Suicide by Execution

Year 38: “In light of all your confessions and the mitigating circumstances, you are sentenced to six consecutive life sentences with no possiblity of parole to be served at a maximum security federal penitentiary.”

The gavel smacked down and Morgan revisited thoughts of suicide. The cloying hopelessness was shrugged off as useless. Morgan focused on the minds populating the courtroom. Most were confused. He could pick out the family by their grief. There was someone in the back ... gloating? A glimmer of hope shone from that.

Later, he was ushered to an interrogation cell. He could smell cheap cologne and expensive food as someone walked into the area. “Well, sir, do you know who I am?”

“No,” Morgan stated. He sounded familiar, as if a used car commercial had walked in and struck up conversation. Not the most impressive prima facie.

“Well, son, I am Augustus Maximillian Finley. I hail from...”

“Stop it,” Morgan said pointedly. Michael might have had the patience for this game, but he couldn't bear it. And the name was familiar. “If I pretend to be impressed will you get to the point?”

“I don't like being interrupted, boy.”

No subtlety, this one. “Your name is a designator of identity, not an entitlement. Trust that I know the difference.... Yankee.” Morgan overstressed the the a to Yahnkee.

A double-barreled insult that definitely hit its mark, Morgan noted. “I don't think you want to make me angry...” Finley snarled.

“If you were someone important, you could not do more than I would be able to, anyway. My family name, correction, I have more influence than you could ever hope for, little man.”

“Oh, you think you're so important because your brother was a lord!”

Pride laden with envy, it was getting easier by the second. “My brother was a baron. You are a commoner. Dirt. Cheap. Commoner.”

If Finley had an agendum coming in, it was evaporating in the white hot rage. “Give one more reason, and I'll crucify you right now!” he bellowed.

Morgan paused for a second. “I was at the World Trade Center, Tower Two, 97th floor, on September 11th. I was carrying a briefcase.”

Finley took the bait like a trained dog. “So! It was you! You'll hang for this! The crowd will tear you to pieces.”

Listening to the politician storm out, Morgan could only smile. The guards pitied him. It didn't matter. In all likelihood, this would spiral out of control and he would be executed. Morgan hoped that any trial he faced would happen in private. They could even torture him if they liked. They couldn't be worse than Sethiel and her healing knife. Rest in peace, Sethiel, for your sister never will.