“We find the defendant, Jordan Whitmore, guilty on the count of manslaughter,” the head juror calls from the bench.

I gawk blankly at the man.

Jordan tenses beside me. His fingers grip the table as the tips turn white from the pressure.

“The Court upholds this ruling.” The judge bangs his gavel upon the table. “If you are to appeal, you should—” The judge rolls into his post-trial procedural speech for the next steps on my end. With one more bang of the gavel, the session comes to a close. The courtroom guards proceed towards Jordan.

“We will appeal this, Jordan,” I speak to him firmly.

Jordan stares in my direction. His eyes are hollow, void of light. He wears a suit I brought over from his apartment, but it looks baggy on him as if he’s dropped a good amount of weight recently. A bruise shines lightly under his eye. Jordan said it was from a scuffle in the cafeteria. I wanted to believe him, but I fear it is more than that.

“Hey man, be honest with me,” Jordan says. Our time together for the moment is coming to a close. “Does it even matter if we appeal it?”

I blink. My voice is stunted into silence.

Jordan chuckles. “Okay then.” He looks down at his feet, and his face contorts with a painful flash of sadness. “My life is fucked then, huh?”

“Jordan, don’t—”

“I’ve never been able to do the right thing.” Jordan peers at me quickly. His eyes water at the corners. “All I do is fuck up. I just wanted to work hard, get some money, find a wife, make some kids. That’s not gonna happen anymore, is it?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. My tongue nervously slides over the top of my lip. “We will appeal this.”

“I appreciate you, man,” Jordan ignores my comment. “but none of that shit really matters anymore.”

I flinch.

The guards handcuff Jordan behind his back. He is escorted out of the room.

I look up at Jordan one last time.

Jordan gazes back with those empty eyes.

A door soon divides us.

I walk out of jail. My mind fluctuates with concerns. Failure pulsates within my brain, degrading my consciousness.

My fingers tap through my phone. I pull up an Uber to give myself a ride to the jail.

I’ve still got clients to meet today.

•

My apartment is dark. It’s around one in the morning, and I haven’t been able to sleep. My mind wanders as regret keeps my eyes open. I lay in bed with my guitar in my arms. My fingers lightly pluck melancholy notes.

“Fell for you like pouring rain,” I sing weakly. It’s barely more than a whisper. “but somehow we got washed away.” A dramatic pause. “There’s something that my heart’s still waiting for.” The last note drones off. The song remains unfinished.

With a sigh, I place my guitar to the side. Depressed feelings make me want to shun my eyes from light. My arm rests over my eyes putting pressure around the edges of the socket.

“Have I ever helped a single person? What have I been doing with my life? A hero complex, huh?” I mutter. “Who have you saved?”

I flip around on my bed. My guitar moves slightly. Its chords jumble together as a hollow resonance spews through the bottom of the wooden base.

My phone rings just as I get comfortable.

Sighing, I sit up then grab my phone off the nearby nightstand.

It’s the jail.

I find it depressing that I know the number as soon as I see it, but it’s part of the job. Doesn’t make it any better, though.

“Hello?”

“Is this the attorney for Jordan Whitmore?” A voice calls on the other end.

I’m initially stunned. Usually, when it is a client call, I get the automated messaging system from the prison. That non-tonal female voice sometimes appears in my dreams as a sentient monster reciting that little speech as she looms over me defiantly before tearing me apart.

“This is he,” I speak. My body tenses. Calls like these are never good. “Is something wrong?”

“Your client Jordan Whitmore was found in his cell a few moments ago. The EMTs were called. They arrived on the scene and pronounced him dead,” the man relays in a monotonous tone.

My face freezes.

I stare ahead in silence.

“Sir?” the voice on the other end calls.

“I’m here, I’m here,” I answer repeatedly. “H-How did he die? What was the cause?”

“He somehow broke a piece of his bed frame and used the metal to slit his wrists.”

Goosebumps rush up and down my skin. “Okay,” I respond meekly. “Okay,” I echo.

“We‘re informing you of the status. His belongings will be held here at the jail until they are picked up. We tried to contact the next of kin, but they are in another State. We were told to contact his attorney and that you’d work as a go-between for them.”

“…right.”

“The prisoner’s body will be moved to the—”

The guard informs me of all the relevant materials. I click the ‘end’ button soon after as my numb body sinks to the floor.

