At this point, after five years of endless decisions, reversals, appeals, postponements, and pretrial hearings, I don’t even know if I’m the plaintiff or the defendant. All I know is that the sour-faced Justice with the post-racial chronometer won’t stop looking at me. His beady eyes fixed in this unblinking and unforgiving stare, he’s angry that I’ve fucked up his political expediency. Blown up his spot like a little kid visiting the city zoo for the first time and, frustrated at having walked past cage after seemingly empty reptile cage, finally stops at an enclosure and shouts, “There he
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