My first case began with my head falling into a white bowl of oatmeal.

It wasn't completely white, despite my name for it. It has two tiny parallel green lines running around the side, giving a pseudo-elegant look to it. It was an old bowl; inherited from my grandmother who wanted to make my first apartment a bit more comfortable for me. It had a chip on one side and a crack down the middle, which I had sealed with hot glue. It wasn't my favorite bowl, now that I think about it, but it was the first one I touched as I poured my favorite oatmeal into it and turned on the television. When I turned on the television I heard my name on the news. When I heard my name on the news it blew my mind.

When my mind was blown my face landed in the oatmeal.

I ate it anyway. It had raspberries in it and I am quite fond of them.

Did I mention that I've only been a defense attorney for a day?

That's right, the day before the oatmeal incident I received my degree in the mail and passed the bar.

The morning after my name is on the television, which just announced that I'll be defending a Mr. Brock Ialis for murder tomorrow. I was feeling some discomfort as I finished my oatmeal, which didn't take too long since most of it was in my hair. I threw the bowl into the sink (rather hard; the bowl shattered at the crack), took a quick shower to wash out my hair, then slipped on my brown suit. I eyed my green scarf. Basic fabric, a bit torn as the edges. But it was green, and that was awesome, and I was feeling particularly stylish. I threw the door open and fell down the stairs. It hurt.

Now that I was on the ground floor, I ran out the glass doors and called a taxi.

"Where to?"

"Arnie!"

"What… did you call me?"

I coughed. "No… I mean Arnie Benjamin. Y'know… the law firm?"

As the taxi sped through the busy streets, I thought back to my days in training. Arnie Benjamin was a defense attorney and personal friend of mine. Well, he was a defense attorney; until a few months ago…

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Would you like to schedule one?"

"No."

The secretary stared at me with careful eyes. "Then… what do you want to do?"

I brushed some red bangs out of my face and tightened my scarf. "I need to talk to Arnie."

She leaned back in her chair, amused. "Arnold Benjamin no longer works at this law firm…"

"I know he doesn't work here anymore," my eyebrows twitched, "but I think he's trying to stress me to death. And I know he's here to clear out his office, he told me last week."

Her eyelids lifted in surprise. "You know…?"

I turned to face the water cooler. Two balding, overweight men were tied up in a conversation. I named the left one Robert Funnytie and the right one Pissedoffguyina Jacket. The ringing of phones and chatter drifting from the offices drowned out their voices. Pissedoffguy was particularly inflamed, waving his arms in what seemed like anger, hunched, up and down. "Yes, I know Mr. Benjamin, can I please see him?"

"If you know he's… go on ahead. I presume you know where his office is?"

"Absolutely," I said, pulling my suit back onto my shoulders. "Used to come here and talk with him, do some practice. He's a great mentor to me."

"Yes, in fact…" she smiled up at me as I passed her desk. "I seem to recall someone like you passing by every once in a while… you're…?"

"Gabe." I said; smiling, as her face began to disappear around the corner. "Gabriel Skanner."

"Your tie is stupid," I said as I passed by the water cooler.

I threw his pencil sharpener on the floor. I then picked it up because I didn't want to break it. It was a nice pencil sharpener.

"So." Said Arnie as he took a seat at what used to be his office desk. "You come into my office, say hello, and throw my pencil sharpener on the ground." He smiled. "Is something bothering you?"

I was breathing in; out; in… my vision was getting a bit cloudy. "You…" I pointed my finger at one of the two Arnold Benjamins that were swaying around the room. "You… put me on the Brock Ialis case…"

He smiled. "Yep. Knowing you, you weren't going to find the first case on your own. So I sped up the process a bit."

I swayed. "I see…"

I then proceeded to knock down his lamp. I didn't pick it up. It was an ugly lamp.

I took a deep breath. "I'm not ready."

"Yes you are."

This confused me. I didn't really know how to respond, so I lifted an eyebrow. "Okay… So I'm ready."

"Yep."

