The Trial
Mr. John Brandy floated through the thick oak doors and into the room, gliding past the jury. Good mix of folks. Young, old. Black, white. A good mix. He avoided the woman with the black shawl and settled down in front of the man who had the whole room enraptured. The man paced the room in a dark suit, shoulders back, head held high.
“Mrs. Brandy, were you alone with your husband the night of November seventh?” The lawyer’s voice rang out like a drill sergeant’s.
“Yes, like most nights, I was with my husband.” She dabbed her cheek with a tissue.
Most nights there were fights. Home from work: late. Dinner: cold. Hello dear: fuck off. The seventh was no exception.
“I’m sick of you staying so late. And I hate that young secretary, dumb bitch.” He remembered her shouting, her face twisted into a snarl.
“I work so you don’t have to!” he had yelled back, then stormed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door.
“Mrs. Brandy. Your husband just got a new job and a large life insurance policy.”
“Yes, I was proud of him.”
“Was he not spending long nights at the firm, with his secretary…”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
John hovered in front of his wife, finally peering into her emerald eyes; bloodshot, hidden behind a black veil, but they could still cut a man down. Yes, the secretary was beautiful, but it was strictly platonic. He stared at those two green gems that could see right through him. Like they were now.
The lawyer walked over to a side-table and picked up a crowbar.
“Mrs. Brandy, your fingerprints and your husband’s blood are on this weapon…”
“Objection!”
That night, after the fight, John had come downstairs. Kissed her. Caressed her cheek. She handed him a crowbar and they went to the basement. Clutching the crowbar, he swung. Old cabinets that needed to go. She went upstairs. He swung, again and again, till he was breathless. His chest tightened and a sharp pain shot up the back of his neck. The crowbar fell to the floor with a loud clank. His body went limp. Head struck the crowbar, at the perfect angle, and lodged into his skull.
“Did you not strike him at the base of the head?” The dark man barked, hoisting the crowbar into the air. Mrs. Brandy covered her face. The judge called for order.
Work. Come home late. Argue. Make up. Pile on the renovations. Making all the bread, the cheddar, the green. Mrs. Brandy lounging on her ass all day watching soaps. Come home. Screaming. Kissing. Sex. Then the crowbar. That damn crowbar.
Let the bitch fry.
A big thank you to all the fine folks at the Writers' Block who made excellent editing suggestions on this piece.
She should have brought him a sledge hammer. Good story.
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