The cops know I had just been there because the bong is still smoking when they knock down my front door. It is difficult to run and cough at the same time, so I am at a distinct disadvantage. I am not a hard target to catch running clumsily down the rickety back stairs.
** **
Three days ago, everything was different. I remember sitting in her apartment. We were smoking dope. We were laughing. She looked beautiful, like Rita Hayworth, her brown hair painted purple and falling lazily over her eyes and framing her lovely face. A Mission Angel. Music played in the background. I think it was Ween. Yes, I'm fairly certain it was Ween. We were in love.
* * **
"You know how they found her? Her blood leaked into the laundry room below. A ten year old felt it dripping down on her shoulder and screamed like a banshee. You friggin’ traumatized her. You proud of yourself?"
How am I supposed to answer that question? No, I suppose. No, I am not.
** **
Things went sideways suddenly. I had left my computer bag on the floor and her cat pissed on it. It is not the first time it happened, but that really only made it worse to me. She was instantly defensive. I raised my voice. She raised hers. And the voices got louder, louder. The language grew more colorful. The insults grew more personal. We knew each other just well enough to make the insults very personal.
** **
"A member of the bar, eh? Now you'll be having plenty of bars all around you, huh kid?"
The fat detective is a caricature of himself. Tie is too short, belly is too big.
Fifty years old with a flattop. I just look at him curiously.
** **
She hit me first, I swear. I have no reason to lie to you now. Not to you. But she hit me first. It was not the first time she hit me. It was the first time I hit back. Immediately, there was blood everywhere. Immediately, things were desperate.
** **
"You know, someone who flees, a jury is allowed to presume guilt from that. You fled. You're presumed guilty."
I just shrug. "I thought you were a gang or something, banging on my door. I had no reason to think you were the cops."
"We were screaming, 'we're the cops.'"
"I couldn't hear anything. Just a bunch of pounding and screaming."
** **
She went for the knife first. I swear she did. She took a swing at me with it, brutal and sharp. She missed. It wasn't hard for me to get the knife, I suppose, but I don't really remember. Just images and blurred sounds.
** **
"You know, you're the boyfriend. You’re the obvious suspect."
"I know I am. I know. But that doesn't mean I did it."
“So, you deny it?”
I pause, incredulously. “Yeah, I deny it.”
The sky is blue. The grass is green.
** **
After it was over, I just sat on her couch, panting. I don’t know how long I sat there. It was dark but the light of the moon shined into the apartment. The blood on the hardwood floor glimmered dully in the light of the moon. The adrenaline still flowed like a river, my mouth still filled with the taste of battery acid. My eyes shot around the room. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to comprehend what had just happened. Blood splatter everywhere in her apartment. On me, too.
** **
“You haven’t seen her in three days?”
“No, I haven’t seen her in three days.”
“You didn’t find that weird?”
“Yes, I did find that weird.”
“You didn’t call her?”
“Yes, I did. She didn’t answer the phone. I left messages, you can check.”
That was true. He could check.
“You didn’t go by her place?”
“Yes, I did. She didn’t answer the door. I saw her neighbor yesterday, while I was knocking on her door. You can check.”
That was true. He could check.
“But you never called the police, Matthew?”
“She’s an adult. No, I never called the police. I would have, I suppose, if another day or two passed. I didn’t want to overreact.”
“You thought she might have left you?”
“I thought she might have left me.”
He just shakes his head at me, his arms folded across his chest, like his piercing stare stare is going to compel a confession out of me. No. He’d have to go Abu Ghraib on me before I did that.
** **
I took a hot shower, but I didn’t clean anything up but the knife. I knew my fingerprints and DNA would be all over the place anyways. I tried to make certain that my feet didn’t step in any blood. I think it worked. There was blood all over me, but I would throw these clothes out. I just didn’t want to leave any foot prints in the blood. As I ran the knife under hot, hot water, scrubbing it hard with a wool sponge, I looked over and see her dead body, blood, blood, blood. I took a heavy breath and tried to focus on the task at hand: survival. I recognized the reality of panic, and tried to manage my breath to minimize the effects.
** **
“Why did you clean the knife?”
“I didn’t clean any knife.”
“I bet your DNA and fingerprints are all over that apartment.”
“I bet they are, too. I was over there all the time.”
“But not Monday night?”
“But not Monday night.”
