The trial of Michael Bowing

The Trial of Michael Bowing


It was a sunny day as I drove the streets of New York in my BMW. I parked in a parking space, and walked quickly inside the courthouse.
I was representing Michael Bowing, a notorious organized crime boss. I’m one of the best defense attorneys you can buy, mainly because I don’t play fair. I knew that Michael was a gangster, but I was very good at my job and hopefully convince a jury that he wasn’t.
A federal informant had tipped the feds that Michael frequently attended a night club called Club Fire. It was there that somehow by miracle they arrested him. Half of the club’s patrons must have been employed by the FBI.
The FBI had charged Michael with the murder of Bill Snowden. Michael had shot Bill, but it was self defense. Bill had been threatening Michael that he was going to call some people to kill him. Thus, Michael had shot him.
The only problem with this is gangsters aren’t that trust worthy, and the jury probably won’t believe Michael. I walked into the courtroom, and I sat down at the defense table. Bill Hover and Jacob Watts were already seated at the table when I sat down. Michael was soon escorted in by some bailiffs.
“All stand for the Honorable Judge Ivey,” a bailiff said. I quickly stood up, and sat down. Judge Ivey was not a very good choice for the defense. He had sentenced a gang leader to life in prison, and the gang in return shot his only son. He know hated anything that had to do with gangs.
I had tried to get another judge accusing Judge Ivey of prejudice, but I didn’t have any luck. In fact, I had just made him madder, and probably made my job that much harder.
The plaintiff lawyer, Will Tucker, called the plaintiff’s first witness, Hailey Meadows. Hailey was the crime scene investigator that had worked on the crime scene where Bill Snowden was killed. Hailey Meadows was soon sworn in, and the questioning started.
“Ms. Meadows, how was Bill Snowden killed?”
“He was shot in the head with a 9 millimeter gun. The bullet matched a gun found in Mr. Bowing’s house, and his fingerprints were on the gun.”
“Thank you, Ms. Meadows,” Will said, and sat down.
I stood up for cross, and walked slowly toward the witness box. “Ms. Meadows can you prove that the defendant actually fired the bullet killed Bill Snowden?”
“No, but”
“Is it possible someone besides Mr. Bowings could have shot Mr. Snowden,” I asked cutting her off.
“It’s possible.”
“Thank you, Ms. Meadows,” I said, and sat down
“The people rest your honor,” Will Tucker announced.
“The defense would like.” The courtroom doors busting open interrupted my sentence. Four men entered the courtroom, and two bailiffs emerged from their post, to regain order. One of the men raised a semi automatic pistol, and shot several bullets at one of the bailiffs. The bailiff’s body recoiled with every hit, sending blood everywhere.
A second man raised a handgun, and fired three shots into the other bailiff’s chest. The bailiff looked down at the sea of red that was his chest, and fell over.
By this time I took the initiative to dive to the cover of the defense table. The first man that had fired his gun pointed his gun at Michael. I heard the sound of the bullets being launched from the gun, and instantly my leg was burning from pain. I soon left the courtroom entering the real of the unconscious.

I awoke in a stretcher that was being wheeled into an ambulance. I had an oxygen mask attached to my face, and I still could feel the burning in my leg. Somehow I didn’t think of my pain or why I had been shot. All I could think about is how much I deserved it.
I had set let monsters roam free in society, instead of sending them to prison where they belonged. I had made the world a worse place, and for what? Money? Money wasn’t much if you were dead. He had let this job consume him. He had lost his marriage, and he had told himself he never had time to date. He had never been active in his kid’s lives. His broken promises where the things they probably would remember at his funeral.
I wondered if anyone would actually come to his funeral. Maybe a few clients, some lawyers, and my family. But what about friends? Friends were a lot in life, and he didn’t have any. All he had was money. I hope I live to change some of the things in my life, and then I passed out.