He was slightly overweight, but it seemed to suit him. His ruffled blond hair was short and spiked at the front, his eyes met mine and I bit my lip. "I can't do this, I just became an attorney yesterday. Weren't you going to let me know?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing now." He took his glasses to the side and brushed them on his shirt. "You can do it."

"I hope you know it was your fault I got oatmeal in my hair and broke my grandmother's bowl."

He simply said, "I see."

I sat down. "How did you even get me on the case? I mean… my name shouldn't even be on the docket yet…"

"I requested you by name." He put his glasses back on. I bit my lip again.

"Are you going to be…?"

He laughed. "What? No. I wouldn't be the prosecutor on your first case." There was a bit of a disconnection between us as we both found ourselves thinking about his new job.

"Why did you do it?" I said, leaning forward in my ridiculously uncomfortable leather chair. "Not here to question your career or anything but the change was just a little," I scratched behind my ear, "sudden, you know?"

He sighed. "After getting too many guilty people off the hook, your conscious begins to wear away at you." This time he bit his lip. "I felt bad about getting criminals out of jail, so I dedicated my life to putting them in." He looked up at me. "I just had too many bad clients, you understand?"

I understood. "I guess this means… we might go against each other one day?"

"Maybe." He smiled. "And you won't stand a chance."

After that, I left. And while he wasn't looking, I took his stapler.

It's funny, being a newcomer to this wonderful city. From my native city; migrating to the big apple, life had been tough for someone like me. I remember looking into many colleges; always turning them down. There was always something missing from every career option I researched. Sure I worked as a busboy at 15 years, who hasn't? But when it came to office work, fashion design, architecture, engineering (heck, even acting lacked something), I remember thinking, "Can't I just get paid to be me?"

So I'm probably not fooling you. Correct, I'm not the type suited to be an attorney. My attention span wavers; my organization is sporadic and my shoes are always untied. However, I realized some time ago that law contained all I needed to be happy. It is a flexible system of order always changing and evolving; and who had the power to change that? Me.

That's right. Since I don't know what to do with my life, I decided to become the President of the United States. I'll be a defense attorney to get my feet wet, become popular with the people, run for DA, the Senate, then…

Sure, I know. Being a District Attorney is like switching sides; like Arnie Benjamin did a few months ago. But I understand his reasons for leaving, and I hope you can understand my position, and my position is this:

My dream is to leave my footprint in the history books. And being a defense attorney is the first step.

My head swirled with abstract thought as my cab pulled up to the detention center. I handed the driver a twenty and walked up the grainy stone steps. I threw the doors open (which made me think if I have ever opened a door without "throwing" it open) and approached the head office.

"Gordon Truth?" said the receptionist.

"Er… no." I ruffled my hair. "My name is Skanner?"

I'm not sure why I phased my name as a question, but the receptionist's demeanor was the kind that made you feel like you never did anything exactly right.

"Gabriel Skanner?" she nodded, the green pen dropping off her ear. She either didn't notice it or didn't bother picking it up.

"That's me." I said, trying my best smile.

"You're cute," she said in a not-someone-I-want-to-date-but-something-small-and-adorable-kind-of-cute way. I shook my head in disapproval, I'm not sure why.

"If you're here for Brock Ialis, he's in room 43b, you'll want to take the left hall and take a right at the next intersection. His cell should be right there."

"Alright, thanks." However, in the split second that followed, a very distinctly deep and also whiny scream covered my entire being and shook me to the floor. My client was running right at me, mouth agape, pushing a shrilling scream through it. He barreled into me and I flipped over his large 6"5 frame; landing on my stomach. For a moment my vision went blue and the world froze as I suddenly lost the ability to see.

You see, Brock Ialis might look like a protein infused elephant-wrestler grizzly bear, but he has the actual constitutions of a gerbil. He was in the middle of questioning when he found one question difficult to answer, so the interrogator asked again in a raised voice. This freaked Brock out. So he rammed the door off its hinges and flew into the hallway.