** **
When I got home from her place, I took another hot shower. I stood there staring at the wall of the shower until the hot water ran out. I did not cry. I never cried about killing her. Not once. I did not feel any sadness at the time. I only thought about one thing: getting away with it.
** **
I still do not feel sadness about her.
I never thought I would be in a jail cell. This is night one. I would rather there be no night two. I make a court appearance tomorrow. Bail will be an issue. I have managed to retain a lawyer with the eight thousand bucks I had in my checking account. I am guessing, if I am to get out of here, most of the funds in my savings account will be taken in paying for a bond. Next comes the 401K.
This cell is tiny. I don’t care what it takes. I want out.
** **
I made the right choice of counsel. I am standing in court and listening to the judge agree to a bail of fifty thousand dollars for me. I am an upstanding citizen, will give up my passport, nowhere to go, etc., etc. He cites the paltry evidence and theory of the prosecutor. I did not believe this would work. It works. The judge agrees to a bail of fifty thousand dollars for me. That means a bond for five thousand bucks.
There is no night two in jail. I hug my lawyer and walk out the front door of the
courthouse, a free man for now. I am back in the Mission in my apartment on Guerrero. I take a long shower. In nothing but boxers, I am pacing from the bathroom to the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen and back again.
Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days, and so on. I am sleeping very little. I go to work but I work very little. Day passes after day. I am talking to my mom. I am talking to a friend of mine who lives in New York. I am trying to stay calm. I am managing my panic.
I am not thinking of her. I am thinking of survival.
** **
Five days after my one day in jail, the phone rings.
“There was another incident, right on Duboce.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“A woman was robbed at knife point, he slashed her but she survived. She ID’d him this morning. A Mexican, illegal immigrant with a record longer than your arm.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“He hasn’t copped to yours, but the cops are seeing a pattern. I think you are redeemed, my friend. Fingers crossed.”
** **
Six week later, I stare up at the smoke rising up from the bong. I can see the blue sky and green leafy trees through the smoke. In the distance, behind the steeple of a church, in the distance the flag of the United States is flapping mightily in the wind. I am free.
And through this all, at the same time that the sky is bluest, and the trees are at their green leafiest, and the flag of the United States is flapping its mightiest in the windiest, and I am at my freest, for the first time, in the distance behind the flag, and the church steeple and the green, leafy trees, I see the demons that are dancing. I try to avert my eyes. I begin to think of her. We were in love.
** **
Three days ago, everything was different. I remember sitting in her apartment. We were smoking dope. We were laughing. She looked beautiful, like Rita Hayworth, her brown hair painted purple and falling lazily over her eyes and framing her lovely face. A Mission Angel. Music played in the background. I think it was Ween. Yes, I'm fairly certain it was Ween. We were in love.
* * **
"You know how they found her? Her blood leaked into the laundry room below. A ten year old felt it dripping down on her shoulder and screamed like a banshee. You friggin’ traumatized her. You proud of yourself?"
How am I supposed to answer that question? No, I suppose. No, I am not.
** **
Things went sideways suddenly. I had left my computer bag on the floor and her cat pissed on it. It is not the first time it happened, but that really only made it worse to me. She was instantly defensive. I raised my voice. She raised hers. And the voices got louder, louder. The language grew more colorful. The insults grew more personal. We knew each other just well enough to make the insults very personal.
** **
"A member of the bar, eh? Now you'll be having plenty of bars all around you, huh kid?"
The fat detective is a caricature of himself. Tie is too short, belly is too big.
Fifty years old with a flattop. I just look at him curiously.
** **
She hit me first, I swear. I have no reason to lie to you now. Not to you. But she hit me first. It was not the first time she hit me. It was the first time I hit back. Immediately, there was blood everywhere. Immediately, things were desperate.
** **
"You know, someone who flees, a jury is allowed to presume guilt from that. You fled. You're presumed guilty."
I just shrug. "I thought you were a gang or something, banging on my door. I had no reason to think you were the cops."
"We were screaming, 'we're the cops.'"
"I couldn't hear anything. Just a bunch of pounding and screaming."
** **
She went for the knife first. I swear she did. She took a swing at me with it, brutal and sharp. She missed. It wasn't hard for me to get the knife, I suppose, but I don't really remember. Just images and blurred sounds.
** **
"You know, you're the boyfriend. You’re the obvious suspect."
"I know I am. I know. But that doesn't mean I did it."
“So, you deny it?”
I pause, incredulously. “Yeah, I deny it.”
The sky is blue. The grass is green.
