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rainbowfic2019-06-11 07:55 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-06-11 07:55 pm
Entry tags:
Canary Yellow 1: You Never Forget Your First (The Quality of Mercy)
Name: You Never Forget Your First
Story: The Quality of Mercy (Peccadillo Parlour)
Colors: Canary Yellow #1
Supplies and Styles: n/a
Word Count: 918
Rating: PG
Warnings: Violence, sexual abuse, child abuse & death discussed.
Summary: Prudence reconnects with an old client.
2001
“I did it.”
Prudence Gao looked up from the papers in front of her, her jaw tight. “You are aware that you don’t have to tell me that?”
“I’m aware. I did it. I want to confess.”
“Well, that does make things easier.” She closed the folder in front of her and crossed her hands over it. She was aware it was a power move. She was twenty-five, little, pretty, and reviewing her first solo homicide case. She needed all the help she could get. “The maximum sentence for manslaughter is fifteen years. I will do my best to reduce that, and a confession will help, especially if there are mitigating factors. Please, tell me everything that happened.”
The man hesitated. Prudence waited. Jeffrey Cadfield had been found in his garage with a tire iron and a bloody mess at his feet. The victim had just turned twenty-one, the shut-in son of the couple next door. Jeffrey was an upstanding member of society according to everyone in their low-to-middle income neighbourhood. Even the parents whose son he had killed.
“He pushed my buttons.”
“We’re going to need more than that, Mr Cadfield.”
Another pause to think, and then, “He’d been looking at my granddaughter funny. I saw him peek across the fence the last time she was visiting, and I’m pretty sure he was cranking his horn. She’s only six.”
Prudence let a breath go and nodded. “Okay.” She opened her folder and began to write.
-
2016
Prudence was forty and had been working civil suits only for the past ten years. Instead of aggressive black-rimmed glasses, she now had contacts. Instead of a neat cheap grey suit, she wore various shapes of black dresses, each costing enough to feed a family for a month, maybe two.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” said Jeffrey Cadfield.
Prudence smiled. “You never forget your first homicide, Mr Cadfield.”
Cadfield laughed. It was scratched raw, now. An old smoker’s laugh. “No, you don’t, ma’am.” She couldn’t remember what he’d looked like fifteen years ago, but she guessed by his age that time had been kind. He’d done two years. She’d got angry letters, and got over it. She’d defended worse.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr Cadfield? I checked—your case is closed tight.”
“No, this is something else. I looked you up for a little legal advice. I’m thinking of writing a book, but it’s gotta be a pen name.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, but—”
“No, you see, nobody can know it’s me. Nobody, not even the editors. I wanted to write about what happened. You know, man murders his neighbour’s son after months of provocation.”
“I see.”
“It’s gonna make a lot of people mad if they know it’s me.”
“Mr Cadfield, I’m sure you can publish whatever you like under a pseudonym. Many do.”
“Yes, but—” he leaned closer, and she could smell the pot on his breath, “it wouldn’t be the story that’s in the court records.”
Prudence felt the heart she’d left behind a long time ago sink. “Mr Cadfield--”
“There was provocation. There really was. The way that boy would stare at me across the fence. He wasn’t right in the head. And I just—well, I just snapped one day. Thought it would make a good book. The tension stretching and stretching and then—bang!” He mimed the snapping of a rubber band and laughed. “Like a Hitchcock movie. And I really did it. You don’t get more authentic than that.”
“Mr Cadfield, you shouldn’t be telling me these things.”
He looked mildly offended. “You can’t take it to court, not when you heard it second-hand. I just want to know if it’s possible to publish without the editors knowing it’s you, and still get paid.”
Prudence stood up, her chair’s wheels whispering against the polished wood. “I suspect not. Since you came here for legal advice, and I do mean to bill you for my time, here it is: You cannot be charged again on the basis of a book you label fiction. If you publish under a pen name, it is unlikely the book will ever be linked to you.” But you will tell your friends about it, you bastard. They will all find out. It’s human nature. “If the police decide to reopen the investigation, they can subpoena your publishers for your identity, but this seems unlikely to be granted to obtain what is, after all, circumstantial evidence. So go right ahead and write your book, Mr Cadfield. That’s my professional opinion. Are you happy with that?”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey Cadfield, though his shoulders were up. Prudence read anger in every curve of his lined face. “I see you’re not in my corner anymore, Ms Gao. I thought you lawyers were supposed to be above all that soft stuff.”
“Nobody likes finding out they’ve been lied to, Mr Cadfield. Not even lawyers.”
When he was gone, she rolled down the blinders on the glass walls of her office and threw herself in her chair. The Boston skyline outside her window offered no judgment.
She’d been right to leave criminal litigation all those years ago. The idealistic girl who’d thought justice was the purpose of law was long gone.
So why the stinging in her chest?
