My daughter, the Certified Paralegal, was dismayed about the outcome of a certain recent murder trial and posted as much on Facebook. My sister, the poet, added a comment wondering what the defendant’s life will be like now with everyone seeming to hate her so. Those thoughts inspired me to seize the opportunity to dabble in a little fiction and employ my interpretation of the crime novel genre in portraying what life might be like if everyone hates you. What follows, even though it is ripped from the headlines, is purely fictional and not intended to portray any real people or events.
A Day in the Life
She noticed a little movement out of the corner of her eye as she turned from checking the front door to make sure it had locked. The small movement near the fence pillar at the front corner of the lawn did not register as something of concern as she had many important thoughts on her mind this morning. She moved easily toward the steps to the driveway, her small frame gliding effortlessly across the wide expanse of the porch stoop. She flowed smoothly down the four stately steps, conscious of the soothing caress of warmth as she stepped into the sunlight. “This is so good”, she thought to herself. It had been a long time since she had had the opportunity to feel the sunshine on her face, the soothing, healing sunshine, so she allowed herself to bask in the pleasure of it as she stepped around the front of her car to reach the driver’s door. She heard the metallic click of the lock as she pressed the remote entry button. As she reached for the car door handle, the bullet hit her in the center of her chest. She felt herself driven backwards so hard that her feet couldn’t keep up and she knew she was falling. She heard the deep thump of the weapon’s discharge now and instantly her mind sorted out all of the confusing stimuli of the last micro second. But it was an instant playing in slow motion as she realized, “My God, I’ve been shot. Shot in the chest. It has to be bad. Fatal? Am I dying?” The thought was interrupted by the jolt of her buttocks slamming down on the smooth cement of the drive way. Then her shoulders and head hit hard. Hard enough to feel the stab of pain in her head as her brain slammed against the cranium wall, but not hard enough to knock her unconscious. She heard a car door slam, an engine rev, tires squeal and the retreating roar of an engine as the shooter sped from the scene.
As the last perceptible sound of the getaway drifted from her ears, she realized that she was still alive, and still conscious. She felt some pain in her chest but somehow did not feel like she was dying. Her right hand was already covering the wound so she raised it in front of her face expecting it to be dripping blood but was surprised and a little bewildered to find it clean. Once again her mind started putting the pieces together. Suddenly she was very grateful to the police woman who had escorted her home last night. The woman who had strongly recommended, no, insisted that she wear a bullet-proof vest for a few days and went through hell and high water to get the department supply room to lend her one. That woman’s concern was prophetic and now it had saved her life and she was very appreciative and ecstatically happy to be alive and so charged with adrenaline and relief that she almost felt giddy. She ran her hands over her rib cage and determined no were broken as they sometimes were in the TV scenarios she had seen when policemen get shot while wearing bullet-proof vests. When she sat up she realized that she would be sore for a few days but otherwise no major damage, except for some smudges on the seat of her pants. Her first reaction was to call 911 and report being shot, but as she thought about it, she realized that she already had too much contact with the police in her life. The shooter was gone and probably left no trace so the only thing she would accomplish by calling the police would be wasted time and perhaps renewed suspicion or her own re-incarceration. She pulled herself into her Escalade and locked the doors. She entered her destination address into the navigation system and backed out of the driveway.
The tinted glass of the Escalade afforded some protection as she drove toward her destination. No one would recognize her and since it was a rented vehicle, it would be quite difficult to trace the tag to her so she felt secure for the time being. She knew that she was going to have to up her game to make it through this. Recounting the events of the last few minutes, she realized that she had noticed something, that small movement as she turned from the door, but just didn’t pay attention to it. Well, from now on things would be different. She would call upon and be attentive to all of her senses and intuitions. No more distractions or walking with her head down. Her very survival depended upon it.
