Twisted Justice: Victim or Perpetrator?

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Chapter 1

Ronald Reagan espousing ‘trickle down’ made Angie snap off her television, roll her eyes and sniff the metallic air. When she flicked off the last inside light, a yellow glow through an open curtain barely outlined the cars in the parking lot. Damn, the manager promised to fix that light last week, and it’s still broken. I suppose I’ll have to tell him again.

In the dim walkway from her apartment to her car, she never heard the approaching footsteps. Her mind was busy with hospital worries. I hope we don’t have a repeat of last night. A mastectomy, an appendectomy and gallstones in one day. And all of the patients in pain and complaining. That was hell. I’m getting too old for this.

She whirled in surprise at the heavy hand on her shoulder. Dark faces blurred in the faint glow. A gun, a knife and a chain dangling from a man’s fingers seemed to gleam impossibly bright in the dull light. Her stomach muscles knotted in fear, and a scream died in her throat. In an instant, Angie grabbed for the chain. A man started to swing it, but her trained hands and eyes were faster. A snap he wasn’t expecting jerked it from his hands. She swung it. The thud as it smashed into his temple sent a shiver though her. She stepped back and held the chain in readiness should another form lunge at her. The man she’d hit slumped silently to the blacktop, blood flowing from a gaping temple wound.

You bitch! came a man’s angry voice from her left. She darted in that direction, swinging the chain. A blade slashed her left arm before the man dodged. She felt no pain. Her mind reeled. She had only one clear thought, get them before they get me. Though she was sure that only two remained, they seemed to be everywhere, their breathing raspy, their bodies reeking of sweat as they converged on her.

Her own breath came fast, echoing the erratic pounding of her heart. The bodies danced around her to avoid the chain she was still swinging, and they seemed to grow until they were all she could see.

Get her. She’s not worth a bullet.

A body lunged at her, a knife blade pointing straight at her chest. She kicked the man’s wrist; her hard-soled, white shoes made solid contact. He grunted in startled pain as the knife flew out of his hand. At the same time a shot rang out, so loud, the noise bombarded her from all directions. She ducked and dropped the chain. Driven by stark fear that shot adrenaline into her blood, she leaped on the man before he could aim again. They both hit the ground, her stocky body covering his slim frame. She wrenched the gun from him. Somewhere near, she could hear the second man screaming, I’ll kill that damn bitch. I’ll carve her to ribbons! The weak stream of light peeping from a window didn’t reach his body, but from the scratching sounds, she knew he was groping for the knife. Aiming at the fear- and hate-filled voice, she pulled the trigger. The blast was so loud it deafened her. The screaming stopped. She strained in the silence to listen for the scratching sounds. They had stopped. Is it over? The man beneath her squirmed and moaned reminding her that it was not.

She scrambled to her feet and backed away, breathing hard as sweat trickled down her body. Her heart pounded; her ears rang; she struggled for breath. The man at her feet stared wide-eyed up at the gun still in her hand. To hide her shaking, she grabbed the gun in both hands and pointed it at him like she had seen the police do on television shows. They stayed like that, the hunter and the hunted, the attacker and the attacked in their mixed-up identities for agonizing eons.

The adrenaline faded, as did the buzzing in her ears. Her heart’s pounding eased. She could breathe again. Angie stood immobile, unable to grasp what had happened. Slowly, the reality of the horror crept into her numb brain. She, a nurse, dedicated to saving lives, had just felled one man with a chain and shot at another. Both were silent. Dead? Oh God. Why did this happen? Why me?

She heard footsteps and swiveled to face a new threat. Instead, she saw her tiny neighbor, Mrs. Grimshaw. Behind her, silhouetted by held-open drapes, neighbors peered out of apartment windows. Yet, not one had come to help.

C-call the p-police.

I already did. Grimshaw glanced down at the man on the blacktop and back to Angie still clutching the gun in both hands. My goodness Angie, what happened? Who are these men?

She killed my buddy, the man on the ground tried to sit up. When Angie raised the gun at him, he quickly slumped back, muttering, Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.

Angie released her two-handed grip and lifted her left arm to wipe sweat from her eyes. Her right arm sagged. The gun felt like a hundred pounds dragging her down. Her own blood dripped onto her face and ran onto her lips leaving a taste like a mouthful of nails. Her arm throbbed, and she stared at the nasty gash. She was used to blood. But this was different. It was hers. It dripped onto her white uniform and down to the ground to stain her white shoes. I’ll never get that off. There’s another expense. Why am I thinking about money? These men just tried to kill me. Where are the police? Why did no one help? Why did they pick me? Her thoughts were crazy, mixed up with past and present, reality and fantasy.

