art by Jason Stirret
by Janet Shell Anderson
Murderers have a special planet they go to when they die. Kepler 22b. Oh yes. Attorneys who represent them don't know that. Well, no one really knows that.
I know all about it now. I was accused of murdering Harrison Reed, Esquire.
So here I am on Kepler 22b, a fine, fat, blue world.
It rains here endlessly, is spring endlessly. No winters of discontent, the green silk rains come down. No one ever dies in such a rain. So this is paradise.
I tell myself every day when the blue world turns on its fat axis and spring goes on forever that Harrison, my partner in my law office, my first, last, and forever love, the boy I met in Contracts when we were twenty-three, Harrison is not dead. The rain whispers I never shot him, never shocked the entire Nebraska bar, never went to a farm on a rainy April day, never fought with the pot-bellied, bearded, stubborn tenant farmer about three riding horses, never swore my clients had a right to possession of those animals. The rain says Harrison never intervened and just for a second just for a second just for a second stepped into the line of fire.
This rain in paradise says there never was a trial.