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"One Day" (the fiftieth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "One Day" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), Oct 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| One Day By lee10@host365.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| After long hours of driving under a
hot, heavy sun, a timeworn boardwalk enticed me down to the shore, where each wave slid across its predecessor with a silk-on-silk rustle that overlay the sea’s unceasing roar. A shimmering gauze of hazy fluorescence hung over the afternoon horizon and a languorous waft of moisture carried a hint of ozone, a remainder of recent storms. Shattered shells littered the beach; amongst the fragments, a silenced conch. Dying jellyfish, solid as footballs, gelatinous as eyeballs, rolled back and forth in the shallows. A sandpiper, forever furiously running, dined at the water’s edge, eyes down, till, caught unawares by a frivolous wavelet, it flew off, chattering angrily. Hummocks reformed eternally as buried creatures spat sand and seawater from breathing holes, as fast as waves filled them. A seagull’s shadow, sharply defined, silently traced over this petty drama of life and death. I lingered longer than I should to watch the pelicans as, one by one they folded wings and sliced the air. Deep, no splash remarked their passage. A heartbeat, less, like corks they bobbed to the surface, bills full of fish; smug as limericks, clever as clerihews. The siren song of the waves tempted me to paddle. Wet sand was warm and firm, shells sharp underfoot. The foaming edge of the surf was cool for an instant only, and I savoured the day, a faint taste of salt on my lips. |
| One Day By Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net (Entry #7) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It was a day like any other, except
today I was going to watch someone die. I make my living as a private investigator, skip tracing and some divorce work. I also do some investigating for a local law firm. Two months ago, William Reader’s secretary called my office number at nine. My office number is my cell phone since I don’t have a regular phone -- or an office. “Hello, you have reached the office of Vincent Diamond …” “Cut it out, Vince. I know you’re there,” Martha interrupted. Martha Braun had been Bill’s secretary since forever and knew my crap. “Hi, Martha. Are you calling me about that two grand you guys owe me?” “We don’t owe you any money, Vince; you still owe us two hours work from the Burdett case. Bill wants you in his office ASAFP. He’s got a pro bono case he needs some help on in a hurry.” “Sorry, I don’t speak Latin. Does that mean my normal fee?” “Just get down here. I have more important things to do than banter with you,” she hung up. Martha likes me pretty well, but Packard, Reader, and Everhart is a prestigious law firm in Decatur and she doesn’t have much time to waste on a freelancer like me. It was a sunny, October day, so drove my motorcycle the five miles from home in Little Five Points to Bill’s office in Decatur, on the outskirts of Atlanta. I outside the courthouse and cut across the square his building. After a short wait, Martha showed me in. “Hi Bill, what’s up?” I said. “We’ve got a death penalty appeal. The guy’s on death row for murder and is scheduled for the lethal injection in 60 days unless we can stop it. He’s been there for seven years while the appeals have gone from one firm to another. He was found guilty of murdering a prostitute on Stewart Avenue. The accused, Lonnie Quail, claimed an alibi, but it didn’t hold up, and he still insists he’s innocent.” “Don’t they all?” “True, but irrelevant. We’ve got one run at the Eleventh Court here, then the Supreme Court. If that doesn’t work, we’re left with the Governor and clemency. I need you to investigate his original lawyer and witnesses. We need to find incompetence or a witness that committed perjury.” “What about the alibi? Wouldn’t it be easier to find another suspect or prove his alibi?” “No. At this point, it doesn’t matter if he actually committed the crime or not. He…” “Doesn’t matter?” “Per the law, he received a fair trial and was found guilty. Proving he’s innocent now won’t be enough. Our best bet is to prove he didn’t get a fair trial in the first place.” My first stop was the lawyer, Clinton Bolan. He had a seedy office on the south side. He talked to me around a meatball sub dripping tomato sauce on his cheap suit. “You’re here about the Quail case? Well you’re the ninth person five years, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. He’s guilty and no lawyer coulda showed different.” “Why was he charged to begin with?” “He fit the description of a man fleeing the parking lot after the murder. He was picked up walking down Sylvan Road the next morning. Witness picked him out of a line up and that was it.” “What about his alibi?” “H says he’s with his brother, but the DA gets him on the stand and shoots him full of holes. Jury didn’t buy it, and now he’s on death row. All the lawyers send somebody like you here trying to make an incompetence case. Well, I ain’t Johnny Cochran, but I got my share of assholes off, and I didn’t stand no chance with this clown.” “Did you cross the brother?” “Course, but the damage was done. “What did Lonnie say about his alibi after that?” “Clammed up and wouldn’t say nothing, but ‘I didn’t do it’. I tell him, that ain’t doing us no good. He just stares at the wall and shakes his head.” Something about the alibi bothered me and I decided to check into it. Lonnie’s brother, Rodney still lived his parent’s house on the west side. I parked out front and walked up the drive to the wide front porch. The front door was open, but the screen door was shut. I knocked and a man emerged from the kitchen in the back. He looked to be in his thirties with a belly extending over his work pants. “Can I help you?” he said. “Rodney Quail?” “Yeah, I’m Rodney. “My name’s Vince Diamond and I’m working on your brother’s case.” “Come in, but I don’t know what I can tell you.” “Nice house,” I said, “Have you always lived here?” “Cept for when I stayed with my girl. We broke up after Lonnie went to jail, and I lived here ever since.” “How can I help? I would like to see him get off, but there ain’t much I can tell you.” “What about the alibi? You testified he was with you? Was that true?” Rodney looked at the floor shaking his head. “He begged me to help him. Came to me and swore he ain’t killed nobody. Said he was with somebody, but they couldn’t help and he needed me to. He’s my brother. We got together and came up with a story. But that DA tore me a new one. I tried; I just couldn’t help.” “Did he ever say who he was with that night?” “No. Wouldn’t say. Said he couldn’t. I figure it was a woman. He always getting in trouble with ladies, but I couldn’t shake him.” When I left, I called Bill and told him I wanted to see Lonnie. He said he’d arrange it and put me on the list I had been there before, so I knew the drill and got through quickly. Since Lonnie was on death row, the procedure was a little different. We sat across a from Lonnie. “Who you and what you want?” “My name’s Vincent and I’m working for your lawyer. I need to ask you some questions” “I done answered all them questions a hunnert times. Ain’t done no good.” “Your lawyers are trying to come up with a good reason to get your execution stayed, and we need help.” “I got nothing better to do. I just don’t know what I can do.” “I talked to your brother, and he told me about your alibi.” Lonnie just stared at the glass like he was looking at his own reflection, or looking through me. “I ain’t got nothing to say on that then.” “Tell me who you were with and let me try and help you.” He just stared and shook his head again. I thought he wasn’t going to say anything else. Finally, he said, “He’s my brother, man.” “Lonnie, look …” “No, damn it, I mean… shit” He didn’t say anything else for a minute. “I was with my brother’s woman.” “Your brother’s girlfriend?” I asked. “The one he broke up with after you got arrested? “Yeah. We been seeing each other for a while, sneaking off when Rodney was working. She came to see me after I got locked up; I was in county then. She said she was going to break it off with him. She wouldn’t come see me neither, but begged me not to tell Rodney. I didn’t care what she wanted, but I couldn’t hurt my brother.” “What’s her name? We’ve got to get her to come forward.” “NO! I ain’t going to do that to my brother. We been best friends since he was born. It’d kill him if he found.” “It’s all we have” He stared at the glass. Finally, he raised his eyes and met mine with a jailhouse stare. “You listen to me. I been here seven years, and I made peace with myself. I know I’m going to die, and I’m okay. But I ain’t going to hurt him to save myself. I ain’t going to do it.” I stared back. After a couple of minutes, I could tell that door was shut. He hadn’t changed his mind after years on death row, and he wasn’t going to change it now. I finally nodded my head. We talked a little more, but I didn’t get anything useful. I left there, got on my motorcycle, and went for a ride. I found my respect for him growing in equal proportion to my certainty that we weren’t going to be able to save him. I got to my loft over an old movie theatre, and