Stronghold (245 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Parlor Trick (View user info) at 2007-01-09 06:34:39 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"We've got the lab work back on our friend Jane Doe. Blood alcohol level of .19, well in excess of the legal limit. I really don't think the jury is going to hold the boy driving responsible for some drifter's decision to sleep it off in the middle of First Street." The man on the phone thumbed a picture of a young woman with a candy cane scarf, lying face down in the road, left leg bent impossibly behind her.
"No one has called looking for her and I doubt anyone's going to try to claim the four dollars worth of cans from what's left of her cart. I say we drop this one and move on. I'll finish the brief tonight." With one click 'negligent homicide' was switched to 'dismissed.'
Brian Lancaster, the appointed assistant to the City Prosecutor, considered himself a defender of justice, the stronghold of society. He had the perspective of the privileged. He hung up the phone and looked at the stack of case files on his desk. Across the room, floor to ceiling windows framed in sculpted architecture displayed the moving city below. People running through their routines in accordance with the rules of the law brought the city to life. Mr. Lancaster's job was to prosecute those who crossed the line - to correct the wrongs and keep the equation balanced.
He aimed to provide as many educations through the public prison system as was necessary to achieve his quarterly bonus. Careful assessment of which cases were winners and which cases were losers was an important part of the process. Jane Doe was a loser.
Brian dropped the folder marked 'Jane Doe 06-11-20-715' on the floor next to his desk. The case summary stapled on the front told what was relevant. November 20, 2006, 3:20pm -- Unidentified, female, Caucasian approximately twenty-two years old, pedestrian killed by motor vehicle in dry weather conditions. Vehicle driven by male, Caucasian eighteen-year-old. Elevated levels of alcohol identified in victim. Trace amounts of marijuana identified in driver. No recorded witnesses." Next.
Brian grabbed the next file from the stack on his desk. He swiveled his chair around and watched as intermittent gusts of snow flew past the upper floor windows and settled on those below. An oversized bronze clock hung on the wall behind him "Go home to your wife!" was written in permanent marker across it's face. Lilly had written those words months ago, before she understood what was required to be the wife of someone who executes the law. Having him home for dinner was no longer expected. It was her contribution to getting the two-story brownstone in Lexington Court, one of the safe strongholds of the suburb.
Though the baby wasn't due for several months, Lilly filled her days selecting nursery decorations and coordinating pastel linens. The Lancasters kept in touch throughout the day, and whenever possible Brian would sneak away from the office for an intimate consultation with his wife.
. . . . .
Charlotte didn't come home.
It was well past nine, well past the Paul's ability to come up with an optimistic explanation for her absence. Something was wrong. He took the candle and checked the opening. Darkness stood its ground and offered no sign of Charlotte. The couple had met last fall when, right before the eleven o'clock curfew at the First Street Shelter for the Homeless, a wild haired young woman wearing a red and white scarf burst through the entrance and picked the cot next to his.
"You're not one of those bed bugs my mom warned me about are ya?" She asked as she plopped onto the adjacent canvas and began shedding layers of mismatched outerwear and a pair of heavy black boots. She tied the laces around a leg of the cot intended to at least slow any would-be takers. She tossed the provided foam pillow on the floor and replaced it with her rolled clothing tied in her scarf. "I prefer to drool on things I'm familiar with," she explained to the not unappealing stranger in the bed next to hers.
"We'll let me tell you about myself," Paul leaned on one elbow and watched his new beginning get ready for bed.
They whispered their stories late into night to the annoyance of the other temporary residents. Two years overseas with the army had left him twisted. He had difficulty differentiating the enemy from the people he was supposed to protect. He was starting again, here, from the beginning. Charlotte gave up her magic wands and bunny costumes at the same time her mother was handed an eight-year sentence for possession of large quantities of heroine. Charlotte had never met her father and wished she had never met the series of foster parents that followed her mother's conviction. On her eighteenth birthday, she upgraded her life and became a homeless wanderer.
As they talked though the night occasionally they had to bury their faces in the coarse wool blankets to keep their laughter from disturbing the muffled coughing and snoring of those around them. For the first time in the shelter neither was aware of the stench of stale clothing, urine and alcohol. By morning Paul and Charlotte agreed they should meet again. But then, before leaving, they agreed they shouldn't part.
