M
Mortimer Graves was a defense attorney. His clients were usually guilty, and usually deceased.
The Court of Spirits sat at midnight. The judge was a Reaper. The jury was twelve hangmen.
"The prosecution calls the accused," the Reaper intoned. "Count Dracula."
Dracula floated in, looking sullen. "I was framed," he muttered.
"You drained three villages!" the Prosecutor (a Van Helsing ghost) shouted.
"Objection!" Mortimer slammed his hand on the table. "My client suffers from a dietary restriction. It is a medical condition. Hemoglobin Deficiency Syndrome."
The Reaper leaned forward. "Is this true?"
"Absolutely, Your Honor. Furthermore, the villagers entered his property. It was self-defense. Castle Doctrine applies."
The jury whispered. A hangman nodded.
"I move for a reduced sentence," Mortimer said smoothy. "Community service. He can work at the blood bank. He has excellent phlebotomy skills."
The gavel banged. "Granted. 500 years of service."
Dracula shook Mortimer's hand. "You are a shark, Graves."
"Takes one to know one, Count," Mortimer winked. "Now, about my fee. I believe you have a first-edition Gutenberg Bible?"