Note: For those of you reading and, hopefully, enjoying "The Pickle Jar," this story is NOT part of that continuity. It does however feature a protagonist of the same name facing a similar, albeit stranger, set of circumstances
“Will the defendant please rise.”
Mickey did so, and despite her above average height, she felt small. The courtroom, with its elevated jury box and its even more elevated bench, was designed to have just that effect. Surviving the drunken crash that killed your passenger, and best friend, had a way, as well, of shrinking one’s soul.
Judge wilder, clad in long, black robes and a powdered wig that fell almost to her waist, loomed over Mickey, but her attention was directed toward the jury. “Mister Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”
The foreman, a pudgy, pink man, quivered under Judge Wilder’s gaze. Mickey suspected that, had he been in her place, he might have already pissed down his leg. “We- we have, Your- Your H