The days that followed were spent together roaming the city streets seeking daily work, food and cheap vodka. They saved what they could in anticipation of moving into one of the studio apartments in the commercial district. They moved under the radar of the corporate onlookers who hid within the concrete fortress of the city's commercial high rises.
They stayed with others like them at the shelter or huddled against the pending cold in tarp-covered cardboard villages erected in alleys throughout the city. Safe houses constructed for those starting over and those near the end.
Conditions improved when they found a loose panel on a sheet metal storage building at the abandoned rail yard. Each night they returned and shared the day's offerings by candlelight in their makeshift home. Charlotte decorated their space with stolen flowers and pictures of far-off places cut from travel magazines.
Monday's Paul worked the back alleys hauling garbage from the weekend after-hours clubs, while Charlotte washed dishes from the lunchtime rush at the Westwood diner.
It was past midnight on Monday and Charlotte still wasn't home.
Early Tuesday morning a disheveled and frantic Paul stood impatiently behind the red line at the police station for the secretary to finish her massive blueberry muffin. "May I help you?" she finally asked wiping crumbs from her mouth and sounding completely unwilling. Clearly Paul was at least two steps below being a public servant and she intended to treat him that way. He could keep checking back or accept that young women of Charlotte's type often just moved on when the mood struck them. There was no need to take his name.
. . . . .
By Wednesday Paul knew.
"I'm telling you, the punk didn't even slow down, just kept right on driving through the red. He was messing with his cell phone, not looking at the road then BAM!" The bearded man known in the backstreet community as Big Jake, slapped his hands together to make his point. "Hell, he checked to see if his new VW was ok before he bothered to look at the girl." Paul listened tightening at the brute force description of Charlotte's last moments. "I told the cops I saw everything; but they were more interested in talking to the kid's father who showed up with one of them high numbered Mercedes. Guess they weren't impressed with my wheels, bastards." He placed a loving hand on the shopping cart next to him.
While the incident failed to make news around the water coolers in the corporate fortress, Charlotte's death saddened everyone within the stronghold of the underground safe houses. But only Paul felt its true impact. Only Paul felt the loss of her warmth in every thought that managed to continue. Every action had been in anticipation of her and now he was left with nothing. His world had been ripped apart, and the responsible party was left to play video games in the suburbs.
He stood with his toes encroaching upon the red line, the third time in as many days. The woman behind the counter had seen him come in, recognized the scruffy beard and soiled clothes and refused to make eye contact. She had better things to do then placate this man chasing a ghost. The minutes passed, but time was something Paul had in excess.
"Next." The obese woman tilted her head and glared at the lone man in line. Paul stepped forward.
"I've got the name and how to reach Jake, the guy who saw what happened to Charlotte," Paul laid a carefully folded piece of paper on the counter between them. The police station smelled of industrial cleaners and coffee.
"I can't take that." The woman stated matter-of-factly. "Besides according to this morning's report, that case has been dismissed." She lowered the words with the delicate hand of a lumberjack.
"What? No! They can't dismiss it!" Paul jabbed his finger at the paper and felt the heat surge to his face. "They never talked with Jake. Who dismissed it? You don't understand...." Paul pleaded to the stone-faced woman. The good guys and the bad guys were starting to blur.
"You'll have to talk to someone at the prosecutor's office, I don't make those decisions." She gestured towards a city directory hanging on the wall. "The Assistant Prosecutor fields questions from the general public." Paul stared disbelievingly at the woman who had already returned her attention to the magazine in front of her.
Finding his name under the words "Directory of Civil Servants" Paul used the pen attached to the silver chain on the counter and wrote 'Brian Lancaster' on the palm of his hand.
. . . . .
"Mr. Lancaster," the manicured blond receptionist pushed a button on a phone console that hid behind a generous bouquet of fresh flowers. "A Paul Morgan is here to see you?"
"Who? Do I have an ..." An annoyed man's voice responded. The receptionist picked up the phone receiver and swiveled her back in the direction of Paul. A muffled conversation ensued and she twirled around and said with a smile, "Mr. Lancaster is in a meeting. He may be several minutes. Perhaps you would like to come back later? Or, if you prefer, I suppose you could wait." Paul took a seat in a leather wing-backed chair in the corner.