checked my voice mail – seven messages from Bill. I didn’t have anything I wanted to say to him yet. Partly because I didn’t know how much I was going to tell him. The next morning, I went to see Bill to file my report. “What were you able to find out yesterday?” “Not much,” I said, and proceeded to give him a run down of the day. “How about Lonnie? Why did you go see him? Find anything new there?” I hesitated a few seconds and said, “I just wanted to meet the man, get a feel for him. I needed to hear his side of things.” “Anything we can use?” “No, he didn’t give me anything that we didn’t already know.” “Well, this isn’t much of a report; you could have handled this over the phone.” I didn’t tell him that I didn’t have any idea what I was going to say, until I said it. “Okay, go down the list of prosecution witnesses, and hit each of them. Make them go through their story or anything they remember. Keep going back to the lawyer, and interview Lonnie if you need to. We need to find someone whose testimony we can break. Then we need to prove that the defense or the prosecution knew about it. We have to prove that he did not receive a fair trial. If we fail to do that, Lonnie is going to die. The next weeks flew. I had to find all the witnesses. After each witness, I would go back and see Bolan. Every few days, I would go out to the Pen and visit Lonnie. I would talk to him about witnesses, and the trial. The one thing we never talked about again was his alibi. The closer it got, the less hope I had for Lonnie. With two weeks left, I went to visit Lonnie one last time. “I won’t be back again. The lawyers are going with what they got. Is there anything else you want to say?” I asked. We both knew what I meant. He stared at me for a bit. “Just one thing, Vince.” I waited. “They say I can have two people come and watch me go out. All I got’s my brother. Would you bring him? He ain’t got no car.” I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat, but before I could say anything, he continued. “I’d like you to be there too. You been a friend. I think you know why.” I finally croaked out that I would be happy to bring his brother and proud to be there. For me, the last day of Lonnie Quail’s life passed in a haze. I went through the motions of a normal day, but everything seemed shadowy and distant. At the end of the day, I went home and showered again. I shaved – something I normally only did only once or twice a week. I changed into my best suit, a charcoal grey pinstripe, a comfortable pair of Bruno Magli loafers, and a Hugo Boss dress shirt. I drove the Dodge over to the parking garage and picked up the Mercedes. I knew it was a dicey proposition driving my 400E through some of the neighborhoods we had to pass through that night, and I wouldn’t get back home until well after midnight. I didn’t much care about all that, Lonnie had earned my respect, and I intended to show it. I picked up Rodney about ten and we drove to a diner down in the Cabbagetown area of east Atlanta. Neither of us felt much like eating, but we pushed some food around our plates and downed a lot of bad coffee. Around 11:30, we took the last leg of our journey to the Atlanta Pen. There were a couple of groups across the street cordoned off and separated by Atlanta Police. One group protesting the death penalty and holding a candlelight vigil, and the other carrying signs proclaiming victims rights and capital punishment. I’ve been on both sides of that argument at one time or another and realized that until it became personal, it was just an abstract argument. No one in either group new Lonnie Quail or the murder victim. For them, it was just about being heard and seen giving their opinions. Rodney just stared straight ahead and didn’t see any of this. I had a placard in my window that had been given me and allowed me access to a guarded lot inside the prison. By ten minutes until midnight, we were seated in a small room, looking at a window with a curtain drawn across the inside. Bill Reader was there along with the DA. A couple of police officers and a county sheriff were also present. A man and woman sat on the other side of the room, holding each other. I assumed they were the parents of the victim – I had never met or interviewed them. A few minutes later, the curtains parted and we could see Lonnie lying on a table, strapped down. There was already an IV in each arm, the tubes leading out of site into another room. His head turned and his eyes met mine for a moment. He nodded as best he could and I nodded back. He then looked at his brother and never moved his eyes away. The prison physician stepped forward and swabbed the arm on the other side with a white cotton ball he had dipped in alcohol. He then gave Lonnie an injection that would put him to sleep prior to the actual lethal injection being pushed through one of the IVs. After a few minutes, his eyes blinked a few times then shut forever. We left the prison half an hour later, and drove to Rodney’s home in silence. When we got to his home, he got out, looked at me once through the window, and turned away. We never spoke again. As I drove home, I thought about the execution. The thing I remember most was the white cotton ball. Why did they care about infection when they’re about to kill a man? |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #6 Third place: #7 Others receiving votes: #2, #5, #8 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| One Day Cindy L. Houghton choughto@enterasys.com |
#1 of 8 |
| 473 | |
| Suzie watched as the wave crested against the beautiful
pink and orange horizon. Looking out over the ocean she felt a comforting peace
that she remembered from her childhood days on Nantucket. She was truly
“in the moment”. Her senses were in sync with the beauty around her.
As she gazed into the setting sun, Suzie was amazed at the brilliant colors washing over each other. The clouds added something magical to the moment. Standing at the ocean’s edge Suzie felt the sand roll over the tops of her feet as the waves crashed upon the shore. With the thunderous boom as each wave reached the shore, she felt the tingling foam wash over her ankles. It felt like she was sinking into heavy, wet, cement. She struggled to free her feet so she could continue her slow walk along the shore. Suzie smiled as she could almost taste the salt in the air around her. The smell reminded her of picnics on the beach with steamed clams boiled in the salty brine. It wasn’t long ago that Suzie had moved to the island from the city of Boston. Moments like this were impossible to experience in the city. Days rolled into each other, Suzie’s mind was constantly drifting between yesterday, tomorrow or even next week. Subway trains rumbling in the distance, people passing by sharing many different conversations, a street musician begging for spare change, were the backdrop to the end of Suzie’s day in the city. It was hard for her to slow her thoughts or the pace of life to live for one day and enjoy the beauty of the moment. Suzie realized that the sun had now set and the light of the day was now fading quickly. She glanced behind her toward the dunes to find the familiar landmarks near the front of her house. This day was over, and fog was beginning to roll over the dunes. Suzie was grateful to know this was just the beginning; there would be many other moments like this! She had made the decision to stay on the island and enjoy this peace and solitude. Suzie would not return to Boston, she had returned to the place that she was born and was going to stay home. She had always known in her heart that she would return one day. Just like that old saying “once you get Nantucket sand between your toes, you always return.” So much has changed since the days of her childhood, but one thing that has not changed is the beauty and solitude of beach. It was good to be home. |
|
| One Day abertain@hotmail.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 1176 | |
| As I sit down to a cup of coffee, coffee being the sort
of thing that an insomnia ridden and morose person like a writer would drink,
I…wait a minute, I absolutely abhor coffee. So of course, this story, like
all stories begins in fits and starts, with coffee, without coffee, maybe it
was tea? This is a workplace story; I work with children. I was finger printed
before receiving my job in California, though curiously not in Michigan, to be
fair I have seen no undue touching going on in Michigan either. Though I do
often wish for just a slight paddle, or slap on the behind to reinforce my
point. I fear this has gone out the window with school prayer, those enormous
striped socks from the 80’s, and the ozone layer as shown by the rise in
