past, how Red, or one of his crew members, used the blood money they collected to convince the courts to find them innocent.

“We the jury, in the case of The State of Georgia versus Justice Erin Hart, find the defendant guilty of first-degree murder.”

She didn’t have to look in Red’s direction to know he was smiling. Oh, he would cover it well, let everyone watch as he faked a silent prayer to the Jesus he didn’t believe in, while the press reported him as the devastated husband who can now carry on with his life now this nightmare is over.

“The court reporter will record the guilty verdict. The jury is dismissed with the court's thanks.”

“Your Honor, if I may.” As if on cue, the filthy bastard himself stepped forward, having one more spike to nail in her coffin.

“Yes, Mr. Campbell?” Judge Nolen removes his glasses, letting the wireframes dangle above the stack of papers on his desk. His irritation with the intrusion is as fake as the Rolex on his wrist. A gift from Red for his help dealing with the city council when they wanted to rezone the property his business occupies.

“If it pleases the Court, I’d like to say a few words…” His trembling voice hangs in the air, carefully constructed words produced by a twisted mind then spoken with a forked tongue. “To my daughter.”

“Mr. Campbell, while your request is highly unorthodox, I will allow it.”

Of course, he will. Judge Nolen has lived on the inside of Red’s pocket for years. Profited from the pain of those who trusted the law he swore to protect. Hell, the man might as well move the fuck over and let Red plop his fat-fucking ass in the chair.

Red thanked Judge Nolen, taking his time as he turns around, the leather of his boots creaking with each tentative step. His suit is gray today, pinstripes with a silk tie and matching handkerchief. To everyone watching, it’s a memorial to his wife, as the lavender color matches her name.

But in Justice’s eyes, it’s his feeble attempt at breaking her, squeezing out the last drop of tears before locking her away.

“I forgive you, Justice,” Red says, as his eyes fill with tears. His ability to cry on command the result of how much this is costing him instead of a practiced skill.

“Your mother, God rest her soul, wouldn’t want me to live with hate in my heart. So I’m going to pray this time behind bars will give you the opportunity to reflect on the wrong you have done.”

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