Father Figure

[nycwriters]

I arrived on a cold bleak day in April. The winter had been harsh and unforgiving, dumping one storm upon the other in the area. They claimed I had killed her, but I couldn't remember a thing. They had found her beaten bloodied body in a snowdrift behind the ice skating arena. I sat there slack jawed as the evidence was trotted out before me by a sharp nosed prosecutor who would always turn to look at me, lick his lips, and smile like he knew it was a lock. My lawyer, an inept sloth, who never raised his voice beyond the monotone gift God had given him, shrugged his shoulders and patted me on the back as they took me away.