“What the hell?”

Rage burns within me.

I stand up quickly, grab the neck of my guitar, and toss it across the room. My teeth grit together. They nearly slice into my tongue. The guitar bangs against the wall. It rings out as if in pain, but it does not break apart. I kick at its neck of it until it splits apart. The wires cut the bottom of my feet on impact. I feel blood seep from my soles.

Tragically, I sink into the floor. My shaking fist punches the wall repeatedly until my knuckles feel like static. “Dammit,” I curse. “Son of a bitch, you fucking failure!” I yell at myself. “Why did you let this happen?! Why didn’t you save him?!” I slide into the wall. My back stretches against it. I bash the back of my head against it as sadness runs through my face. “Who have you saved?”

It’s like someone’s telling me to give up.

•

“Yes, Mr. Whitmore. I will transfer his will to your attorney,” I say over the phone.

“Thank you. We’ll have him handle things on this end now. You’ve done enough,” says Mr. Whitmore bluntly.

I sigh. “You have a nice day.”

The line clicks to an end.

It makes sense that they’re annoyed at me. I couldn’t get their son out of jail, he lost hope, and now Jordan is dead. I’m sure they blame me. I would not be surprised if they did. It’s not entirely fair, but I feel hypocritical declaring that when I blame myself, too.

It’s not like they were ever in a financial situation to help their son. Both parents are in debt. Their net income together is rather low. They wouldn’t normally be able to afford a lawyer, but a friend of theirs referred them to someone who’d handle the estate pro-bono given the circumstances.

They want nothing to do with me. That’s fine. I understand.

It hurts a little. I’ll have no closure. I’ve let Jordan down. I want him to be the last failure, but my confidence is shaken.

Was I always this pathetic?

I fill a large envelope with all the requested documents then slap it down on my desk. A perpetually unending sense of exhaustion ripples up and down my spine. I slacken into my chair, my body slumping within it. I stare hollowly at the ceiling as I count the cracks in the tiles above.

My phone chimes.

I stare at the device. It flashes an unknown number. Not the prison, a number I have permanently branded in my brain. It’s a random number. Not a current or former client. I have them all saved in case they ever need me. Even so, the caller may have something important to say, but if they genuinely do, they’ll leave a message.

I’m not really in the spirit to be on the phone any longer.

A pile of unread files sits on my desk. Another stack of half-worked assignments lies next to it. A third and final mound needs to get mailed out.

“Don’t want to do any of this shit,” I grouse. My eyes stare absently ahead. “Don’t really want to do anything anymore.” My voice is a hoarse whisper. “I’m tired all the time. I’m not happy. I’m alone. People are dying around me. It’s hard to stay motivated. Or care….” I trail off until I’m looking vacantly at the ground. “This really was the icing on the cake.”

Scott pokes his head into my room, a square no larger than a broom closet. He whacks his knuckles upon the entrance. “You busy?” He gawks at my full desk. “Damn.”

“It’s my life. I’m eternally busy,” I reply meekly. “Just not right now. Don’t give a damn about work.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Yeah, I bet,” Scott mutters. “Sucks what happened to…Jordan?”

I frown. “Didn’t really know him.”

“It still had to hurt, though.”

“It…did. I was angry when I got the call,” I say slowly. “Felt like a failure. I keep telling myself that I’m doing good things. That I’m helping people. But I’m not. His death truly nailed that point home.”

“Because one person died? Come on. You’re the hardest-working person here. You’ve helped tons of people.”

“No, I haven’t. Most of my clients plead guilty. In the past six years of working, I’ve gone to a full trial under six times, and I’ve only won two of those,” I mutter. Maybe my heart was never in this?

“You still got one of the better win percentages in the group.”

“Does being the best failure mean anything?”

“Ouch.” Scott winces. “You’re obviously in a bad mood. I’m sorry I was belittling it, even if only a little.”

“You haven’t belittled anything. I’m in my feelings today. No, I’ve felt bad for a while. I find it hard to wake up in the morning. My job sucks. My personal life is non-existent. I can’t remember the last time I felt genuinely happy. It’s…I dunno. I’m confused.”