skin cancer. It begins in a dreaded time called, NAP TIME, the words are put in caps lock partially because my finger slipped on the key and I was too lazy to fix it and partially because it is a living hell for adults. The children are riotously transported from the relaxed and celebratory state of lunch, to cots, dirty germ ridden cots, where music like tender lullabies is blared throughout the room. The first problem with naptime is “tender lullabies,” while a stunning work, literally a creative opus; unfortunately it has to be repeated over the course of two hours about seven times a day, five times a week. So, “Go to sleep you little baby” chanted sonorously by the singer of “tender lullabies” becomes a sound akin to a child shrilly screaming. In terms of being absolutely annoying, it is essentially Chinese water torture. So while all the kids clean up their lunches and head to there relatively clean cots the teachers gather around to figure out how to subjugate the students. The cots are positioned as if the children themselves were land mines. A transcript of a normal discussion is recorded below, “OK, so I’ve got little Joey in the corner behind the couch, where he has an obstructed view of Jenny.” Subordinate 1. “Good thinking.” Subordinate 2. “Now I’ve got Enrique next to Big Al, this comment is shortly interrupted by laughter from the teachers at the ridiculous students names. “I’m counting on Enrique conking out immediately, then we can subdue Big Al via promises of treats and stickers.” “Good thinking,” Subordinate 2. This daily layout of the battle plans of the children, who will one day realize they are the many and we are the few and probably conquer the place and go Lord of the Flies on us, is my daily life. Sometimes I wish they would just release a low grade sleeping gas into the room so we could all just pass out. Wake up a couple of hours later, “How was your sleep,” Subordinate 2. “Great, except I think on my way down I hit my head on the table,” Subordinate 1. “Yup, that’s blood alright,” Subordinate 2. These sorts of accidents would be routine and would be worth every stitch if all the damn kids would just sleep. Now, follows a curious ritual called, rubbing backs. To a male working in the childcare industry, roughly translated this is, “we want to fire you, go ahead touch that child, ha molestation.” I guess I was just raised in a culture of fear, healthy fear, where the adults kept there hands to themselves and the children knew they were loved because a big purple dinosaur told them they were. I detest rubbing backs and as I’ve discovered many of the children detest taking baths. The two unrelated events often interact with one another to create ridiculous scenes of thought. I sit there crouched between the children, running my hand through a little girl’s hair whose last bath was apparently circa World War 2, (which actually makes it quite amazing that she is a child, I have thought of notifying some scientists or geologists, or someone with a long job name…) wishing the whole time as I brush through her hair that I could be continually sanitizing it. If only I had a bar of soap in one hand perhaps I could continue the slow process of combing through her rat’s nest. Perhaps my favorite question asked at naptime, is, “Did I have a good rest time?” This is generally asked by a little mulatto boy who spends the majority of naptime giving himself a full body massage. While the staff looks on tacitly and murmurs, “whatever it takes for him to get himself to sleep.” Children who have had a good naptime rarely ask this question. Which of course brings up a discussion of what good, really should be defined as, isn’t it a bit abstract. I tried to have this conversation with one of my students but I think they became distracted by something else more interesting, like my shoelaces or edible play-Dough. Note: Our play dough does not contain any harmful ingredients it is homemade. On the other hand I don’t know if you will see it in aisle five in your grocery store next to Cocoa Pebbles. The amazing thing about the children is how incredibly annoying, pesky, and other such synonyms they can be, still will have the gall to ask, “Did I have a good rest time.” They follow this up by becoming incensed when they are not awarded like the other children with a sticker, or a new car, and other such nonsensical items. I always explain to them, “It’s not that you had a bad rest time, it’s that you, you individually are a bad child.” They usually come away from these heart to hearts crying, but I know deep down inside, it takes a tough man to make a child cry and laugh about it. My other favorite question is, “when is it book time?” Book time is always at two o’clock, ever day, like clockwork. Which is why this question will invariable be asked at such reasonable times like 12:12 and 1:10. The only problem is the children cannot tell time, so you can never reasonable explain why it is not book time, it is as if you are a capricious Greek God without the abdominals. I have devised a system where I look them straight in the face and say, “in ten minutes.” Fortunately, ten minutes to a child can last up to three hours and still be justified. While I sit with my other teacher’s, gossiping about birth control habits, bad parents, and worse children. All the time lazily wishing I could just have ten minutes of peace from all the damn questions. |
|
| One Day lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 8 Winner |
| 212 | |
| After long hours of driving under a hot, heavy sun,
a timeworn boardwalk enticed me down to the shore, where each wave slid across its predecessor with a silk-on-silk rustle that overlay the sea’s unceasing roar. A shimmering gauze of hazy fluorescence hung over the afternoon horizon and a languorous waft of moisture carried a hint of ozone, a remainder of recent storms. Shattered shells littered the beach; amongst the fragments, a silenced conch. Dying jellyfish, solid as footballs, gelatinous as eyeballs, rolled back and forth in the shallows. A sandpiper, forever furiously running, dined at the water’s edge, eyes down, till, caught unawares by a frivolous wavelet, it flew off, chattering angrily. Hummocks reformed eternally as buried creatures spat sand and seawater from breathing holes, as fast as waves filled them. A seagull’s shadow, sharply defined, silently traced over this petty drama of life and death. I lingered longer than I should to watch the pelicans as, one by one they folded wings and sliced the air. Deep, no splash remarked their passage. A heartbeat, less, like corks they bobbed to the surface, bills full of fish; smug as limericks, clever as clerihews. The siren song of the waves tempted me to paddle. Wet sand was warm and firm, shells sharp underfoot. The foaming edge of the surf was cool for an instant only, and I savoured the day, a faint taste of salt on my lips. |
|
| One Day roger@cowboylogic.net |
#4 of 8 |
| 1893 | |
| July 31st. 2003 (Narrator) 3rd Person Omniscient Jim hated the fact that he had to go all the way to Vancouver for this interview. Why the hell couldn’t they simply do this by phone? He was caught in a catch 22 situation where he needed an income before he could fix his car and he needed a reliable car to get an income. This all came down to juggling the pros and cons for one day. The car had been simply off the road for the last month because the tie rod end had gotten so bad; he simply couldn’t safely drive any more. There was such a flutter in his front suspension it could not last much longer. Now, here he was on the Port Mann Bridge, going into down town Vancouver for an interview to get a job he simply had to win. He had no choice. The old Taurus had to have one more good round trip in it before it could get the far over due repair it needed. Pat was furious. How could Mike be so insensitive? Her mother simply had no other place to go. She had to stay with them. Pat knew it would be far from temporary, but insisted to Mike it was just until they could find her a home she could live with. Since her father died, her mother was leaning more and more each day on her and she saw the writing on the wall. Mike was trying desperately to explain the changes that were going to happen in their life with her mother in the house and he was mad now. No amount of explanation, pleading, reasoning or cajoling was making any headway to Pat’s point of view. The conversation was heated and arms were flung to make points, the radio was no longer heard and the blood pressure was at the boiling over point. The kids had all moved out and this was the first vacation they had together without kids. Mike and Pat were like teenagers again. They had tried new things, got a little wild up in Kamloops, met and enjoyed some great new friends and were looking very much ahead to their kid-less life and the chance to live for themselves. This turn of events was a cruel joke. Mike couldn’t think of giving up their new found freedom, and Pat couldn’t think of abandoning her mother in a time like this. Jim was mid span when the tie rod end gave way. His front wheels pointed different directions and his car lurched sideways and careened up off the concrete barrier, bent a few uprights and sailed back out toward the center lane with his foot planted to the floor on his unfortunate brake pedal. The Ford came to rest now against the inner barrier for a split second before the Dodge four wheel drive pickup tagged his rear bumper in a failed attempt to avoid him. It was a glancing blow, but enough to put his car sideways across two lanes of intense traffic headed for downtown. Pat dropped her hair clip in a flourish to describe just how thick Mike was being and bent to pick it up from under his accelerator foot. Mike lifted his foot while screaming for her to be more careful and get that thing from under his brake where it now slid. She slipped out of her seat belt and leaned over his lap to reach over his ankle and under the brake pedal. This was hard to do because his foot was all over the place. She screamed