Big Jim, the clown killer, roamed circuses to find victims.
Found twenty-three.
Dead clowns.
I was a lawyer. Don’t know the law and didn’t have much of a practice. To eat regularly, I turned to crime.
Now, I practice in prison. Big Jim, the clown killer, my client.
I spoke first.
Big Jim listened, then looked up. Studied me as if I were a clown without makeup.
Moved closer.
Finger on lips, he pondered.
Didn’t say what he was thinking.
We meet again.
Big Jim, who only kills clowns, sits close.
He wants to hear my theory of the defense.
Thebookbigjimrivera