Scott frowns for a moment. He walks into my office. Leaning against my desk, he looks me in the eyes. “How about I get you some lunch? My treat. It’ll get your mind off things.” Scott pats me on the shoulder. His gaze softens. “Not like you were doing any work anyways. Come on.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

•

“You sure didn’t fight me on that whole ‘drinks during lunch’ idea,” chuckles Scott.

“It was good, so I ran with it,” I say as I slip beer past my lips.

“Clearly,” Scott reflects as he does the same.

Before me sits a pile of tacos. Mexican food is generally my preferred cuisine, and Scott knows this. If he’s trying to cheer me up, this is undoubtedly the way. If not this, a Japanese steakhouse would have been a great second choice.

I stuff a bite of taco into my mouth. The spices blend together in a cacophony of flavors. It’s really just a burger with flavors reformed creatively, but it is unique enough that entire chains are based around the sheer invention of this recipe.

“You feeling a little better?” Scott asks me.

“As much as I would wish them to, tacos and alcohol are not enough to pull me from an existential crisis,” I consider.

“It was worth a shot.”

“True.” I munch away contentedly on the food. “I’m satisfied in that aspect.”

“Starting to hate your job? You think your life sucks?” suggests Scott. “That’s pretty normal. I’ve been there. It’s part of being human.”

“Why do you stay here at this soul-sucking job then? You could have left a long time ago. You’ve got a wife and kid. The job is terrible, the hours suck, and it’s unfulfilling. Why haven’t you?”

Scott laughs. “What? You want me to leave you behind?”

“That’s not why you’re still working here.”

“No, it’s not,” agrees Scott. He thinks for a moment. “I suppose it’s because I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy it?”

“I have to, right? I know you’re feeling down right now, but there are worse jobs out there. It’s like one of the only remaining noble professions within the legal field, right? I mean, there are third-party non-profits, but they’re incentivized by monetary value. We’re kind of like teachers. You know someone truly loves the job if they’re a public defender.”

“Or that they’re an idiot.”

“Maybe a little of that too. I dunno, I kind of always wanted to be one. We’re the final line of defense for the forgotten few who never had it good in life. If we don’t stick up for them, who will?”

“I used to think that.”

“And what? Do you think anybody would be better off without you representing them? Or someone else? You’re more dedicated than anyone else in our office. If not for lawyers like us, then nobody would have been there for people like Jordan. Then he would have gone through that entire ordeal alone. Instead, you provided him a chance. Maybe it wasn’t a huge chance, but a chance nonetheless. Don’t overlook that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a bad speech. I’m impressed.”

“I can be inspirational at times,” Scott signals. “Plus, I’m five years your senior. I’ve been around for a while.”

“Right,” I mock.

“Don’t knock experience.”

“I don’t, I don’t. You’re a good friend. I appreciate it.”

“Now, don’t get sappy on me.” Scott lifts a finger.

“Fine. I take it back. No more compliments from me,” I shrug.

“Hey, hey,” Scott abruptly recapitulates. “I deserve appreciation.”

“Sure. Some other time.” I smile and sip some more beer. “But is that all?”

“Huh?”

“You mentioned a mid-life crisis some time ago like you knew what that was. Not like it was a joke. Something like this happened to you before?”

“Oh. That.” Scott looks upward for a moment. “I guess you could say that. I’ve never had a client, well, die on me, but I’ve been down in the dumps like anyone else. Work was hard for a time. There was a wave of people quitting all at once, so my workload increased. I spent nearly every day in the office from morning to night. Sometimes, I couldn’t make it home. I barely saw my wife, and she was pregnant. We fought a lot. She threatened to leave me. I wanted to end it all.”

“End it?”

“Kill myself.” Scott chuckles, but there's a darkness in his eyes. “It was a tough time. But I couldn’t do that. Even if we were going through shit, I had my wife, and she was giving birth to my child. We fought, she yelled at me that she wanted to get divorced, but it was her lashing out in her state of loneliness. I couldn’t blame her. Death was never really a viable option.”

Ah.

Yes, he has people with him.

Who do I have?

No one.

“What did you do to become sane again?”

“I jumped out of a plane,” Scott casually releases that bit of information.

I blink rapidly. “What?”

“Skydiving.”

“The hell?!”

“The near-death experience was exhilarating. It set my mind right. It was either that or mushrooms, and skydiving seemed less risky,” he teases.

“That helped?” I gaze at my friend wide-eyed.

