The Room Read Online Free Page A

his chances. These bastards do it with immunity. Wearing their silk suits and hiding behind the courts and law books. And if you say anything they shrug their shoulders and tell you they didnt do anything wrong. They were just doing their job. They destroy and kill hundreds – thousands – every year, and theyre patted on the back. Good job. Thats the way herkimer. Great record you got there boy. Some stupid son of a bitch kills somebody and everybody wants to kill him. Hes an animal. The other ones a brilliant prosecutor. And what happens if someone is proven innocent of a crime. Are they happy because an innocent man was not unjustly convicted. O, no. You bet your sweet ass theyre not. Doesn’t make any difference to them that the man was innocent. Krist no. The only thing that counts is that they lost a case. Probably go home and beat up the wife and kids. And then think of what they should have done to get a conviction. So what if hes innocent. Cant mar their wonderful record by having an innocent man going free. Never get to the governors mansion that way. And what do thosefucking p.d./s do. Nothing. Just keep their goddamn noses stuck up the judges ass. They dont even bother to close their eyes. They dont have to. They just make like the whole thing doesn’t exist. They dont even ignore it. They don’t have to. aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh shit! The hell with the whole goddamn bunch of them. Wipe out the whole damn bunch of them. The whole rotten system. By the time I’m finished with them everyone will know how rotten the system is. I/ll beat them at their own game. Then theyll sweat.
    Wiping the palms of his hands on his legs then stretching out on the bunk. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the door and unconsciously flexed his leg muscles in time with the beating of his heart. For many seconds his concentration was intense as he glared at the locked door
    then he breathed deeply and adjusted himself on the bunk until he was looking at the ceiling. He listened to his heart beating for a moment, then closed his eyes.
    He stood as the charges were read, recognizing a few of the words, but for the most part it could have been a foreign language: to wit; therefore; blablablabla. He stood hearing, but not listening. Only the sound registered. He knew he was standing there and that it wasn’t a dream, but that was about all he knew. Eventually the judge asked him how he pleaded and he simply answered not guilty. He had been only vaguely aware of the p.d. standing beside him until he told him to sit down. Sliding a piece of paper and a pencil in front of him he told him to write down any questions that came to mind, that he didn’t want him speaking to him while witnesses were giving testimony, that he couldn’t listen to them, the d.a. and him at the same time. He accepted the paper and pencil silently and blankly. He knew this was the man who was going to defend him, some sort of someone whose name he didn’t know, someone he had never seen before, someone who had passed him a piece of paper and a pencil, spoken a few words then ignored him completely as he glanced at papers. And he just sat as his defense counsel looked at papers and spoke,from time to time, to the d.a. He knew that whoever it was sitting beside him had already sold him out, so he leaned forward, pencil in hand, as the first witness was called.
    He wanted to listen intently and absorb every word, every gesture. He held his pencil poised, ready to take notes, and when his attorney failed to notice discrepancies in testimony he would make note of them and provide the ammunition necessary to destroy the prosecutions case.
    The first witnesses were the arresting officers and, from time to time, he would start to make a note, but he couldnt find the proper words to define exactly what was going through his head. His frustration increased as the testimony proceeded and he leaned further and further back in his chair, and soon the pencil was lying on