Yeah. A steel reinforced door off its hinges. And the guy is scared of trees.

I'm not kidding.

After a nurse had wrapped a bandage around my head, I took a deep breath and sat down in the detention cell, desperate to get this over with. The chair didn't have cushions on it. "So Mr. Ialis-"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" said my client as he rammed the door on he other side of the glass and flew back out into the hallway.

I sighed and tapped the red button on the wall.

"Can somebody please deliver my insane client back to the detention cell?"

This was hopeless. Already it was dinner time and I had gotten absolutely nowhere with my client.

"Don't!"

I looked up at Brock, his face twisted in imaginary pain as he was pushed back into his chair by about half of the precinct police.

"Don't what?"

He stopped struggling for a second as he tried to connect the frayed wires in his brain. "Um… don't… er…"

"Look," I tried turning my chair around and sitting backwards, like those kid-friendly doctors on TV. "I'm your friend, I'm your buddy, ok?"

He bit his lip, his eyes darting all around the room. "Really?"

The chair was even more uncomfortable backwards, but it was having the desired effect.

"Do you know what a defense attorney is?"

He looked at the ceiling stupidly, which is actually hard to do. Your eyes have to be unfocused, and your mouth needs to be left open; not too open, like you were talking or anything, just enough for you to unwillingly let flies sneak in and start buzzing around. It's an unlearned talent, and if Brock entered a stupidly-looking-at-a-ceiling contest, he'd win a gold medal and have a heartwarming biopic made about him with accompanying narration by Morgan Freeman. It would get mediocre scores from critics, but still be nominated for best picture, for some reason.

It took him a while, but he finally said. "You mean, like… a lawyer?"

"That's right! A lawyer! Good boy!" I said, smiling through my teeth.

"So… am I going to jail Mr. Lawyer?"

I sat up. That was a good question. "That depends on what you can tell me about the night of the…" I tugged at my tie. "M-murder."

"Wow," said Brock. "The delicate and characteristic way you say 'murder' may lead one to believe that you have a dark and mysterious past where a important and character- defining event took place having to do with the word 'Murder'."

We stared at each other for a minute. To be completely honest, I was mustering a sneeze and didn't want to spray the glass with nose gore.

"Umm… sure, one night at the opera someone shot my parents."

Yeah, I know, cheap. But I needed his sympathy in case I failed his case. If he can ram a steel door open, he could probably tear my esophagus out and floss his teeth with it. This didn't make much sense since it would probably make his teeth all red and nasty-smelling.

"Wouldn't that better fit as the past of a prosecutor?"

"Last time I checked, I was the one asking the questions here." And what was with this guy's random breaking of character?

"I'm just interested in what kind of character you-?"

"HEY!" I pointed at him. "You on trial," I pointed at myself. "Me lawyer man. Me ask you about murder now, understand?"

He nodded quickly. If he had hair, it would be bouncing goofily around his head. But he had no hair, so he just looked goofy.

"Now," I pulled multiple files out of my manila folder. "Who was it that was killed?"

"Ooh… let me think…" He knocked his hand against his head. "I know this one… it was a regular at the gym… I REMEMBER!" He roared.

I blinked. "Yes?"

He stuttered. "I forgot."

"Oh for the sake of…!" I slammed the profile of the victim on the glass so he could see. "His name is Tyrone Sepps, he was a body builder training at Jo-Jo's Gym. Remember him now?"

Realization flooded his face and he leaned back. "Oh yeah… I remember him." He said darkly. It's actually quite easy to say something darkly, just recline a bit as you say something, look down slightly below their eyes and answer a bit too quietly. He wasn't that good at it, but I got the point.

"So you know him?"

"Yes I do…" He turned away from me. "We haven't had the best history."

"Is that so?" I glanced at his bulging biceps and took a guess. "Competing body builders?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"So tell me… what happened on the night of the murder?"

