Disclaimer: Not mine.

I entered the quiet, dim bar, remembering a day very much like this a few years back. Trying to drink away the pain, the abnormality of it all. This time, I hadn't seen a man die, not yet anyway. I kept telling myself that he wanted it. He wanted to die. I sat down on a stool and ordered my usual, scotch on the rocks. I got it down pretty fast and ordered another, this time nursing it, taking small sips. I knew why I came here, in part because of this case, because of Clay Warner, but I think mostly... mostly because of you. Because of your insistence, your view on the matter, what we'd seen. I think I finally understood your view.

I didn't think much of it when we saw Mickey Scott get killed, not until afterwards, that is. Not until that son of a bitch killed you. Even then, when I thought about it, I still couldn't see why you got upset. He was a bastard and he deserved it. But now... now I see, I understand. You think an intelligent man like me would be able to see your side of the fence easier, of course, the height difference might've helped. I don't know, maybe I didn't want to see what you what you saw because if I did, I'd have doubts and I don't need doubts. I need firm beliefs.

Well, you might be happy to know that a young man named Clay Warner threw me over that fence. And I landed in doubt so deep, the Titanic could've been resting on the bottom for all I know. Fact is, I wasn't so sure about it anymore. He tells me he'll allocute as long as I give him the death penalty. Usually they want it off the table, not added on. That just shocked me horribly. I think that was when Clay Warner picked me up, preparing to throw me. It wasn't until later that I was thrown and I landed, hard. It didn't necessarily hurt, just shocked me. Like being awoken from a deep sleep by a particularly loud car alarm.

The point is, I understood. After all these years, after all those heated discussions, after all the pain, the thoughts... I got it.

What bothers me though, is that it took so long.

Seven years, to be exact.

I could give you the days and probably the hours, but who's counting, right?

I still can't believe it.

Still can't grasp it.

Even after seven years, I still don't feel much better.

Words on a page, that's what Arthur told me. Words on a page. That's all the law is. I didn't want him dead, the law did. The words on the page.

Damn words.

Ordering up another scotch, I continued the conversation with myself, wondering about all that had happened from the day I met you until today.

Until the day I understood, and could kick myself for not noticing sooner.

Not noticing when you were still alive.

Maybe, if I had noticed before then...maybe, maybe you'd still be here.

To hell with it.