for him to hold still. Mike was in a panic now, his rage increased as his wife fumbled around his ankles and he swore as she pulled his foot back farther off the accelerator. He looked up as he drove the Bronco’s bumper deep into the door of the car straddling his path. He had no chance to think, brake or react in any way to the vision of the screaming face he saw disappear in a fury of flying airbag and glass. Mike Male POV This was flipping ridiculous. We just got free of our responsibilities, had a wonderful taste of freedom in the interior and now it was being ripped from our grasp just as we get to taste it. All that freedom was now blown in one day. Don’t get me wrong, I understand Pat’s point completely, but we haven’t thought this through. We need to approach this with logic and figure out a plan that will work for Judy and for us. Pat is insisting we give up our life for her mother. This just isn’t going to work. I love Judy too, but I’m sure I won’t if she lives with us, as sure as I know she will soon hate me. We were not designed to live in the same house. Here we are driving into Vancouver to pickup Judy and take her home with us to Abbotsford, We haven’t even been home yet. We cut our vacation short by three days to come down here and move her in with us. What kind of statement does that make? Now we have a damn war going as we drive into town and we haven’t been this pissed for years. Pat is not listening to reason, she has just decided I’m a prick and is proceeding under that assumption. The more I try to reason, the more she screams. How the hell are we going to make this work if we can’t even communicate? Look at her, flipping her hands around like a Russian ballerina with that silly hair clip making her points. She is actually red in the face and accusing me, someone she has lived with for 26 years now, of being someone she doesn’t even know. Now she’s done it, that goddamn hairclip just bounced off my knee and dropped on the floor under my feet. What a circus. We just got on to the Port Mann bridge and I have to negotiate a hairclip under my pedals. “Get that goddamn thing out of there” Are you crazy?” Pat flipped me a bird and unbuckled her belt. Now she’s digging around at my feet and actually dragging my feet away from the pedals. She is crazy. “Be more careful and get that thing from under my brake pedal!” I looked up. “Shiiiit!” Jim First Person POV The email came this morning. It was a go. I needed to be down on Pender street at 3:00 pm this afternoon with my best interview face on. They like my job skills and want to meet me in person. I need this job. It has been 6 months and Employment Insurance just doesn’t cut it. I am a month late on my rent now, my girlfriend is pregnant, the phone company is threatening to cut me off, I’m in deep. This fuckin’ car has to give me one more round trip down town because I have enough gas, but no money for the bus or the sky train until the middle of the month. I am flat busted. Well at least it started good. Hell, it’s not a bad car, just unsteady on its feet right now because of that damn tie rod end. The insurance is good for a couple months yet so it has to take me for one more run. I just need it to last one day. I’m past all the Surrey turn offs now but the steering wheel has gone nuts since I hit the bridge. “Hang in there Baby, just a few miles more.” Maybe if I talk sweet to her, this ol’ Ford will get me downtown and back. The traffic is piling up around me because I’m keeping it to the speed limit and everyone else is 5 or 10 kilometers over the limit. It is actually pretty frustrating trying to keep it on the speed limit. Here comes the crest of the bridge. It’s down hill from here. Yaaaaaa!!! I can’t steer. I’m going to hit! I can’t stop this thing! Now I’m heading for the inside rail, oh fuck! This rail finally stopped m… Uhhh! I’m hit… Sliding sideways… I’m SIDEWAYS! That truck. LOOK UP! LOOK UP! AHHHH…. Pat Female POV How can Mike be such an ass? He knows I have no choice. There is no one else who can take care of Mom. Here is a guy who has been married to me for 26 years and has known Mom for that long. He should know full well we have no choice and this will just be temporary. This is bullshit. His ears or closed and his mouth is open. I can’t get through to him. He just rants about finally being free. Yes. We had a great week in Kamloops, and it was fun to finally be on our own again, but we have no choice we need to do this. Now everything is bugging me. I need to put my hair up and get it off my neck. Where is my hair clip? Ahh, I put it in the glove box. There it is. If we can just get through this day, tomorrow will be easier. Things will begin to work themselves out. Just one day. Mike is being so damn ignorant; I need him to understand we have no choice. Ahh hell, I dropped the hair clip, Shit, it’s under his feet and he’s raving worse than ever. I unclip the seatbelt and lay across the console to reach down to his feet to get the clip. Ahh there it is, under the brake pedal. I… I.. can’t quite reach. I need to back his foot off for a second and I will be able to grab it. Uhhhh. I can’t breath. What happened? Oh no, we have hit something but I can’t move. I’m on the floor now and the wind has been knocked out of me. I need to breath in. this hurts. I need air. Finally… a little breath, but I hurt so bad. I am getting air now, but only in little breaths. I can’t breathe deep and I can’t move. We are stopped now, but I can’t move. I’m pinned here, the dash and the passenger seat are touching above me and Mike’s knee is holding my head against the dash underside. “Mike!” “MIKE!” Why won’t he answer? “MIKE!, oh no… Mike… He’s not moving. There is no resistance when I move his feet and they aren’t pointing in the right direction. Both are sideways. The tears start flooding over me now as realization sets in. “Mike, oh Mike..Mike… Mike…, I’m so sorry. Mike… Miiiiiiike… Oh, Mike, why? Why? Sobs take over as understanding waves over me and I cry for what seems like hours. I can’t move so I just cry. The smell of battery acid and hot oil on exhaust pipes colors my pain. “Lady, Lady, don’t move. Help is on its way. Lay still, your going to be all right!” “Mike, is Mike ok?” “uhh..” “IS MY HUSBAND OK?” “hhhh... I don’t know…he’s unconscious, but the paramedics will be here in a moment.” “Mike… Mike. Oh Mike wake up. Tell me you’re alright.” I knew he wasn’t but I kept asking until the firemen pulled the dash up and pulled me out. There was a blanket over Mike and as they turned my backboard around to lay me on the stretcher, I saw a blanket over someone else in the car in front of us. I closed my eyes and wept them dry on the way to the hospital. |
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| One Day P.S. Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#5 of 8 |
| 421 | |
| Trevor Steed shook his head sharply from side to side,
in abrupt harsh gestures. “One day I will show them!” He abruptly blurted out loud as if a volcano of anger had erupted deep in his very being. “I will, I will definitely show them.” Still shaking his head he began to feverishly pace back and fro from one side of the small room to the other. “They think I am a complete waste of bloody space they do. Yet they have miscalculated me! They should not write off so quickly Trevor Steed, no sir.” He laughed out loud, a laugh bordering on hysterical. His walking back and forth intensified even further and he began to gesture awkwardly with his hands, shaking them about with excitement. “That is it!” He proclaimed as a twisted gleeful look formed on his unshaven face. A face that looked significantly older than it’s relatively youthful forty years, a face full of anguish and torment. “I know precisely what I will write this month.” With that he sat down on the floor, as perspiration dripped down his face, and pulled his favourite writing instrument from the pocket of his trousers and frantically and passionately began to scribble…. **** Doctor Camden raised a graying eyebrow and glanced at his colleague Doctor Johnson with a smug look on his well manicured features. “He is getting far worse” he said “I knew that giving the poor bugger a red crayon and paper would not help him. As I suspected he is even more disillusioned than last month.” “I don’t understand, I truly thought that if he could express himself his suffering would somehow be eased.” Doctor Johnson replied, “but if this neurotic behavior continues will are surely going to have to transfer him to the rubber room.” He paused for a moment and once more studied the pathetic figure locked in his room, who was mumbling to himself as he frantically scribbled with the blue crayon. “Bloody writers, they seem to almost enjoy their self inflicted misery, I swear nearly everyone in this mental hospital thinks he can damn well write.” The end. Doctor Camden chuckled and the two psychiatrists close the one way mirror to Trevor Steed's room and continue to make their rounds of the hospital. |
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| One Day V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 2455 | |
| Yeah, I started with the wad Bertha’d fished from
between her enormous ta-ta’s and handed me, along with the "lucky" roll
a’ nickels (Bertha’s last name bein' "Nichols") right before the bus
door folded shut on us but, y’know, a guy like me’s got expenses.
