1967
Ernie
sat handcuffed to a wooden table. He wore an orange jumpsuit with a number stenciled beneath the left shoulder. His lawyer sat across from him, thumbing
through a legal pad.
“I
told you,” Ernie said. “I didn’t have
anything to do with that fire.”
Melvin
Little glanced up from his notes. At thirty years old, he was fifteen years younger than Ernie, but he carried himself like a man who knew things.
He peered over the pad at his client. “You owned the property, didn’t you? You took out the insurance. You tried to collect the money. Using another law firm, I might add.”
He peered over the pad at his client. “You owned the property, didn’t you? You took out the insurance. You tried to collect the money. Using another law firm, I might add.”
