This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ramslie on 2024-09-16 21:58:17+00:00.

I am a lawyer.

Er, rather will have been a lawyer… pending the outcome of my disbarment hearing next week.

Before that happens, I have a story or two to get off my chest in the hopes that someone else will make better choices.

This all started when I was a public defender, not all that long ago. I won’t tell you which state I was licensed in but let’s just say the use of the death penalty was encouraged.

I was assigned such a case a few months back. I won’t go into detail, (1) because it’s grisly and (2) I don’t want any of you sleuths looking it up.

Like any other case, the first thing I did was visit my client. 

I’m not proud to admit it but this meeting was the last thing on my mind, just another box to check on my ever-growing to-do list. I had one thought and one thought only as I sat under those flickering fluorescent lights in the nondescript, beige-painted meeting room at the country jail: the smell of the toasted hoagies floating in through the cracked window from the truck stop diner up the road. 

I loved living rural but man do I miss having dining options. 

My daydreams of melted provolone and capicola were interrupted by the clinking of my client’s restraints as a guard shuffled him in.

He hadn’t even sat down yet before the guard started to rush out.  I stopped him, imploring that he take my client’s restraints off. Being handcuffed to the table was more than enough.

“He killed his whole family boss.”

My reply felt silly but it needed to be said, “allegedly.”

The guard shrugged and left anyway.

I turned to my client, hands in his lap, orange jumpsuit highlighted against the peeling paint behind him. For some reason, he smelled vaguely like a creek. 

Brushing off this intrusive thought, I started into my spiel and was quickly interrupted.

“I didn’t do it.”

I’m sure to none yinz surprise, I get that a lot.

“Mr. Ramirez, we’ll…”

“John.”

“Ok, John, we’ll get to all that.”

“No, I’m serious, I couldn’t’ve done it.”

I drew air quotes, “By ‘couldn’t’, do you mean you have an alibi? Verifiable or at least someone semi-reliable that could place you elsewhere?”

“Well no, I was home, but I just couldn’t’ve.”

I’m sure he could hear my internal sigh because he went on.

“You ever hear someone stranglin’ someone with one hand?” He brought his hands up to the table, resting them gingerly in front of me.

“Can’t strangle no one with this stump.”

Without revealing how creative some of my former clients could be, I’ll say this: I was skeptical at best.

So I asked my next question, “If not you, who?”

I was met with silence. 

“I’ll level with you John, it doesn’t look good, your outdoor cameras didn’t catch anyone coming or going other than you and later the police. Without someone else to point the finger at…”

The look of resignation on his face deepened. 

“It just couldn’t’ve been me.”

I told him I’d look into it, called the guard to collect him, and made my way out of the jailhouse. 

It was late afternoon at this point, a Friday, so I decided to stop by the crime scene and at least poke around as much as the police would let me. 

The keyless entry to my car beeped as I put my hand on the door but nothing happened when I pulled on the handle. Still locked. I muttered to myself, swearing for not having locked my car before coming inside. 

I plugged John’s address into CarPlay, a 30ish minute drive.

I pulled up to John’s lengthy, sloping, gravel driveway expecting cop cars or news trucks, after all, these murders supposedly happened last night.

But there was… no one. Police tape on the front door, sure, footprints and tire marks on the grass, oh yeah, but not a soul in sight.

I chalked it up to it being a Friday evening and continued on my mission.

The Ramirez’s house was odd. It was a true shotgun house, long and narrow like it had been dropped in our modest state straight from New Orleans. It was recently painted, sky blue, with a bright yellow front door and matching shutters adorning the small single windows pockmarking the facade. Small security cameras were mounted on the corners of the house. I couldn’t see the back from where I had pulled up. 

I parked at the end of the gravel drive. Stepping out of my car, I intended to first walk the perimeter of the house to find the rest of the cameras and establish if there were any blind spots, though I wasn’t hopeful. 

I hadn’t yet shut my door when my phone dinged. One text, all lowercase: “Garage.”

I had a brief flashback to my ex-wife passive-aggressively telling me I had left the garage door open.

I checked to see who had sent it “Maybe: unknown”. I clicked the contact, but no number appeared. Weird, I thought.

