Injustice Stories Novels & Stories

My name is Joseph Cains. At the time of writing I was still a member of the University’s music club, and I had an enormous crush on a beautiful mixed-race girl who happened to come along to the same club. This story comes from halfway through the academic year, just before her grading test. She asked me to come to the lakeside after my classes to help her practice her throws and tumbles, and I, being a lovestruck fool, agreed. It was one of the best foolish decisions that I have ever made.

She then folded the letter back into the envelope and placed it on the sofa table. Looking at her two guests alternately, Julia Ann said, "I really don't want to be a witness. I've forgotten that embarrassing incident. Won't it endanger my own life if I testify against Henry Crawford, the son of the current senator?" "We understand, Miss Julia, but there have been several victims in the past few days. Perhaps you’ve seen the news on TV—two women, Cecilia Briane Sommerhalder and Erina Marie Larson, were murdered in less than a week. Would you rather wait for your turn to be threatened next?” Sergeant Rodney launched his persuasive attack on Julia Ann Armstrong.

He read slowly: “My wife’s name was Ellen. My daughter’s was Juliette. They were coming back from dinner. Italian… Juliette loved pasta. A drunk driver tied to a trafficking ring hit them. Witnesses said he laughed. I had proof. I had connections. Took it to the police. To the courts. The power plays. They called it a ‘tragedy.’ Said the driver had ‘mental health issues.’ That a case would ‘take years.’ So I built this place. Gathered those justice forgot, and those with fire to do what needed to be done.

He fell because he tried to keep a conscience in a business that had no room for one. Roberto wanted out. Quietly. Family, art galleries, good wine in the afternoons. On his way to the door he found the wrong file—trafficking records Victor Salvatore had buried inside a Carvajo shipping manifest. Roberto gathered evidence and started knocking on the doors of the law. Victor moved faster.

The broader press led with me. Not with the merger. Not with Kane's arrest. With the woman in the red dress who had walked into a press conference for a merger announcement and had instead presented, in sixty-three minutes and four pieces of evidence, the complete documented account of a seven-year conspiracy against her and the twenty-year history of an injustice that had preceded it. The headlines were, by the standards of financial industry press coverage, something close to poetic.

"Just tell your story honestly. That's all you need to do." "What if I'm not eloquent enough? What if senators don't care about one person's experience?" "Then you remind them that every statistic represents a person, a family, a life. Your story isn't just yours, it's everyone who's faced manufactured charges, everyone who's been failed by the system." The hearing room was packed. Journalists filled the back rows. Advocacy groups wore matching shirts. Family members of the wrongly convicted held photos of their loved ones. Senator Williams called the hearing to order. "Today we're examining the Justice Integrity Act, legislation designed to prevent the kind of systemic failures that allow i

"Justice, yes. But the scars….they don't fade like that." The following days were filled with noise. News channels reported every angle and details of the story. Some regarded Alexander as a victim of betrayal. Others distorted the truth, stating he had been set free on a technicality. People love stories, but they don't generally pay attention to the scars that such stories leave behind.

Instead, she leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if searching for the right words up there. “I used to believe stories saved people,” she said slowly. “That truth was enough. That if you put the facts in daylight, justice followed.” “And now?” Alexander asked. “And now I know daylight doesn’t mean anyone’s looking,” she said. “Sometimes it just shows you how alone you are.” She swallowed, throat working. “There was a man,” she continued. “A city planner. Not famous. Not powerful. He came to me with documents—bribes, rezoning scams, money laundering tied to housing projects. Real stuff. Stuff that would’ve displaced hundreds of families.”

Even though I want to leave everything in the past, I couldn't since that tormented memories is chasing me everyday. My bad experiences serves as my motivation to continue pursuing my dreams. Not getting the justice I deserve pushed me to become a lawyer. The journey is not easy. There are lots of struggles and challenges along the way. Such as financial problem, hard subjects, stressful readings, family problem, and many more. But I gave my more than a hundred percent to be on this position.

My pleas for justice went nowhere; every report I filed vanished, and my efforts were met only with assassination threats from Silas himself. Before the coma took me completely, I had one last period of lucidity. The law couldn't touch him. A gang war would be suppressed. I needed a show. We, the victims' families who had nowhere else to turn, united to stage a spectacle so bloody, so bizarre, that the entire world would be unable to look away. Since no one would care about the lives of low-level mobsters, we had to make the story known to the entire world. The nine "dead" soldiers never died.