Curious neighbors ventured out, and Angie heard their voices but not their words. The many recently open-draped windows cast more light on the parking lot, and she saw the man who had knifed her. Blood boiled out of a chest wound. Dark in the pale light, it looked like beef gravy as the stain on his shirt grew wider and blood puddled on the blacktop. It hissed as it touched the hot ground, hissed and stuck. This blood was different too. This was a killer’s blood not some patient’s in the hospital. I should stop the bleeding.

But she didn’t move, standing statue-like, the gun still aimed at the man on the ground. His harsh breathing mixed with the babble of excited voices, but neither Angie nor the man moved. He stared at her in the semi-darkness, eyes glinting like those of a cornered cat, lips moving without a sound.

The noise of cars screeching to a halt broke her trance, and she glanced over to see two police cars, red lights flashing, as their headlights illuminated the scene. The curious neighbors milled around in excited confusion. Angie lowered the gun and backed away until she stood out of the headlight’s glare. The gun hung in her limp left hand. With the right hand she tried to apply pressure to stop her own blood flow, but her strength was gone, and her hand trembled uncontrollably.

Four policemen leapt out of the two cars – like they do on television - and hurried to the scene.

A hushed murmur rose as neighbors huddled together watching.

But they didn’t see anything. It was all over before they came out of their apartments. Look at Bristol. Probably the last one out, but now he’s taking charge, like he likes to do. Her knees felt rubbery. My God, this can’t be real. This can’t be happening to me. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. How did this happen?

The policemen, more interested in the three men than in her, rushed in pairs to the bodies. One policeman handcuffed the man she’d wrestled to the ground, and for the first time, some sense of safety trickled through her. She let the gun fall with a thud.

We need a morgue for this one, a policeman shouted.

Before she had time to react, another said, This one too.

The man on the ground pointed toward her. She jumped us. We were just walking through the parking lot, trying to ask for directions when she pointed a gun at us and accused us of trying to rob her. We weren’t doing nothin’.

Save it for the judge, one officer said and turned his back on the man as his partner rolled him up from the ground and headed toward a car. Did anyone see anything? the officer asked the clutch of neighbors.

No one had – at least that they would admit.

A shudder shook Angie through and through. The reality of what those policemen had said hit her like a battering ram. Her whole body began to shake. Tears ran down her face. She stumbled toward a cluster of mailboxes. It can’t be true. I couldn’t have killed those men. It’s not true. Clutching her stomach, she bent over and retched. Oh, my God. I was only trying to stop them from killing me. Only God heard.

Chapter 2

Mrs. Polanski, from the apartment next to Angie’s, appeared out of the shadows with Grimshaw close behind. Now, now, Polanski crooned, putting her plump arm around Angie. She was at least a head shorter, and her graying hair was disheveled in back, as if she had been sleeping on the sofa when the parking lot commotion roused her. You’re all right. Sit down dear, she murmured and pushed gently on Angie’s shoulder. Angie’s legs buckled and she slumped to the grass. Dizziness made her vision swirl.

My goodness, she’s hurt! Grimshaw shouted out to the women who clustered around, their curiosity now diverted from the covered bodies. Somebody get a towel and some bandages. The women maintained a constant nervous chatter like morning birds that made it unnecessary for Angie to talk. It was just as well. No words would come.

Finally, two officers, clipboards in hand, approached Angie. These folks say you were the one involved out here. The older one inclined his head back to where ambulances had arrived, and medics lifted bodies onto rolling carts. What happened, miss?

Angie tried to get to her feet, and the younger officer rushed to help her, but, even with his help, her arms had no strength and her legs wouldn’t hold her. With a sigh, she sank back to the grass. She looked at the officer standing above her and wondered how he could bear to wear a long-sleeved shirt on such a hot evening. She couldn’t follow his words. Her mind refused to grasp the questions he was asking. She stared dumbly at him.

Lady, I’m talking to you. Can you hear me?

She heard, but his voice seemed to come from far away, another planet, another world. She gathered up her breath. Those three men…, her gaze went to the bodies being lifted off the ground, and she could not continue.

Do you know them?

She craned her neck to look at the officer. Aaah, I don’t understand. Of course not, how would I know them?

Her arm is bleeding, Duncan. The younger officer pointed at the blood dripping onto her dirt- and grass-stained uniform. Maybe we should take her to the hospital first.

I think your partner is right, Mrs. Grimshaw spoke up. She patted Angie’s shoulder. Look at the poor dear, all pale and shaky and bleeding like a stuck pig. You’re in shock, aren’t you dearie?

Before Angie could speak, Bristol, the couch potato who had wandered over, added, Yeah, what the hell’s wrong with you cops? Can’t you see she’s bad hurt?

Duncan leveled his gaze at Bristol and Grimshaw. I’ll make the decisions here. He rounded on Angie with a cold stare. Did you shoot that man?