Especially after bein' in the joint for so long - for nothin', too. And then,
y’know, on the way the bus made stops in a couple a’ quaint little
‘bergs full a’ many fine gamblin' and other-type "sportin'"
establishments, there for the findin', if ya' know where to look. And I knew where to look. So it was pretty much a pocket a’ chump change I had left when the bus rolled in here, and I knew right off I hadda’ do somethin' to get back in the serious green. ‘Cause that gig parole fixed me up to start next week - flippin' rat meat patties at Mickey D’s? That ain’t no life for a guy like me. But, once I’d homed-in on where the wrong side was, it didn’t take more than a couple hours a' makin' the rounds of its dives before I found myself bellied-up in some swill factory, boo-hooin' in my beer over how I was gonna’ have to die, now, and change my moniker to "Joe Square." Right then was when I overheard a couple a' gleeps set up behind me, hooched to the gills and yakkin' it up on just the ticket: bug races. The gleeps’d just come from a fly-by-night track in someone’s basement and were here burnin' holes in their stomachs, now, in honor a' Lady Luck. I scooched my stool back and leaned my ear into the airwaves to pick up the necessary where’s and when’s the gleeps were bein' way too loud and free with: 279 Monarch... Every Saturday... Eight PM. OK. Tomorrow night. There ya’ go. Now, all’s I had to do was dig me up a "racer." *** The hole-in-the-wall parole’d got me turned out venued right over somethin' called "Wang’s Eggroll Emporium" so, big surprise how much racin' "talent" was skitterin' for cover when I flicked on the overhead. With my hat and a little effort, I could a’ took my pick a’ racers right there. But pro’s like me don’t truck with amateurs, only bona-fidees: pedigreed American racers, no Japs or Germans or, worst, them new Palmetto skanks. And pedigreed, a' course, meant "pet store." There was only two pet stores in the book. One was over on the swankier side a' town and, being’s I just got outta’ the joint - ‘nuff said. But the other one - that turned out to be in hoofin'-distance. So I put on my Joe Square suit and took a stroll. It was a pet store, like ‘em all: kibble and catnip, cages a’ rabbits, hamsters. Tanks a’ fish. And a big, toothy, gleep in an over-sized acrylic jacket, hangin' over the counter, borin' his watery little eyes right in me. "Help you?" "Yeah..." I scanned his name-tag, "...Jeffrey. Lookin' for ‘racers’. Got any?" The teeth vanished and the gleep’s watery eyes sluiced around the store, checkin' the aisles, then - all clear - he leaned in and wrinkled his big, shiny forehead at me. "Races are against the law - you know that, right?" Hell, yeah - to the tune of the year and change I just did on account a’ that punk-ass law "Sure, Jeff, sure - but ya' got me wrong. I’m lookin' for ‘racers’... to study." The gleep pulled back and eyeballed me, his mug a squinty mask. "So, you’re like, what - an entomologist or something?" "That’s right. A ‘emptymolologist’ - that’s what I am." The gleep stared at me, his lips twitchin' weird-like then, reachin' under the register, he pulled out a jangle a' keys and started flippin' through ‘em. "OK. Sorry for the Inquisition, but you know how it’s been since Roachenhauser got in office." Yeah, don’t I just. "Governor" Max Roachenhauser and his PETA Party promises that every stinkin' thing with more than two legs was gonna make "endangered species" is what sent me up the river. For racin' cockroaches, of all things. "Thing is, if we get caught selling even insects for something "inhumane" - like racing - it’s a huge fine and, maybe even, time. So we need to be, you know, extra careful." "No problem, Jeff. I completely understand." I understood a lot better, though, when he, finally, coughed up the key. "OK, here we go... wait, hold on." The gleep leaned on the counter and peered around me to hollar, "Hey, you!" at his one, other, customer - a little snot-nose, mouth-breathin' over the mealy worms in the back. "We’re closing for lunch. You buying anything? No? Then you gotta’ leave." It took forever for the little snot-nose to dawdle his can past the cages and tanks, which pissed me off so, when he was shufflin’ by me, gettin' all pokey with the flea collars, I side-eyed that the big gleep was busy lockin' the register and just kind a’ slid my foot out the littlest bit. I could see him through the glass, but I couldn’t figure what he was screechin' out there on the sidewalk after the big gleep’d dragged him up from under the pile a' squeaky carrots he’d landed in and locked the door on him but, y’know, little prick scuffed my wing-tips when he went flyin'. So, fuck ‘im. Anyways, enough play-time, I was there to find a racer. And here came the big gleep from the back, now, haulin' a metal lock box. He set it on the counter, unlocked it and pulled up the lid. Well, lemmie tell ya’, ‘disappointed’ ain’t even the word. "Hell ya' call those?" "The ‘racers’ you were asking for, of course." "Yeah, I figured that, but... LOOK at ‘em. They’re just... LAYIN’ there." And, yeah, layin' there is only just what they was doin', hunkerin' down one on top of the other in a big, puffy, dusty-lookin', heap. I wouldn’t a’ thought they was even alive if their stubby little feelers didn’t kind a’ vibrate now and then. "I mean - what’s wrong with ‘em?" "Nothing’s wrong; we follow the Roachenhauser-PETA guidelines to the letter, here, so they’re, actually, very healthy specimens. Maybe you’ve just never seen well-fed racing cockroaches before?" Well, no, I hadn’t. No such thing as "fat and happy" in bug racin'.' Only thing racers race for is eats. Don’t feed ‘em for a day - that’s all it takes, one day - and when ya' set ‘em down at "Start" and put a hunk a’ Twinkie at the end a' the track, lemmie tell ya’, once ya' lift your thumb, the only thing that could stop your racer from mad-dashin' to that finish line was a straight-pin. So... well-fed racin' cockroaches? Punk-ass idea. And I was pissed off about it enough that I guess I forgot my who’s and where’s, and just let loose. "Aw, man - I can’t use any a’ these, they’re too frickin’ fat! It’ll take at least two days to starve ‘em down to runnin’ weight. I ain’t got time for that - I need ‘em race-ready tomorrow! I was just about to say that if I took off my shoe and hammered the dusty bastards into paste, they’d probably look more alive than they looked, now, when, suddenly, not even time to say, "what the...?" I got grabbed up by the collar and seat and ran past the cages and tanks till, bam! there I was, out on the sidewalk before I even knew the big gleep’d unlocked the door. Bum-rushed by a gleep. Who’d a’ guessed a gleep’d have it in him? Even though it was pokin’ in my back, I stayed leanin' up against the fire plug I’d landed on and found myself holdin' her roll a’ lucky nickels and kinda’ wonderin' what Bertha was up to, when... "I got a bug." I opened my eyes. It was the little snot-nose, still hangin' around. I closed my eyes. Fuck ‘im. "I said, I got a BUG." I opened my eyes again. "Fuck off, would ya’?" My nerves was unsettled, I needed to relax. "His name is Wilbur." I opened my eyes again. The little snot-nose just wasn’t gonna’ leave me alone. "Who gives a fuck?" "You wanna’ see him?" "No. Will ya' fuck OFF." I closed my eyes and turned over. Somethin' shoved me and I opened my eyes again to find the little snot-nose in front a’ me, pullin' on a thread wrapped around one a' his shirt buttons and trailin' into his shirt pocket. I was just about to turn my back on him again when, suddenly, this tiny brown head with a set a’ long-ass feelers, wavin' like crazy, popped up out a’ the little snot-nose’s pocket. Followed by the leanest, meanest, hungriest-lookin', racin' cockroach body I’d ever seen. I heaved myself upright. "Where’d ya' get that?" "Found him. Pretty, huh?" We both watched as the cockroach - as "Wilbur" - crept out a’ the little snot-nose’s pocket, all slow and delicate-like and, then, from outta’ nowhere, jumped - no, FLEW - up onto his shoulder. And then onto his head. And then was just scurryin' every-which-way, all over every piece a' the little snot-nose he could reach. I swear, if he wasn’t on that thread, that bug would a’ been gone so fast ya' wouldn’t a’ remembered he even existed. He - Wilbur - was that fast. "If you want him, you can buy him." The bug had me so mesmerized, all I was able to croak out was, "How much?" The little snot-nose’s sticky little puss went dead serious. "Whatcha’ got?" I jumped up on my knees and started dumpin' out my pockets on the sidewalk. Turned out I had less than I’d thought. But, still, more than enough - even for a beauty like Wilbur. I swept it all together in a