Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“End of Times parade,” says one of the Starbucks employees who was standing by the curb smoking. “They’ve been having it every year since the Mayan calendar said today was the end of times. I guess they think they were right on the day and wrong on the year.”
“Wasn’t that, like, more than ten years ago?”
A shrug follows. “I guess they figure if they do it every year, they’ll eventually get it right.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, since I’ve clearly dodged this bullet in the past, and really, why would this type of event include a SpongeBob float? Not that I have anything against SpongeBob, per se, but he’s blocking my car, and the trucker is now getting out of the cab.
I march forward, meeting him by his door as he hits ground level. “Excuse me, but I need to get out.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the man says, tipping back his cowboy hat. “But the truck is running hot. My employer said park, so I parked.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “I do. But I need you to please pick another spot.”
“I’m parked until they fix it.”
Exasperation overtakes me. “You can’t leave me stuck here with a giant SpongeBob blocking my car. I have to get to work.”
He grins. “Not like anyone is going to be around to get mad at you. Today’s the Armageddon.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or punch him. Well, not really punch him—I’m not the violent type—but I’m not happy, either, and I don’t have time to get Cowboy Armageddon to cooperate. If only this cowboy knew I’m a walking, talking Armageddon, I bet he’d move that stupid truck. I shut my car door and begin hoofing it toward the courthouse, but instead of my verdict, I find myself thinking about what that Starbucks employee had said about the end of times. I thought this ended back in 2012, when the whole Mayan calendar thing came and went, but apparently not. They’re throwing darts at a calendar, and at least one old lady has decided it’s landed on me. Sorry, folks, I think, not happening this year. I’m too busy ending a trial today to end the world.
Another block into my travel, and the hair at my nape lifts—the sensation of being watched overwhelmingly present. A shiver slides down my spine, and I step a little faster. It’s likely reporters, I reason, but the truth is that there are those out there who believe my client receiving a not guilty verdict today would be the end of the world. You never know what people might do. I haven’t had issues up to this point, but it is verdict day. I cut to the courtroom steps and jog upward, relieved beyond reason when I enter the building and leave prying eyes outside.
The Sacred Book of Nephilim
If you listen closely, you can hear the screams of your enemies long before their demise.
Chapter three
The energy in the courtroom is as dark and cloudy with doom and gloom as it is electric with excitement. Finally, the moment of verdict is upon us.
The doors to the back room open, and a guard appears, followed by Jeremy Gibson, my client, a man who personifies a meek, gentle schoolteacher, his short, mousy-brown hair neatly combed to his scalp. His clothes are as simple as the man—basic brown slacks and a button-down—his hands curled together in front of him, his chin dipped. And the damn cuffs shackling his wrists really get to me. They are his statement piece of wrongful imprisonment, the slight tremble to his hands the prosecution’s reward for an intimidation campaign against an innocent man.
One of the perks of owning your own law firm is never defending a killer, no matter how big the return, and Jeremy is no killer. And for just the briefest of moments, I’m back in my office the night Jeremy had walked in near closing, confessed he’d walked by my office on the way home, and taken a chance to walk in and ask for help. He’d been on the police radar, feeling their pressure. It hadn’t taken long and he’d burst into tears and fell to his knees, but even then, I’d been skeptical of him, nervous that looks were deceiving. It was only after I read the file his public defender sent me and met with his students that I’d decided the case was why I’d opened my firm, I’d wanted to make a difference, and clearing the path for a real killer to be caught because a wrongly accused man is found innocent is making a difference.
He needed me. And my firm had needed him. I believed then, and I believe now to my core, he is falsely accused of killing all six female victims.
Jeremy arrives at my table, and I stand as he’s uncuffed, relieved when he’s allowed to sit. “This is it,” I announce softly, claiming my seat next to him. “Are you ready?”