** **
After it was over, I just sat on her couch, panting. I don’t know how long I sat there. It was dark but the light of the moon shined into the apartment. The blood on the hardwood floor glimmered dully in the light of the moon. The adrenaline still flowed like a river, my mouth still filled with the taste of battery acid. My eyes shot around the room. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to comprehend what had just happened. Blood splatter everywhere in her apartment. On me, too.
** **
“You haven’t seen her in three days?”
“No, I haven’t seen her in three days.”
“You didn’t find that weird?”
“Yes, I did find that weird.”
“You didn’t call her?”
“Yes, I did. She didn’t answer the phone. I left messages, you can check.”
That was true. He could check.
“You didn’t go by her place?”
“Yes, I did. She didn’t answer the door. I saw her neighbor yesterday, while I was knocking on her door. You can check.”
That was true. He could check.
“But you never called the police, Matthew?”
“She’s an adult. No, I never called the police. I would have, I suppose, if another day or two passed. I didn’t want to overreact.”
“You thought she might have left you?”
“I thought she might have left me.”
He just shakes his head at me, his arms folded across his chest, like his piercing stare stare is going to compel a confession out of me. No. He’d have to go Abu Ghraib on me before I did that.
** **
I took a hot shower, but I didn’t clean anything up but the knife. I knew my fingerprints and DNA would be all over the place anyways. I tried to make certain that my feet didn’t step in any blood. I think it worked. There was blood all over me, but I would throw these clothes out. I just didn’t want to leave any foot prints in the blood. As I ran the knife under hot, hot water, scrubbing it hard with a wool sponge, I looked over and see her dead body, blood, blood, blood. I took a heavy breath and tried to focus on the task at hand: survival. I recognized the reality of panic, and tried to manage my breath to minimize the effects.
** **
“Why did you clean the knife?”
“I didn’t clean any knife.”
“I bet your DNA and fingerprints are all over that apartment.”
“I bet they are, too. I was over there all the time.”
“But not Monday night?”
“But not Monday night.”
** **
When I got home from her place, I took another hot shower. I stood there staring at the wall of the shower until the hot water ran out. I did not cry. I never cried about killing her. Not once. I did not feel any sadness at the time. I only thought about one thing: getting away with it.
** **
I still do not feel sadness about her.
I never thought I would be in a jail cell. This is night one. I would rather there be no night two. I make a court appearance tomorrow. Bail will be an issue. I have managed to retain a lawyer with the eight thousand bucks I had in my checking account. I am guessing, if I am to get out of here, most of the funds in my savings account will be taken in paying for a bond. Next comes the 401K.
This cell is tiny. I don’t care what it takes. I want out.
** **
I made the right choice of counsel. I am standing in court and listening to the judge agree to a bail of fifty thousand dollars for me. I am an upstanding citizen, will give up my passport, nowhere to go, etc., etc. He cites the paltry evidence and theory of the prosecutor. I did not believe this would work. It works. The judge agrees to a bail of fifty thousand dollars for me. That means a bond for five thousand bucks.
There is no night two in jail. I hug my lawyer and walk out the front door of the
courthouse, a free man for now. I am back in the Mission in my apartment on Guerrero. I take a long shower. In nothing but boxers, I am pacing from the bathroom to the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen and back again.
Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days, and so on. I am sleeping very little. I go to work but I work very little. Day passes after day. I am talking to my mom. I am talking to a friend of mine who lives in New York. I am trying to stay calm. I am managing my panic.
I am not thinking of her. I am thinking of survival.
** **
Five days after my one day in jail, the phone rings.
“There was another incident, right on Duboce.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“A woman was robbed at knife point, he slashed her but she survived. She ID’d him this morning. A Mexican, illegal immigrant with a record longer than your arm.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“He hasn’t copped to yours, but the cops are seeing a pattern. I think you are redeemed, my friend. Fingers crossed.”
** **
Six week later, I stare up at the smoke rising up from the bong. I can see the blue sky and green leafy trees through the smoke. In the distance, behind the steeple of a church, in the distance the flag of the United States is flapping mightily in the wind. I am free.
And through this all, at the same time that the sky is bluest, and the trees are at their green leafiest, and the flag of the United States is flapping its mightiest in the windiest, and I am at my freest, for the first time, in the distance behind the flag, and the church steeple and the green, leafy trees, I see the demons that are dancing. I try to avert my eyes. I begin to think of her. We were in love.
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