2022 Fiction Competition Winner Folly
| Publication year | 2022 |
| Pages | 0028 |
Fiction
The Editorial Board of the Georgia Bar Journal is proud to present, "Killian's Folly," by Hon. Lori B. Duff of Loganville, as the winner of the Journal's 31st Annual Fiction Writing Competition.
BY HON. LORI B. DUFF
The purposes of the Fiction Writing Competition are to enhance interest in the Journal, to encourage excellence in writing by members of the Bar and to provide an innovative vehicle for the illustration of the life and work of lawyers. As in years past, this year's entries reflected a wide range of topics and literary styles. In accordance with the competition's rules, the Editorial Board selected the winning story through a process of reading each story without knowledge of the author's identity and then scoring each entry. The story with the highest cumulative score was selected as the winner. The Editorial Board congratulates Duff and all of the other entrants for their participation and excellent writing.
"I need for you to shoot me. Shoot to kill."
Duke blinked at his lawyer. "What are you talking about?"
Albert Killian Jr. reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Beretta 9mm pistol and a box of ammunition. He put them on the desk in front of Duke and said, "Here. This is enough for you to take practice shots. Get the feel for it."
"I'm a lot of things, Mr. Killian, but I ain't a murderer."
"This isn't murder, Duke, it's suicide."
"Then why do you need me to pull the trigger?"
Killian adjusted his tie. The less information he gave to Duke, the better. "Because. If I pull the trigger, my insurance policy won't pay out. It has to look like murder. The whole point of this is to make sure Trey gets the money."
Duke looked around the office. Killian knew the mahogany furniture and the oriental rugs wouldn't look like they were owned by a person whose kid needed money. "What's in it for me?"
"Fifty thou. Cash. Twenty-five now. Today, if you agree, and 25 after the deed's done."
Duke let out a low whistle. Fifty K was a lot of rent money and bottles of bourbon for a guy like Duke. "Why me?"
"Because you owe me. Your sorry ass isn't in jail because of me. No one will suspect you"”you're a thief, not a murderer. We have no beef. Our only connection is professional. You avoid violence when you can. Because I know, due to our previous dealings, that you're an honorable crook, in that you know how to keep your damn mouth shut."
A different kind of man would not have taken all of that as a compliment, but Duke was not a different kind of man, and Killian knew it. Duke was a thief. He was a crook. He hated fighting. He prided himself on his refusal to rat anyone else out. He honest-to-God looked proud that Killian had noticed this about him.
"I don't want you to die, Mr. Killian. Who'll bail me out when I need it?"
"That's the thing, isn't it? You don't care if I die because I'm Albert Killian, you care if I die because of what I can do for you when I'm alive. You know what the difference is between you and me, Duke?"
Killian knew he'd taken Duke by surprise with this proposal. Lawyers generally got you out of trouble, not into it.
Duke looked at Killian like it was a rhetorical question, but Killian expected an answer and waited for one. Duke shook his head. "The difference is that my daddy had money and your daddy didn't. And let me tell you"”that's the only difference. When I die, my picture will be in the paper and there'll be some story about me, and when you die, unless the police are involved somehow, there won't be. Why is that, Duke? Is it because I'm a better man?"
Duke opened up his mouth to answer, but Killian kept right on talking. "No, I'm not. In fact, in a lot of ways, you're the better man. You're honest about who you are." Killian filled his chest with air and let it out slowly, through pursed lips. "Do we have a deal? Will you help me?"
"I don't know, Mr. Killian."
Killian reached underneath his desk and pulled out an insulated lunch bag. He pushed it across the desk to Duke. "Go ahead. Look inside."
Duke unzipped the sack and peered in it. Killian was betting his life that Duke had never seen so much cash in one place.
"You can count it if you want to. It's all there. Twenty-five thousand."
Duke looked up. "I trust you."
"Then you're a fool."
Duke reached his hand in the bag and stirred it around. Money had its own smell. It was a good smell and it lifted out of the bag in waves. "You're not going to tell me why?"
"Just trust that I have my reasons. Not everything that looks good is good, Duke, and that's all I'm going to say about that."
"Exactly how would you"”we"”pull it off?"
"Sunday evening is New Year's Eve. You'd come by my house about nine or ten o'clock. Park in the gas station at the corner and come around back through the power lines. I'll meet you in the back yard. Three shots. Here," he tapped his chest over his heart, like he was pledging allegiance. "Here," he tapped his Adam's apple, "and here." He tapped the center of his forehead.
"If one doesn't get me, another will. I won't fight you, so get as close as you want. I want to go quick. No one around here will notice the sound of a stray bullet on New Year's Eve. I'll have a note in my right hip pocket that will tell you where to find the rest of the money. Then you leave and get on with your life. Eventually, someone will find me. If the coyotes find me first, well, serves me right. I don't care."
Killian knew he'd taken Duke by surprise with this proposal. Lawyers generally got you out of trouble, not into it. He watched the younger man try to think it through, so he helped him along. "It can't go wrong. Everyone knows where Killian Hall is. It's behind a fence and there are no neighbors within eyesight. New Year's Eve is full of firecrackers and fireworks and firearms. The sound of a few extra gunshots won't make anyone take notice."
Duke's features concentrated in the center of his face, his eyebrows pulled together in thought, his mouth pursed. Killian felt like he was nibbling on his hook, and he only had to get the bastard to bite. "The only real question is whether or not you can pull it off. You know how to handle a gun?"
Killian figured he could. Every boy in Bold Rock, Georgia, learned how to fire a gun before he learned how to multiply and divide.
"Yes, sir," Duke said. "I been hunting long as I can remember. I kilt plenty of deer and possum." His chest puffed up as he said, "I even once put a bullet through the skull of our dog to put it out of its own misery."
There it was: the hook was in the fish's mouth. Killian felt the same surge of adrenaline he felt in a courtroom when he knew he had a witness cornered. "This is no different. Killing that dog was a mercy and you knew it. It's the same here. I'm miserable, Duke. Help me end it." Killian's gaze was steady. He bore into Duke's eyes until Duke finally said, "I'll do it."
Duke put out his hand. Killian shook it briefly and gave it back to him.
"Thank you," Killian said. "You're a good man for doing this for me."
After Duke left with the gun, the ammunition and the lunch sack, Killian sat back in his chair, feeling nothing but relief. How many times had his father told him? A man had nothing but his name, and Killian knew that he wouldn't have his for much longer.
He took the bottle of Xanax out of his desk drawer and put a bar underneath his tongue, then another when the first one started to dissolve. He liked the bitter taste; he felt like he deserved it. He picked at the label on the bottle with his thumbnail. That was the real difference between him and Duke"”his money and his reputation could buy him a prescription for anything he wanted from a legitimate doctor. Duke and his ilk had to buy it on the street and risk arrest. Killian wasn't a pill head. He was an important man from an important family. Even if their behavior was the same.
When Katie died, taking their son Joseph with her in the fiery wreck of her car, Killian found himself the single parent of teenaged Trey. Trey...
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