pile in front a’ the little snot-nose. "Here’s all I got," Instead a’ jumpin' up-and-down like he should a’, the little snot-nose sniffed and stuck his foot out and poked the pile with his toe. "Nah." "Nah? Whatcha’ mean ‘Nah?' This here is..." I bent over the pile and counted, "...this here is forty-two dollars and ninety-three cents. That’s a hella’ frickin’ lot for a bug, kid. So, don’t be givin’ me "Nah" - take the money and run." Yeah, I was babblin' a little, but I was desperate, y’know? Because that bug, man - that wasn’t just a racer. That bug was green, man. Mean-ass green. And gold, too. That bug was wine, women and song. And a beach house in Tahiti. That bug was every reason anyone who ever got into bug racin' got into it. The little snot-nose eyeballed the pile for a few seconds, then, turnin' his eyes on me, raised his arm and pointed his sticky little finger at the mitt I’d been wavin’ around, makin’ my point. "Nah... but gimmie THAT." I opened my mitt. "What - this?" I couldn’t believe it - the stupid little snot-nose was pointin' at Bertha’s lucky roll a’ nickels. Worth all of a buck. "THIS is what ya' want for... Wilbur?" "Yeah." Tryin' to hide the cheese threatenin' to spread from one ear to the other, I tossed the roll down in front a’ him and started grabbin' my stash back into my pockets. "All’s I can say is ya' drive a hard bargain, kid. A hard bargain." Stash squared away, I sat back on my heels. "OK, so, where’s Wilbur? Gimmie the bug." The little snot-nose squatted and started unwindin' the thread from around its button, while I watched Wilbur just keep goin' nuts, scurryin' and floppin' and flittin' every-which-way, and thought about nothin' but how’s I couldn’t wait to get him back to that hole-in-the-wall over Wang’s and paint my initials on his belly. The little snot-nose finished unwindin' the thread and, holdin' the end in his sticky little mitt, picked up the roll a’ nickels. Wilbur, on the sidewalk, now, started runnin' and flippin' and skitterin' mile-a-minute in every direction. I reached for his thread, but the little snot-nose suddenly jerked back, with this kinda’ evil look on his puss. "No." "What?" "Say you’re sorry." "Huh?" "First, say you’re SORRY." "The fuck... sorry for what?" "For tripping me. In the store. Before I give you Wilbur, say you’re sorry for making me fall." "Ah, come on. That was just playin', foolin' around. What’s wrong, can’t take a joke?" "Say you’re sorry." Stubborn little prick. And, y’know what? No. No one strong-arms me. Especially no snot-nosed, mouth-breathin' little gleep. So... "Sure, kid, sure. How’s this? ‘I’m sor...’ no, wait... here..." I stood full-up on my knees and grabbed both my mitts together on my chest and closed my eyes. "OK, how’s this? ’I’m sorry, so very, very, sorry, you was such a snot-nosed, mouth-breathin', clumsy little gleep that you couldn’t make it outta’ the store without trippin' over my foot.’ There - how’s that? Happy, now? Everythin' square between us? Then, gimmie. "Ya' got what ya' wanted, so quit stallin' and lemmie have the bug." The little snot-nose stared at me for a second, then went all toothy grins and brought Bertha’s lucky roll a’ nickels high up in the air and... dropped it. The crunch as it hit Wilbur was deafenin'. Even more deafenin' was the sound a' the little snot-nose suddenly screamin' and wailin' and pointin' his sticky little fingers at me, and hollerin' through his big tears, for the whole world to hear, that I’d just murdered his bestest, bestest, bestest-ever friend. *** So, now, here I am, at... what time ya' got, Officer? eleven fifty-seven? OK, they let me out yesterday at noon, so... here I am, outta’ stir barely one day... but I’m right back in again. And not only right back in but, they tell me on account of a bill that punk Roachenhausen just signed, what I’m lookin' at’s not just "hate crime" - it’s "Insecticide, One"... and the hot seat. Nuts, huh? OK, that’s my statement, I think I hit everythin'. Where do I sign? Yeah, it IS pretty unbelievable - all that in one, frickin’ day. But, it’s like I been thinkin' lately, y’know, ya' live long enough, after a while it all starts to kinda’ roll together. Till one day, ya' realize - it’s really all just one day. Just one, long, frickin’ nightmare day. No? Ya' don’t think so? Yeah, well. Maybe not. They took my lucky roll a’ nickels, y’know. Yeah. "Exhibit A." Anyways. Wonder what Bertha’s doin' right now. |
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| One Day Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net |
#7 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2491 | |
| It was a day like any other, except today I was going
to watch someone die. I make my living as a private investigator, skip tracing and some divorce work. I also do some investigating for a local law firm. Two months ago, William Reader’s secretary called my office number at nine. My office number is my cell phone since I don’t have a regular phone -- or an office. “Hello, you have reached the office of Vincent Diamond …” “Cut it out, Vince. I know you’re there,” Martha interrupted. Martha Braun had been Bill’s secretary since forever and knew my crap. “Hi, Martha. Are you calling me about that two grand you guys owe me?” “We don’t owe you any money, Vince; you still owe us two hours work from the Burdett case. Bill wants you in his office ASAFP. He’s got a pro bono case he needs some help on in a hurry.” “Sorry, I don’t speak Latin. Does that mean my normal fee?” “Just get down here. I have more important things to do than banter with you,” she hung up. Martha likes me pretty well, but Packard, Reader, and Everhart is a prestigious law firm in Decatur and she doesn’t have much time to waste on a freelancer like me. It was a sunny, October day, so drove my motorcycle the five miles from home in Little Five Points to Bill’s office in Decatur, on the outskirts of Atlanta. I outside the courthouse and cut across the square his building. After a short wait, Martha showed me in. “Hi Bill, what’s up?” I said. “We’ve got a death penalty appeal. The guy’s on death row for murder and is scheduled for the lethal injection in 60 days unless we can stop it. He’s been there for seven years while the appeals have gone from one firm to another. He was found guilty of murdering a prostitute on Stewart Avenue. The accused, Lonnie Quail, claimed an alibi, but it didn’t hold up, and he still insists he’s innocent.” “Don’t they all?” “True, but irrelevant. We’ve got one run at the Eleventh Court here, then the Supreme Court. If that doesn’t work, we’re left with the Governor and clemency. I need you to investigate his original lawyer and witnesses. We need to find incompetence or a witness that committed perjury.” “What about the alibi? Wouldn’t it be easier to find another suspect or prove his alibi?” “No. At this point, it doesn’t matter if he actually committed the crime or not. He…” “Doesn’t matter?” “Per the law, he received a fair trial and was found guilty. Proving he’s innocent now won’t be enough. Our best bet is to prove he didn’t get a fair trial in the first place.” My first stop was the lawyer, Clinton Bolan. He had a seedy office on the south side. He talked to me around a meatball sub dripping tomato sauce on his cheap suit. “You’re here about the Quail case? Well you’re the ninth person five years, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. He’s guilty and no lawyer coulda showed different.” “Why was he charged to begin with?” “He fit the description of a man fleeing the parking lot after the murder. He was picked up walking down Sylvan Road the next morning. Witness picked him out of a line up and that was it.” “What about his alibi?” “H says he’s with his brother, but the DA gets him on the stand and shoots him full of holes. Jury didn’t buy it, and now he’s on death row. All the lawyers send somebody like you here trying to make an incompetence case. Well, I ain’t Johnny Cochran, but I got my share of assholes off, and I didn’t stand no chance with this clown.” “Did you cross the brother?” “Course, but the damage was done. “What did Lonnie say about his alibi after that?” “Clammed up and wouldn’t say nothing, but ‘I didn’t do it’. I tell him, that ain’t doing us no good. He just stares at the wall and shakes his head.” Something about the alibi bothered me and I decided to check into it. Lonnie’s brother, Rodney still lived his parent’s house on the west side. I parked out front and walked up the drive to the wide front porch. The front door was open, but the screen door was shut. I knocked and a man emerged from the kitchen in the back. He looked to be in his thirties with a belly extending over his work pants. “Can I help you?” he said. “Rodney