I slid my phone back into my pocket and set off around the house, trying to decipher the text. I found no garage on the back side of the house, only an adjoined wooden shed, no bigger than a walk-in closet. 

I had thought the camera footage covered the entire backyard but I didn’t recall the shed being present.

My palms were sweaty as I approached the shed, nervous for no other reason than the cryptic text I received on my arrival. I turned the tarnished brass handle and pushed… but the door wouldn’t budge. 

It was then that I noticed the hinges were on the outside, so I pulled and the door swung open without protest. 

Inside the shed was bare, light streamed in through a few dusty windows, a few shelves with forgotten paint cans, a threadbare rug covering the concrete floor, and what must have been a workbench along the back wall. 

Not realizing that I had been holding my breath, I let out a sigh and took another step into the room and onto the carpet… before I even knew what was happening I was tumbling.

The carpet had given way to a hole dug into the floor and I fell several feet onto my back. I blinked the stars out of my vision and physically checked myself to make sure nothing was broken.

I sat up, my breathing ragged and uneven. I flicked on my flashlight, barely cutting through the inky blackness. I noticed the rough, earthen walls, and the faintest hint of a musty odor.

I stood cautiously and spun my flashlight around the room, revealing a crude ladder nailed to one wall and a tunnel leading off in the opposite direction.

Obviously, I’m not some horror movie protagonist, so I took my chances with the ladder.

I climbed quickly, the ladder shaking with every step, each rung feeling like it could give way. At the top, I pushed against what I hoped was the shed’s floor, but it wouldn’t move. It was as if it had been secured from the outside.

Desperation gripped me. I pounded on the trapdoor and shouted, but no one answered. I pulled out my phone and tried to call for help, and was greeted with another cryptic text: “I’ll be here soon. Good luck.”

Distantly, I heard sirens. I cursed myself for ever coming out here. They grew louder, and my heartbeat quickened with every passing second. The sound was reassuring yet maddening because as much as I wanted to believe help was on the way, I was still trapped.

I pounded on the trapdoor once more, but it remained firmly shut. My flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows across the walls of my makeshift prison. I knew that I’d be in real trouble if I couldn’t find my way out soon.

Then I heard it — a faint scuffling noise coming from the shed. Panic surged through me. Desperately, I climbed back down the ladder and moved over to the tunnel’s entrance. The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for me to crawl through. I squirmed along the dirt passage, my flashlight reaching just ahead of me.

As I moved, I heard the rungs of the ladder shaking behind me. My mind raced with possibilities, but none were comforting. 

Just as I reached a bend in the tunnel, my phone died, killing my flashlight, and plunging me into darkness. My heart pounded as the sound of scuffling grew behind me. I could hear breathing now, ragged and uneven.

Suddenly, a glimmer of light appeared in the tunnel ahead, moving rapidly toward me.

I pressed myself into the tunnel’s side, barely able to contain my panic. The figure came into view — a shadowy silhouette of a person, moving with alarming speed. I let out a scream.

The figure jumped and stopped, its headlamp casting a harsh beam that made the tunnel’s shadows dance wildly. I scrambled back, my hands scraping against the rough dirt as I retreated. 

The figure was close enough that I could make out a police uniform, but his face was obscured by the shadows of his hat. Relief flooded through me, mingled with confusion.

“Are you—“ I began, but the man held up a hand, signaling silence.

“Stay back,” he ordered, his voice low and terse.

I didn’t need convincing to stay still. The man’s headlamp revealed his hand gripping a walkie-talkie, and he seemed to be speaking to someone on the other end. His presence was reassuring, yet unsettling.

Footsteps echoed from the direction the firefighter had crawled, and I heard muffled voices. My heart leaped into my throat. 

The officer turned around, beckoning me to follow. As we moved, he explained in hurried whispers. “We’ve been tracking a suspect who uses these tunnels. He’s very dangerous. The texts you received were meant to lure you here. The officers are closing in, but you need to stay quiet.”

I nodded, momentarily forgetting about the scuffling I heard behind me. My throat was dry and my breaths came in shallow gulps. We reached a junction in the tunnel where the officer guided…

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fihas4/what_being_an_attorney_is_actually_like/