The Big Easy. NOLA. Crescent City. The Birthplace of Jazz. Nawlins. The City That Care Forgot. New Orleans has been called many things and, at times, nothing at all.
The name’s James Sawyer. Failed lawyer, small-time criminal, and apartment janitor all rolled into one. I’ve been living here my entire life. Now, at forty-eight, life is just a series of random events that happen to me. With me having no control over my actual life.
I used to be a lawyer. A damn good one at that. I passed the bar at a young age and started working in high-profile cases throughout New Orleans in just a matter of months. Then came along Danezki versus the state. A murderer, who I got off scot-free, who then turned around and went on a shooting spree, which, of course, shot holes in my reputation.
From there, I went into teaching high school for a few weeks but was laughed out by the students. My reputation preceded me.
And now… ha, I do janitorial work at one of the shittiest hotels in the city and run some small-time criminal ventures on the side. Just enough to make ends meet.
I hate my life, but at least the criminal stuff helped me feel alive. My experience as a lawyer kept me out of trouble. It was the one thing that kept me wanting to stick around. I won’t lie; despite the majesty of New Orleans, I hate this city. I hate the people here. The ones that laughed and ridiculed me. For all I care, they can all die and go to hell.
Now, here we are. I’m sitting here in my attic, gun in my hand… debating on whether or not all this is worth it.
My father gave me the gun—an old six-shooter revolver, a perfect Western-style masterpiece. I stared at the finish for half an hour before putting it to my head, closing my eyes, and pulling it away again. I was desperately clinging to something to make me catch my second wind and want to live.
I looked over to my left, and my old law
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