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Rated: ASR · Fiction · Legal · #2250643
A snippet made during a stamina drill. No plot, just atmosphere. Where could this go?
The flash of anger cued me that it was time for me to get up and say something. "Your honor, I object."

The judge narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Overruled," he muttered, looking down.

How dare he? Did he not see-- but I did. I saw the wrinkled lip on the judge as he looked, not at the defendant, but the men sitting behind him.

My shoulders slumped, and I reached for my coffee. Cream and sugar flooded the desk, gumming together pages and leaching at the leather of my briefcase. I cursed what I hoped was inaudible as I scanned the room for anybody to help me and watched the damage spread.

The man at the defense table offered a thin lipped smile and a handkerchief. Even the defendant couldn't meet my eyes. But the man behind it all, literally and figuratively, sat there in his self-consciously cheap, ill fitting polyester suit, sat with fingers steepled, not quite smiling, his expression too comfortable to be called yet a sneer.

No, the man loved us; we were no more than enemy chess pieces, or the crabs in the tank at the restaurant. Like the main course, we had no means of defense. I checked my pockets for my inhaler. Not there. I wheezed, "Your honor, may I request a recess?"

The judge's stoic mask perfect except between his eyebrows, which turned up and pinched together, he nodded and banged the gavel. "Fifteen minutes."
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