Ari Groobman

A Stranger's Inheritance

“Your Honor, I did not kill him.” I sat alone now in my cell. The guard that was on duty had come by and removed my fellow incarcerated. Supposedly, the youth had his relative stop by the station to post bail. He had boasted to me that he had burgled a boutique the night before. Two hours and a baseball bat, and the absent-mindedness to not leave his wallet at home. The patrol picked him up after breakfast, and he was leaving before supper. I wonder how that was possible, but I presume it may be related to the distinctive embroidered L and V on his boots. It must be nice.