guilty
Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time; a look into all aspects of a guilty verdict from the burden of proof to conviction to the judge’s sentence and more.
The Will to Live
David clutched the wheel with his left hand, his right gripping the gear shift. It was a foggy morning, and the clouds seemed to stretch down from the heavens all the way to the earth, creating a sheer curtain of moisture that penetrated the city. His ears yearning for a noise to drown out the honking horns and revving engines around him, he released the clutch for a moment and flipped on the radio to the local news station. As his fingers, frigid from the frost outside, turned up the dial, the dynamic voice of the local weatherman crackled through the speakers. David listened passively, nudging a lever to awaken his turn signal and merging onto the toll road he always took to work, leaving behind the soaring metal giants of downtown. He edged the pedal further, and the car was soon shooting down the highway with a steady hum. Having three miles to traverse in this lane, David released the gear shift and ran his right hand through his graying but abundant hair. His ears perked up at every tick of his wristwatch, and his jaw clenched with every glance he snuck at it, trying to keep his eyes devoted to the traffic as long as possible. He had consistently been late to work for the last couple of weeks, and his boss had warned him of the consequences that would inevitably follow if he didn’t get his schedule together. David wasn’t only stressed about being late to work. Every time he closed his eyes to blink, the film of the past months seemed to continue rolling through his head on repeat, the back of his eyelids acting as the screen. He let out a weary sigh and flipped on his blinker again, changing lanes toward the exit on the right. As his car sped down the ramp and slowed to rejoin the flow of traffic under the soaring skyscrapers, David turned his head to check his blindspot. A flash of gray blurred by in his periphery, a blink of red flashed brightly, and a sudden pounding emerged in his ears as the blood rushed to his head. His seatbelt sliced to the bone as he lurched forward, banging his head on the steering wheel, and soon the pounding in his ears was accompanied by a sharp hot ache behind his eyes. His stomach dropped into his legs as though he were free falling for a moment. There was a deafening ringing in his ears, and the last thing David saw was a male figure donned in a suit approaching hurriedly, before his eyelids became leaden and everything went dark.
By Maitri Kovuru5 years ago in Criminal
Eyes On You
I stood next to Pop-Pop in the glow of the sunset coming through the hospital window. He was tensely quiet, as per usual. I always thought there was something off about Pop-Pop. It was never enough to set off a real alarm in my head, just that he was a little colder than most people, a little more hardened and on the edge. Dad always chalked it up to a product of growing up in the olden days, where things were more about survival and less about “technology and instant gratification”. Pop-Pop never spoke much to my mother, as he didn’t speak much to anyone from my experience. Whenever I asked why Pop-Pop was so quiet, my mother shrugged her shoulders, dismissed it, and told me that it was rude to be so nosy.
By Auva Creations5 years ago in Criminal
National Security
It is a common practice not to judge a book by its cover, but rather by its contents. Unless you are a criminal. The kind of person who mangles the pages to hide their valuables behind the cover, who lays them down spread open on their face to mark their place, who cuts them into sculptures to sit in a museum, never to be read. That kind of person came running through my bookstore this afternoon. I didn’t recognize him as a criminal, just the sort of person who was late for a meeting and really didn’t want to chat. I own a small bookstore, and he came through and asked directly where the notebooks were. I pointed them out and he slipped behind the shelves. Not five minutes passed by and he ran back up with a small black notebook in the plastic cover, tossed it at me and demanded that I ring it up.
By Emily Hinkle-DeGraff5 years ago in Criminal
A Smoke For Your Troubles
It’s called autolysis, and it starts the minute you die. A corpse won’t stink for two days, but autolysis is right there from the beginning. Microbes. They go to work immediately, but like all things in the natural, most humans notice too late. Anyway, I hoped that was the case. I didn’t know how long the middle-aged man’s body had been in my trunk, and the fast-approaching lights blinding me in the rear-view mirror were the dreaded red-blue-red-blue combo.
By Shane Cameron5 years ago in Criminal
Rebirth
Harold. W. Morris; Derrick. F. Torres, Regina. R. Copeland and Frederick. L. Moore; four names yet to answer for what had been done. Money in all four accounts was paid out in steady increments over the course of two years, money that would be so minute that anyone with blue blood would not see it fit to exhibit additional diligence, let alone concern. Having studied the salient figures in front, it would add up to nearly twenty-thousand US dollars and cause the undoubted downfall of four senior executives who never had the good sense to see it coming. This money was as red as the diamonds it could be used to buy, its only purpose was to further the unquenchable greed of a man who was denounced of compassion and humility; that man was my stepfather. James Christopher Callahan was a tax consultant for H.P Lewis in Chicago; he had given them five years before deciding that he was the one who warranted what they had and that obtaining it was justified by his apathy for a menial life and a family that he never asked for. I was a part of that family, adopted after the steel of a needle removed the stain that would be my mother; ever the samaritan James was keen to prove to his now deceased sister that he was always the success and that her emphatic demise was a fitting end to the life of a junkie. However, my only role was clear, I was the succession to his family, I would carry on the conservative mind-set held in this parasites mind that only men could lead; that his two daughters were nothing more than housewives in the making and quickly it would become apparent that I was his heir.
By Samuel Taylor5 years ago in Criminal
It’s a Good Story
I was born with two gifts: rotten luck and an addictive personality. When I was fifteen, my mom took me to the dog races. I put all ten of my dollars on a greyhound named Fast Albert. He won, and so did I. I’ll never forget the feeling of that crisp fifty dollar bill in my hand. It felt like a missing piece of my soul. That was the first time I ever made a bet.
By Martian Brady5 years ago in Criminal
The Raven in the Window
It is 3 am, and 73-year-old Esther Caldwell is brewing chamomile tea. The house is still, save for the sounds of the wind and the trees outside her farmhouse. She carries her teacup to her bedroom, turning out all the lights along the way. Upon entry, she closes the door and sits at her vanity.
By Rayven Jae5 years ago in Criminal
The Dilemma
The Dilemma (Surprises are Scary) By Carol Margosein It is cold. It is so cold that the snow refuses to melt. The snow piles up so high, I can barely see across the street. It has not changed for the last three weeks. We moved out to the country for the quiet and the bucolic sights. Rolling hills, cows, sheep, llamas, and horses all coexist together on various farms tucked between the never-ending cornfields. All of this is lovely from April to November, but November to April can be hard. I have learned to live with it, but I still miss seeing people and just going out. Still, I bundle up: boots, sweater, heavy jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves. All on, just to go out. As I am bundling up, my husband asks," Where are you going"? I don't know what to say. Should I say out, to the store, to the bank? The reason I am leaving is that the walls are beginning to close in. Things are financially tight, so no trips to sunny climes. The kids are busy with their own lives and families. So here we are, in the cold, all alone with each other.
By Carol Margosein5 years ago in Criminal