Shame, that was all. Die already, she thought towards that last remnant of softness in her centre, and got up to get another cup of coffee.
Story: The Quality of Mercy (Peccadillo Parlour)
Colors: Canary Yellow #1
Supplies and Styles: n/a
Word Count: 918
Rating: PG
Warnings: Violence, sexual abuse, child abuse & death discussed.
Summary: Prudence reconnects with an old client.
2001
“I did it.”
Prudence Gao looked up from the papers in front of her, her jaw tight. “You are aware that you don’t have to tell me that?”
“I’m aware. I did it. I want to confess.”
“Well, that does make things easier.” She closed the folder in front of her and crossed her hands over it. She was aware it was a power move. She was twenty-five, little, pretty, and reviewing her first solo homicide case. She needed all the help she could get. “The maximum sentence for manslaughter is fifteen years. I will do my best to reduce that, and a confession will help, especially if there are mitigating factors. Please, tell me everything that happened.”
The man hesitated. Prudence waited. Jeffrey Cadfield had been found in his garage with a tire iron and a bloody mess at his feet. The victim had just turned twenty-one, the shut-in son of the couple next door. Jeffrey was an upstanding member of society according to everyone in their low-to-middle income neighbourhood. Even the parents whose son he had killed.
“He pushed my buttons.”
“We’re going to need more than that, Mr Cadfield.”
Another pause to think, and then, “He’d been looking at my granddaughter funny. I saw him peek across the fence the last time she was visiting, and I’m pretty sure he was cranking his horn. She’s only six.”
Prudence let a breath go and nodded. “Okay.” She opened her folder and began to write.
-
2016
Prudence was forty and had been working civil suits only for the past ten years. Instead of aggressive black-rimmed glasses, she now had contacts. Instead of a neat cheap grey suit, she wore various shapes of black dresses, each costing enough to feed a family for a month, maybe two.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” said Jeffrey Cadfield.
Prudence smiled. “You never forget your first homicide, Mr Cadfield.”
Cadfield laughed. It was scratched raw, now. An old smoker’s laugh. “No, you don’t, ma’am.” She couldn’t remember what he’d looked like fifteen years ago, but she guessed by his age that time had been kind. He’d done two years. She’d got angry letters, and got over it. She’d defended worse.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr Cadfield? I checked—your case is closed tight.”
“No, this is something else. I looked you up for a little legal advice. I’m thinking of writing a book, but it’s gotta be a pen name.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, but—”
“No, you see, nobody can know it’s me. Nobody, not even the editors. I wanted to write about what happened. You know, man murders his neighbour’s son after months of provocation.”
“I see.”
“It’s gonna make a lot of people mad if they know it’s me.”
“Mr Cadfield, I’m sure you can publish whatever you like under a pseudonym. Many do.”
“Yes, but—” he leaned closer, and she could smell the pot on his breath, “it wouldn’t be the story that’s in the court records.”
Prudence felt the heart she’d left behind a long time ago sink. “Mr Cadfield--”
“There was provocation. There really was. The way that boy would stare at me across the fence. He wasn’t right in the head. And I just—well, I just snapped one day. Thought it would make a good book. The tension stretching and stretching and then—bang!” He mimed the snapping of a rubber band and laughed. “Like a Hitchcock movie. And I really did it. You don’t get more authentic than that.”
“Mr Cadfield, you shouldn’t be telling me these things.”
He looked mildly offended. “You can’t take it to court, not when you heard it second-hand. I just want to know if it’s possible to publish without the editors knowing it’s you, and still get paid.”
Prudence stood up, her chair’s wheels whispering against the polished wood. “I suspect not. Since you came here for legal advice, and I do mean to bill you for my time, here it is: You cannot be charged again on the basis of a book you label fiction. If you publish under a pen name, it is unlikely the book will ever be linked to you.” But you will tell your friends about it, you bastard. They will all find out. It’s human nature. “If the police decide to reopen the investigation, they can subpoena your publishers for your identity, but this seems unlikely to be granted to obtain what is, after all, circumstantial evidence. So go right ahead and write your book, Mr Cadfield. That’s my professional opinion. Are you happy with that?”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey Cadfield, though his shoulders were up. Prudence read anger in every curve of his lined face. “I see you’re not in my corner anymore, Ms Gao. I thought you lawyers were supposed to be above all that soft stuff.”
“Nobody likes finding out they’ve been lied to, Mr Cadfield. Not even lawyers.”
When he was gone, she rolled down the blinders on the glass walls of her office and threw herself in her chair. The Boston skyline outside her window offered no judgment.
She’d been right to leave criminal litigation all those years ago. The idealistic girl who’d thought justice was the purpose of law was long gone.
So why the stinging in her chest?
Shame, that was all. Die already, she thought towards that last remnant of softness in her centre, and got up to get another cup of coffee.