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It’s a job (or it was)

For two years I worked as a criminal defense paralegal.  As with everything I’ve done since I was twelve or thirteen years old, I did the job with one eye on how I could milk it for stories to write.  Some might call that “bearing witness,” which would be a very nice thing to call it.  Others might call it things that are not so nice, but would probably be just as true.

Last week I posted “Legal Advice,” one of the stories derived from my criminal defense paralegal days.  This week I’m posting “Taking Calls,” another such story.  It was first published a year ago in Cutthroat.

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  1. Your story makes me think of that scene from What Dreams May Come, when the hero must cross a field of half-buried souls, trying to get to through purgatory without planting a boot in some poor sinner’s eye. I have to say, I’m glad you’re safely on the other side.

  2. Thank you, Averil. Some people are condemned to living hell, and there’s little anyone can do about it. I have been very fortunate.

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