The delays of the morning had consumed the extra few minutes that she usually allowed to find and arrive propitiously to a meeting. The fact was that she was a little late but as she parked the car she reminded herself that she was alone in a jungle that required the utmost of concentration to navigate so she couldn’t afford to rush. She quickly, but thoroughly surveyed the route she must take from her car to the old row house that had been converted into office space. Her publisher, more correctly, her soon-to-be publisher, she hoped, occupied an office on the second floor. This would be their initial meeting to discuss a book about her recent ordeal. She checked the surroundings and noted those locations that might conceal a sniper and those obstacles that might conceal an explosive device. Her instincts surprised even herself and she wondered where she had learned these kinds of skills. Maybe we are all just born with them and they stay suppressed until we have to call upon them she thought. Maybe I learned more from watching those TV dramas than I realized. As she mentally planned her passage from the car to the building she took out some hand cream to apply to her hands. You can’t shake hands with your publisher with hands like a cactus she reasoned more to reassure herself that there would be a deal than anything else. After massaging the smooth liquid in, she picked up the bottle and exited the vehicle.
She moved quickly and decisively toward the narrow front steps. She was conscious of the man behind her but he seemed to pose no threat until she raised her foot to mount the first step. Suddenly he grabbed her left wrist and with a mighty jerk dragged her backwards from the step. As she turned to confront him, a heavy earthenware flower pot crashed on the landing at the top of the stairs. My God, that could have killed me, she thought as she relaxed her struggle with the stranger for a moment. He seemed to relax too and they both looked up to see a woman waving from the third floor window. “Sorry, that was an accident,” she said. “Is everybody alright?”
She couldn’t really speak just then but managed a weak wave. As she caught her breath she finally managed to exclaim, “You saved my life!” to the stranger.
“Accident Hell,” he retorted, “She dropped that purposely. I saw her open the window when you were leaving your car.”
“Well, thank you so much, you saved me.”
“Hey wait a minute,” he said, “I know you. You’re…” Suddenly his grip on her wrist tightened again and he began dragging her toward the curb. As she looked up the street she saw a city bus moving toward them swiftly just inches from the curb. My God, she thought, he’s going to throw me in front of that bus. Suddenly she remembered the hand cream in her right hand. She placed the bottle by his thumb on her left wrist and gave a squeeze. As the oily lotion flowed onto her wrist she gave a mighty push followed by a jerk back. The lotion worked under his thumb and her wrist became too slick to hold. The momentum of trying to propel her toward the curb overcame his balance as he fell backward directly into the path of the bus. The driver had no opportunity to slow as the bus made a thumping sound when the front tire ran directly over the man. She was glad that she had moved back to the steps when the dual back wheels squeezed him like a greasy spoon ketchup dispenser.
“That was an accident”, she screamed at the horrified couple who had been passing by but now stood aghast in the pool of gore. “It was an accident”, she screamed again. “It was an accident”, she repeated as she turned and glancing up to avoid any plummeting objects, retreated into the building. She hurled herself into her publisher’s office sobbing uncontrollably. “Everyone is trying to kill me out there!” she wailed.
“Don’t worry, dear, you’re safe here,” the publisher replied. Her words were reassuring, her manner confident. She had earned a black belt in Tai Kwon Do before her twelfth birthday and over the years had advanced it to the nth degree. She was a savvy business woman with a legal background and had the ability to maim and cripple with her bare hands if ever an occasion called for that. She longed for the day that it would. Early in her career as a paralegal, she realized that her salary, handsome as it was, would not pay off her education loans and afford her the luxurious life style that she could command in the publishing industry. Her rise was as meteoric as it was bountiful. In a few years she was at the top of the publishing food chain wielding wealth and power as she turned the stories of tragic lives, mayhem and deceit into mountains of gold.
“Promise me you won’t try to kill me, please, please”, the sobbing client implored.
“Kill you, dear? I’m going to make a killing on you, not kill you. You are perfectly safe here,” she said soothingly. “At least for the time being,” she added, with an almost imperceptible laugh.
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