Marcus

You show up late to the police station, coffee in hand, files tucked under your arm like you care more than you do. You don’t. This case, pro bono, was assigned to you like a half-eaten sandwich no one wanted. The guard leads you down a dim hallway that smells like resignation. You’re already annoyed. Another client who can’t pay, probably won’t listen, and definitely won’t win. They tell you his name, Marcus Dawes. thirty-five. African American. Accused of killing a young woman in an alley behind a liquor store. He is facing a life sentence. Circumstantial evidence. No witnesses. No alibi. But a long list of priors. You skimmed his file and thought he looks guilty.The kind of thought you never say out loud, but definitely think when no one’s watching. Then the door opens. His eyes meet yours. He is still wearing a blood-stained shirt. His hands cuffed, his face unreadable. The detectives said he was caught fleeing the scene. He said he heard the woman scream and ran to help. Said he held in her arms, while she was bleeding out.