“It really did. Something about coming to terms with your mortality gives you the answers you need, you know? As soon as I jumped out of that plane, my first thoughts went to my family. What would happen to them if I was gone. How they’d struggle. Then I got this fierce will to survive. It’s stayed with me ever since. They were important to me regardless, but my love transcended a level that day.”

“Huh.” I meditate over his account.

“You should try it,” Scott proposes. “Or something like that. Go diving in a shark cage. Go on a drug trip with mushrooms. It sounds like you’re in a limbo period where you need some large act to guide you down the right path. You’re stuck wondering who you are.”

I look away from Scott. My eyes linger upon the table. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

•

We ride the elevator back up to the office.

The journey is silent. Scott looks through his phone. He answers some messages as they ping within his device. I observe him in thought.

Scott has a support system backing him up. I do not. That’s the most significant difference I spotted in his story when comparing it to my own life.

I never truly enjoyed many things as a child besides fighting. Now even that feels like a useless hobby, admittedly, since I’m only using it for exercise. There isn’t a single sport I haven’t tried. I liked none of them.

Becoming a lawyer was a factor fueled purely by monetary value. My mom put it in my head that I needed to be one to support her and myself when the need came up. I never knew what I wanted to do beyond helping people, so I easily fell for her wishes.

Miya redirected my life slightly into a more humble path, but being a public defender has been an effort in futility regardless of Scott’s pretty words on the subject.

I find it hard to get excited about anything anymore. The job I used to like, or at least tricked myself into liking, seems dull and pointless. I can’t remember the last time I smiled or laughed.

I’m alone.

I contribute nothing to society.

Everything seems meaningless.

God, I feel like a fourteen-year-old going through an emo phase. Except I’m thirty, and I’ve had time to actually dwell on these issues.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The elevator ‘pings’ our floor. Scott and I step out.

“Hey, if you ever do decide to go skydiving, I’ll tell you the guys I went out with. They were good,” Scott ensures me before we part.

“Alright.”

“Try to feel better. And call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” I nod.

Scott bows back. He turns away down the hall.

“Hey, Scott?”

Scott turns. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

Scott laughs. “No worries!” With that, Scott disappears from view.

I look back to the elevator.

“Skydiving, huh?” I stare upward.

My finger jabs the button for ‘up’. The doors open immediately. I step inside the metal body, press the button for the top floor, and ride my way to the top. The solemn ‘beeps’ ring hollow as I rise higher and higher. I eventually arrive at the top. My frame steps out into a small office. It’s not quite the top floor, but it is the highest I can go.

“Can I help you?” A woman walks up to me. She knows I’m not supposed to be here.

Think, think!

“Is there a Tim Duncan here? I’m supposed to have a meeting with him.” I uproot my phone as if I’m checking to discern if my words are right. It’s merely a ploy to make my lie sound more believable.

“There is no one by that name on this floor,” the lady responds.

“Ah, shit,” I scratch the rear of my head. The edge of my tongue rubs over the top of my lip. That dumb, nervous tick. “It was one of the top five floors. I think I wrote the number down wrong, so I’m working my way down. Guess I wasn’t lucky, eh?”

“Right.” The woman appears bored.

“Do you have stairs? I’d rather not waste the elevator.”

The woman points to my left. “Right over there.”

I offer her a smile. “Thank you.”

We blandly part. I think nothing more of my impromptu friend as I enter the stairs. An echo rings around me as I walk inside. My eyes dart up. The stairs to the roof don’t appear to be rigged with an alarm.

Walking up, I turn the nob.

“It isn’t locked,” I mutter. Then I chuckle. “What the hell?”

I walk out onto the roof.

Wind blasts against my face. My tie flaps over my shoulder onto my back. I cover my eyes for a moment. Eventually, I ease into the new climate atop this building. My body relaxes.

“I thought it would be harder to get here.”

Slowly, I walk over to the edge. My eyes careen over the side.

Cars zoom by like tiny ants down below. There are people, but they’re hardly distinguishable from this high up. Around me, other buildings stare at me. They loom overhead, taller than even this building. The city feels like a coffin even here. It’s suffocating. Lonely.

I lean a little farther over the edge.

Adrenaline pulsates through my skin.

Endorphins.

Happiness.

I take a step back from the edge. My breathing is ragged, but a smile stains my face.