Quail?” “Yeah, I’m Rodney. “My name’s Vince Diamond and I’m working on your brother’s case.” “Come in, but I don’t know what I can tell you.” “Nice house,” I said, “Have you always lived here?” “Cept for when I stayed with my girl. We broke up after Lonnie went to jail, and I lived here ever since.” “How can I help? I would like to see him get off, but there ain’t much I can tell you.” “What about the alibi? You testified he was with you? Was that true?” Rodney looked at the floor shaking his head. “He begged me to help him. Came to me and swore he ain’t killed nobody. Said he was with somebody, but they couldn’t help and he needed me to. He’s my brother. We got together and came up with a story. But that DA tore me a new one. I tried; I just couldn’t help.” “Did he ever say who he was with that night?” “No. Wouldn’t say. Said he couldn’t. I figure it was a woman. He always getting in trouble with ladies, but I couldn’t shake him.” When I left, I called Bill and told him I wanted to see Lonnie. He said he’d arrange it and put me on the list I had been there before, so I knew the drill and got through quickly. Since Lonnie was on death row, the procedure was a little different. We sat across a from Lonnie. “Who you and what you want?” “My name’s Vincent and I’m working for your lawyer. I need to ask you some questions” “I done answered all them questions a hunnert times. Ain’t done no good.” “Your lawyers are trying to come up with a good reason to get your execution stayed, and we need help.” “I got nothing better to do. I just don’t know what I can do.” “I talked to your brother, and he told me about your alibi.” Lonnie just stared at the glass like he was looking at his own reflection, or looking through me. “I ain’t got nothing to say on that then.” “Tell me who you were with and let me try and help you.” He just stared and shook his head again. I thought he wasn’t going to say anything else. Finally, he said, “He’s my brother, man.” “Lonnie, look …” “No, damn it, I mean… shit” He didn’t say anything else for a minute. “I was with my brother’s woman.” “Your brother’s girlfriend?” I asked. “The one he broke up with after you got arrested? “Yeah. We been seeing each other for a while, sneaking off when Rodney was working. She came to see me after I got locked up; I was in county then. She said she was going to break it off with him. She wouldn’t come see me neither, but begged me not to tell Rodney. I didn’t care what she wanted, but I couldn’t hurt my brother.” “What’s her name? We’ve got to get her to come forward.” “NO! I ain’t going to do that to my brother. We been best friends since he was born. It’d kill him if he found.” “It’s all we have” He stared at the glass. Finally, he raised his eyes and met mine with a jailhouse stare. “You listen to me. I been here seven years, and I made peace with myself. I know I’m going to die, and I’m okay. But I ain’t going to hurt him to save myself. I ain’t going to do it.” I stared back. After a couple of minutes, I could tell that door was shut. He hadn’t changed his mind after years on death row, and he wasn’t going to change it now. I finally nodded my head. We talked a little more, but I didn’t get anything useful. I left there, got on my motorcycle, and went for a ride. I found my respect for him growing in equal proportion to my certainty that we weren’t going to be able to save him. I got to my loft over an old movie theatre, and checked my voice mail – seven messages from Bill. I didn’t have anything I wanted to say to him yet. Partly because I didn’t know how much I was going to tell him. The next morning, I went to see Bill to file my report. “What were you able to find out yesterday?” “Not much,” I said, and proceeded to give him a run down of the day. “How about Lonnie? Why did you go see him? Find anything new there?” I hesitated a few seconds and said, “I just wanted to meet the man, get a feel for him. I needed to hear his side of things.” “Anything we can use?” “No, he didn’t give me anything that we didn’t already know.” “Well, this isn’t much of a report; you could have handled this over the phone.” I didn’t tell him that I didn’t have any idea what I was going to say, until I said it. “Okay, go down the list of prosecution witnesses, and hit each of them. Make them go through their story or anything they remember. Keep going back to the lawyer, and interview Lonnie if you need to. We need to find someone whose testimony we can break. Then we need to prove that the defense or the prosecution knew about it. We have to prove that he did not receive a fair trial. If we fail to do that, Lonnie is going to die. The next weeks flew. I had to find all the witnesses. After each witness, I would go back and see Bolan. Every few days, I would go out to the Pen and visit Lonnie. I would talk to him about witnesses, and the trial. The one thing we never talked about again was his alibi. The closer it got, the less hope I had for Lonnie. With two weeks left, I went to visit Lonnie one last time. “I won’t be back again. The lawyers are going with what they got. Is there anything else you want to say?” I asked. We both knew what I meant. He stared at me for a bit. “Just one thing, Vince.” I waited. “They say I can have two people come and watch me go out. All I got’s my brother. Would you bring him? He ain’t got no car.” I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat, but before I could say anything, he continued. “I’d like you to be there too. You been a friend. I think you know why.” I finally croaked out that I would be happy to bring his brother and proud to be there. For me, the last day of Lonnie Quail’s life passed in a haze. I went through the motions of a normal day, but everything seemed shadowy and distant. At the end of the day, I went home and showered again. I shaved – something I normally only did only once or twice a week. I changed into my best suit, a charcoal grey pinstripe, a comfortable pair of Bruno Magli loafers, and a Hugo Boss dress shirt. I drove the Dodge over to the parking garage and picked up the Mercedes. I knew it was a dicey proposition driving my 400E through some of the neighborhoods we had to pass through that night, and I wouldn’t get back home until well after midnight. I didn’t much care about all that, Lonnie had earned my respect, and I intended to show it. I picked up Rodney about ten and we drove to a diner down in the Cabbagetown area of east Atlanta. Neither of us felt much like eating, but we pushed some food around our plates and downed a lot of bad coffee. Around 11:30, we took the last leg of our journey to the Atlanta Pen. There were a couple of groups across the street cordoned off and separated by Atlanta Police. One group protesting the death penalty and holding a candlelight vigil, and the other carrying signs proclaiming victims rights and capital punishment. I’ve been on both sides of that argument at one time or another and realized that until it became personal, it was just an abstract argument. No one in either group new Lonnie Quail or the murder victim. For them, it was just about being heard and seen giving their opinions. Rodney just stared straight ahead and didn’t see any of this. I had a placard in my window that had been given me and allowed me access to a guarded lot inside the prison. By ten minutes until midnight, we were seated in a small room, looking at a window with a curtain drawn across the inside. Bill Reader was there along with the DA. A couple of police officers and a county sheriff were also present. A man and woman sat on the other side of the room, holding each other. I assumed they were the parents of the victim – I had never met or interviewed them. A few minutes later, the curtains parted and we could see Lonnie lying on a table, strapped down. There was already an IV in each arm, the tubes leading out of site into another room. His head turned and his eyes met mine for a moment. He nodded as best he could and I nodded back. He then looked at his brother and never moved his eyes away. The prison physician stepped forward and swabbed the arm on the other side with a white cotton ball he had dipped in alcohol. He then gave Lonnie an injection that would put him to sleep prior to the actual lethal injection being pushed through one of the IVs. After a few minutes, his eyes blinked a few times then shut forever. We left the prison half an hour later, and drove to Rodney’s home in silence. When we got to his home, he got out, looked at me once through the window, and turned away. We never spoke again. As I drove home, I thought about the execution. The thing I remember most was the white cotton ball. Why did they care about infection when they’re about to kill a man? |
