A crime he didn't commit

hings hadn’t gone so well in the courtroom. His mohawk looked good, his
 earrings and necklaces had been shined up with the ultrasonic the night before,
 and he made sure to scowl throughout in that way people found intimidating.
 He still lost the case.
    He doesn’t shake hands with the prosecutor on his way out of the courtroom. It was the same fool who beat him last month and the month before that. His record is starting to bulge in the loss column. He feels like a heavyweight fighting in a welter league and he just can’t catch his breath.
    The truth is, he missed his partner. She was always nagging and second-guessing him, third-guessing him too, but she knew the lingo. She’s holding a gavel now and he was left to shoulder the partnership.
    He isn’t sure why people keep hiring him. You’ll find the same thing at a fight. Fools betting on the one that looks like a winner. Each one of them coming through his doors, with that hopeful shine in their eyes.
    A couple of pretty boy lawyers in all their get-up laugh as he pushes through the revolving doors. Sharks always smell the blood.
    This latest one hurt. He really wanted to win. Not just to get back on track, but because he actually felt for the kid. Reminded him of himself at that age. Young and angry and alone. But so righteous. He isn’t sure if the kid stole what they said or not. He isn’t sure if it even matters. It seems so petty with the rest of the world getting away with murder and massacre.
    He crosses the street and cuts through the alley. He goes in through the back so he won’t have to see any of the other guys in the gym.
    The locker room smells like old sweat. He strips methodically, pulling off the gold chains, hanging up his five thousand dollar suit on a ten-cent hanger. He pops the combination and opens his locker.
Inside is his leopard fringe leather jacket. Shitkicker boots. He’ll put it all on. Just like old times, just like always. Punch his fist into his open hand and hit the streets. He’ll find the one responsible and tattoo his ass. He couldn’t make them pay in the courtroom, but on the streets. Hell.
    But there was no one to find. No one to hit to beat the hurt out of things.
    Instead, he reaches past the jacket and pulls out his electric razor. The chains are only plated, but he can still get a hundred bucks for them. It isn’t a total loss.

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