I knew Eleanore was guilty.
But I did my defense attorney
thing and got her off.
“Not guilt,” the judge read.
The detectives didn’t know,
but I knew where Eleanore hid the gun.
But she had money—even more money
with her husband dead.
My fridge resembled a ghost town,
with nothing to shift to look for something else.
My shelves lacked canned food, and my lack
of cash outlined my pockets with lint,
so I took the case.
What was right was for a jury to decide.
Eleanore played the part of a battered wife.
She even drew a few tears from me on the stand.
I wiggled my fingers at the defense table,
glancing at the jurors.
The woman sported wide and narrow eyes
drenched in anger and compassion.
If only they had known what I knew,
they’d never have let her skate free.
If they knew she slept in my bed,
suspicion might arise.
If only they had known the gun
was on the nightstand beside my bed.
And if only I knew she was wearing a wire,
the life we planned might not end
before it started.