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| One Day Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 1591 | |
| The Mexico City sun stared him in the face as he made
the turn to the airfield. Joe Jenkins lowered the car visor and cursed under
his breath. He didn't like this assignment. He was a lawyer, dammit, and not a
detective, but he was the only one on the staff who had done any investigative
work. Now he had one day, 24 hours, to find Enrico Garcia and bring him back to
testify against Sal Bustamante before the judge dismissed the case. He parked his car and walked over the steaming tarmac towards the company plane; a six-seater that looked depressingly tiny. Standing next to it was a skinny young man who looked almost like a teenager and an awesomely beautiful young woman who was to be his interpreter. Her bleached blonde hair fell nearly to her lacy low cut blouse which barely reached a pair of slacks that would have been snug on a Bic pen. "Miss Rodriguez, I presume? You look very stunning today." "I look stunning every day, Mr. Jenkins." It came out sounding like Shenkeens, " and you can forget the flattery. This will be strictly a business trip." They clambered aboard the little airplane and were soon aloft, leaving the humid stench of the city behind them. Their destination was a small town called Maldonado. The pilot didn't waste any of the companies' gas by flying over the mountains; he just wove his way through them. Joe had planned to discuss strategies for finding Garcia during the flight but the alabaster white of his knuckles gripping the armrests and the pitched battle in his stomach told him this was not the right time. Eventually they emerged over the ocean and the pilot set the plane in a nose dive towards the landing strip. Joe wondered if it was too late to write his will on the back of a magazine but the pilot pulled the plane up with a flourish and set it down lightly as a feather. If you take fair smattering of huts and houses, stick a bunch of greenery around wherever there's room, put a blue ocean out front, the Rocky Mountains in the rear, and run the thermometer up to 115, you'd have a good approximation of Maldonado. We had no idea where Garcia might be staying, added to the fact there was a cantina about every other block. I knew we had our work cut out for us. It was getting near sunset and a amenable bunch of colors were gliding over the aquamarine wavelets. I gave them no more than a long glance - I had a job to do. Miss Rodriguez was already headed for the town square with long leggy strides. As I hurried to catch up, I couldn't help but notice she looked as good from behind as from the front. I forced myself to put those notions aside as she had come up with the first bright idea. Perhaps Enrico Garcia was a religious man and maybe the local padre would know something. The evening service had just let out so we went up and greeted him in front of the whitewashed church. I asked if he had seen or heard of Senor Garcia. He aimed a volley of sounds at me that he probably thought was English but all I could gather was that Garcia down here was like Smith back in the States. "I will handle this, muchacho," said Miss Rodgriguez, nudging me aside. "That is what I am here for, no?" He may have been a man of the cloth but his eyes couldn't help straying over her ample curves as she interrogated him. He finally admitted he had not heard of this Garcia so she turned away, dismissing him, and marched off while I scurried to catch up again. "That poor little man knows nothing," she said. "Enrico, I heard, is a drinker, a woman chaser, a how-you-say, party animal. I know how to deal with such animals. We will go to try the cantinas." I had a picture of Garcia and showed it around at every cantina we went to. I might as well have been invisible in the company of Miss Rodriguez. She asked the questions while I showed the picture which invariably got a quick glance and a shake of the head no. At some of the cantinas I felt obliged to buy us some tequila anejo, which was delicious, but did nothing to help my concentration. Miss Rodriguez tossed them down like child's play and seemed unaffected. At one of the cantinas. a plump hooker tried to glom herself on to me, pawing at my privates, rubbing her large sagging breasts against me saying we could have a 'verr good time'. She wanted to come with me to the next place but a few sharp words from Miss Rodriguez sent her scurrying back to her table. Finally we hit the jackpot at the cantina Los Tres Panchos. It was after midnight and most of the good citizens were asleep though we did rouse some yapping dogs whom I hoped were not of the - bite first, ask questions later - variety. The bar was typical of the rest with its blaring jukebox, dirty floor, crowded, and smelling of liquor, booze, sweat, and women's perfume. The bartender recognized Enrico Garcia as a regular customer and pointed up the hill to a pink house. I wondered if it might be kind of late to call on them but he said no, their parties lasted until dawn. After one more head-ringing tequila shot and leaving a generous tip, we headed up the hill. Miss Rodriguez had been the spearhead of our forays so far but I felt now would be a good time to assert myself. "Miss Rodriguez," I said with my best imitation of authority. "This conversation will be delicate. Garcia won't want to go to Mexico City so I have to persuade him of the importance of his testimony and appeal to his conscience. You'd better let me handle this." "Suit yourself, Mr. Joe," she said unconcernedly. "I think I will just enjoy this party, no?" I rapped on the door, not sure of being heard above the mariachi music, but it was flung open by our host, presumably the owner of the house. I started to explain our visit but he ignored me, kissed the hand of Miss Rodriguez with an exaggerated bow, and whisked us inside. She spoke to him in a torrent of staccato Spanish and he pointed across the room. "There is your man," she said to me. "Over there on the couch wearing that ugly green guyabera. If you need me, I will be at the bar." With that she melted into the swirl of gaiety. Enrico Garcia was a swarthy man with strong features in his early thirties, flanked by two Mexican beauties that he called 'cheeklets'. I stood in front of the couch, waiting for him to finish tickling and cooing in the ear of one of the girls while she giggled. Finally he looked up at me. I introduced myself and asked if we could talk. He shooed off one of the 'cheecklets' and motioned me to sit down. In low tones, I explained my mission. "But Mr. Jenkins. I have no desire to go to Mexico City and I care not for Mr. Bustamante. It could be dangerous. If I walk into the wrong place there, a knife would be in my heart before I took two breaths. I know you will offer me money and honor and glory but I have no wish for these things. It was long ago and I am no longer interested." Crestfallen, I tried to think of a way to change his mind, short of knocking him on the head and dragging him back. My mind, unfortunately, was blank. "Who is that woman you came with? She is muy guapo." We both looked across the room to where the leonine Rodriguez was flirting with several men, her bosom undulating with every laugh. A sneaky thought crossed my mind. "You know, Miss Rodriguez said you looked very handsome when she pointed you out. I think she would like to get to know you better." "Well, maybe I will go talk to her," said Enrico, slicking his hair back. "No, not now. When we get back to Mexico City. She has a nice quiet apartment where you could hide out." "Very well, I will do it. A woman like that is worth waiting for. Pick me up around noon." "Oh no. We only had one day and that time is half gone. We leave at dawn." "Whatever you say, hombre." The sun was up, though it hadn't peeked over the mountains yet, when the three of us took off in the little plane. I was too tired to care which route the pilot took and dozed off most of the way while Garcia and Miss Rodriguez made light chit chat. When we arrived back at the courthouse with an hour to spare, I was intercepted by my boss. "Bustamante found out somehow that Garcia was coming in to testify against him and he hanged himself in his cell this morning. Thank you very much for coming, Senor Garcia, but your services will no longer be required." So it was all for nothing. "My services will not be required either, no?" said Miss Rodriguez flippantly. "I will leave now." "I'll go with you," put in Enrico. My conscience wasn't the least bit bothered about selling out Miss Rodriguez. She's a big girl, she can take care of herself. Downcast, I headed for my rooms to get some sleep. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club