"Okay, so once upon a time." He started, using his hands as narrating buddies, "there was this dashing man named… err, Trock Bealis. He was the bestest weight lifter ever, and he once lifted like… over five hundred pounds at this one contest, which he WON!" He pumped his fist in the air. "So anyway, this guy was training at the gym late one night when All. Of. The sudden." He popped his lips, his hands spread wide with palms facing out. "Police arrested him."

All was quiet. I raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That's it."

I twisted my face. "So why the hell did they arrest you?"

He jumped at my frustration. "T-they found my fingerprints on the murder weapon. And I was one of the only ones at the Gym that late at night… the officer told me. Oh, and there was also a witness… I guess."

"Mr. Ialis, how can I be sure to trust you?" I took a deep breath. "I'm just not sure about your story and the police report…"

"Please! PLEASE!" He flew off his chair and dropped to his knees in front of the window. "You have to help me! The trial's tomorrow, and… and you're the only one who can help me! PLEEEAASSE!"

I was taken aback. For someone to desperately need someone like me… someone who was probably the least fit to take care of them… something burned inside of me.

"I'll take you case." I said, the flame filling me with purpose. "I'll do anything and everything to get you the verdict you deserve."

"Oh thank you!" He said. He reached out to shake my hand and accidentally shattered the glass separating us, his eyes lit up in terror.

"Oops…"

In actuality, there is perhaps only one thing that ever happened to me that influenced my career choice, and not the way you might think.

The story goes, I was a sophomore in law school, living elegantly on the remainder of my parent's small fortune. I was returning from a designer clothing store with a few bags on my shoulder. I was wearing my best sunglasses and talking on my new phone to someone I can't recall. As I approached the busy park that I usually cut through to get back to campus, I was intercepted by someone.

"Hello…" she was nervous and small, almost Latina-looking. She had the look of someone who was once extremely beautiful, but had grown just a bit older. She was still spectacularly attractive in her short skirt and tight black blouse, and I slowed my pace and smiled as she came nearer.

"Can I help you?" I asked as my shopping bags clattered against my arm.

"Yes, um…" She clenched her finger and bit down softly on it and she looked to my shoes. She held out a small backpack she had kept concealed behind her back. I could see her trying to suppress a tear as she shoved it into my arms. "Please… take this over there." Her wet eyes met mine. "Make sure nobody follows you; just drop this bag over by the stone stature by the river. Please. And hurry."

I tried to speak, but I could not. Her rounded face and sorrowful eyes compelled as a feeling of urgency swelled inside me. This was something important that I had been trusted to do.

Swift, sharp, and chest high with purpose, I walked across the park and dropped the cargo next to the fountain surrounding an obtuse stone statue. Mission accomplished.

Before I knew it, sirens lit up the air and drowned out the peaceful atmosphere. I held my ears and clutched the earth, something was wrong.

I turned to the backpack I had dropped and found a man with a torn shirt and missing teeth running with it. He disappeared into the crowd. I turned again to the woman who gave me the cargo, who was begging and pleading with a police officer, I caught the words faintly.

"Please… don't! He'll kill her!"

"Gabe?"

I shook my head and opened my eyes to the blurring flare of the courtroom lights. I rubbed my throbbing forehead. "Whuappened?" I managed.

Arnie Benjamin's unmistakable profile glimmered next to me. "What?" I rubbed my face. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, just relieving the glory days…" He said, laughing to himself. "You better straighten up, the judge is glaring at you pretty hard…"

Wait? Was I in court? Already? I jumped up in shock.

"Settle down, I'm here to help you through it," said Arnie with a well-placed pat on my back.

I massaged my face, I must have lost myself in a daydream under the stress.

"But… you're a prosecutor, remember? Doesn't this kind of clash with…"

"Can't you see I'm wearing a disguise?" he said, pointing to his sunglasses. "Calm down, we've got this."

I rested my elbow on my desk and glared across the room to the prosecutor's desk. It wasn't someone I recognized, "can you at least tell me who that is?"

"Nope, no idea."

And with that, the judge's gavel swung and the trial began…