What kind of stupid question is that? Mrs. Polanski yelled. Three men with guns and knives, and you ask why a woman would defend herself? Do you suppose they were Boy Scouts helping her with her groceries at ten o’clock at night in a dark parking lot?

Madam, Duncan glared, an assault and murder has taken place. I can do this here, or I can take her to the station house and do it without your interference. Perhaps you would like to go to the station house? Now, which will it be?

Angie leaned sideways and lay down on the ground. Grimshaw wrapped a towel around Angie’s bleeding, outstretched arm.

The younger officer tried again. Look, she’s bleeding badly, we should take her to a hospital.

Ignoring his partner, Duncan swept his arms in an arc. All of you, back to your apartments – now, before I arrest the lot of you. His threatening tone sent them scurrying to the main building lobby, all but Mrs. Grimshaw, who kneeled by Angie and put pressure on the cut.

A medic walked over and looked at the fast reddening towel. Looks like we need to take her too.

Nah, she’s not hurt that bad. They can fix it at the jail. Let’s go. Duncan gestured toward the police car.

The medic exchanged a glance with the other officer, shrugged and returned to the ambulance.

As Grimshaw and the younger officer helped Angie up, she said, I only tried to protect myself.

Don’t say another word, Angie. Call a lawyer.

Duncan stepped forward. You’ve been watching too many TV shows, lady. She’ll have her rights read to her, and she can call a lawyer from the station. In the meantime, she’ll do what she’s told, and you’ll mind your own business.

Angie listened without hearing. In her head, the words assault and murder ricocheted scrambling her thoughts even further.

I’m a taxpayer, and I won’t be talked to this way by the likes of you, Grimshaw flung back.

Yeah? And just what are you going to do about it?

Call the mayor.

Take your best shot. He laughed and then muttered about old busybodies as he stalked off.

Don’t pay any attention to Duncan. He’s out of sorts today. Hates meddling women. The younger officer put his arm around Angie and braced her on the left side as he helped her up. As Angie struggled toward the squad car between the officer and Grimshaw, he began, You have the right to remain silent ...

Chapter 3

Angie’s shoes thudded on the concrete floor as she plodded behind the matron toward a cell. Smells and sounds alien to her world beat against her senses, seeping through the barrier that shock had set up. The questions from the desk sergeant pricked her brain like the tip of the needle the doctor had used to stitch her arm. He had been very fast, but his job was neat enough. She got no pain pills, and the deep cut throbbed. The sergeant shot questions at her as if he didn’t see her or notice her condition. Name? Address? Phone number? Date of Birth? Occupation? Next of Kin?

Doors slammed. Heavy, round chains of keys jangled. Metal bolts shot like cannons into wall-mounted holders. Drunken men radiated heat. The smell of blood, vomit and cheap perfume leached out of the walls. Hard faces stared. Nothing moved but the eyes.

The image of Officer Duncan remained. How could he believe what that man had said? Why would I be confronting three men? He didn’t even let me give my story before he arrested me. Even the younger officer, Carter was his name, after reciting her rights, had subsided into silence. She had been put into the rear seat of the patrol car, and a heavy screen separated her from them. The pain and shock kept her mute, huddled in one corner of the seat.

The neighbors had never shown up with anything to bandage her arm, and she had continued to bleed through the one sodden towel. Once at the station, first with the doctor, who put the towel in a paper bag and handed it to the younger officer, and then with the intake staff, she’d been polite and answered the questions as best she could. But being respectful didn’t work as she had thought it would. She got no respect back. The police was just a number, just a job to process through the night. With a mind-numbing monotone, questions were asked and orders given.

When the matron told Angie she was doing a body search, Angie could hold her tongue no more. Body search! What are you talking about? I’m not here on a drug charge. I shouldn’t be here at all.

That’s what they all say. The brown-suited woman grinned and snapped on the plastic gloves. Regulations. Bend over. Or do you want me to call the male officers?

Angie certainly did not want any male officers called, but humiliation rose like nausea threatening to overwhelm her. She swallowed her rage and nearly choked.

Clutching a pillow and blanket, Angie followed the matron down a hall. Angie brushed her salt and pepper hair, usually pulled tight against her head, out of her eyes She scanned back and forth, up and down expecting Alan Funt to jump out any minute and say, Smile! You’re on Candid Camera. The matron halted and unlocked a cell door. In you go. She tipped her head toward the dim interior. Angie tightened her grip on the blanket and pressed it against her breast. She looked at the matron. Is this for real? She looked at the bars. She looked at the door the matron held open. She looked down at the keys jangling from the woman’s waist. Her feet would not move. She could not step over that threshold. She didn’t know anyone who had ever been in jail. She had never even visited a jail.

The matron put her hand in the middle of Angie’s back and shoved her into the room. The door clanged shut behind her as she stumbled in.