An hour and ten minutes later Brian Lancaster relented and emerged alone from the safety of his sizable office. "Mr., ah...Paul, is it?" Brian extended his hand making a mental note to wash it afterwards. "Thank you for waiting. Come into my office. Can I get you anything?" He looked at the clock. He wanted to make this brief as he was hoping to steal some time with Lilly before having to return to the office later. He motioned to a chair on the other side of a wide mahogany desk.
"I'm here because of what happened to Charlotte, Charlotte Ramsey," Paul began in measured tones.
"Yes, yes," Brian nodded and lowered his eyes in a practiced display of compassion. "It took us awhile to determine the name of our Jane Doe. Thank you for any assistance you may have provided." Brian folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.
"You understand, Mr. Mathews that we simply don't have the resources to ..."
"Morgan, Paul Morgan." Paul corrected, listening, as the man in the tailored suit was about to dismiss him.
"Morgan. Right." Brian allowed a twinge of annoyance to surface in his tone. He was obligated to deal with the public but this Mr. Morgan and his road kill of a girl friend weren't in today's schedule. "Regrettably, there simply isn't enough evidence to get any sort of a conviction out of this."
Paul extended his hand holding the folded piece of paper with Jake's information. "Big Jake saw the whole thing. Said the kid driving ran a red light. Said he didn't even try to stop."
Brian shook his head at the paper without taking it. "The police have been very thorough in the investigation I assure you. Believe me, they want to get these careless drivers off the street as much as you and I. Hell, some guy cut me off just this morning on Second Avenue and then gave ME the bird. Can you believe that?"
Brian saw by the penetrating stare and the clenched jaw of the man across from him that this meeting was going nowhere. People like Paul just didn't, couldn't, comprehend how things worked in the big picture. The world simply couldn't afford to stop every time some nameless social outcast got wasted. There were bigger things in the world than this guy losing his daily blowjob. But he could see Paul was nowhere near coming to his senses on this.
"Listen," Brian said as he stood from his chair, "I'm sorry. But it's out of my hands. I regret your loss but I can't help you any further on this. I have another meeting scheduled for," He glanced at the clock, "one thirty," conveniently five minutes away.
Paul followed his eyes to the clock and read "Go home to your wife!" then looked again at Paul.
"No you listen Mr. Fuckhead, is it?" Paul stood and leaned over the desk face to face with the attorney. "Charlotte deserves more than this. It's your job to make it right. To see that justice is done! Isn't that what you do? You think that because she was poor she doesn't mean anything? You're fucking clueless. Do you even know how it feels to lose someone you love, Mr. Head-up-your-ass lawyer? I hope someday you get the chance."
Brian pressed the intercom button, "Rachel, please send security to my office to escort Mr. Morgan out. We are finished here." He deliberately let his suit jacket fall open exposing the small handgun strapped to his belt. He had never used it, but liked the feel of it and the decision making power it represented. Most high-level attorneys working for the city carried them like business cards.
The office door swung open, and two brawny- looking men with security patches on their shoulders entered the room. Paul looked at Brain; their eyes met in a moment of mutual contempt. Paul turned, pushing past the approaching the men, "I'm leaving." His heart pounded as he left the office and stepped into an open elevator.
"10, 9, 8, 7," the elevator descended with Paul, "...4, 3, 2, 1" With each passing floor his rage multiplied. He looked at the name written in pen on the palm of his hand and decided a trip to the suburbs was in order.
There it was, "Lancaster, Brian, 1421 Lexington Court." Paul closed the phone book and stepped out of the booth in the courthouse lobby. He knew where he was going. What he would do once he got there had yet to be determined.
. . . . .
"Fucking indigents. Anyway, I'm going to stop by the bank and then swing by the house, I'll see you in a bit." Brian finished talking to Lilly and telling her and the others in the office the story of how he stood up to the hostile vagrant and sent him running - but not before giving him an education on who calls the shots. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
"I can find it from here, " The small pickup pulled to the side and Paul got out, forgetting to thank the old man who had responded to the call of his outstretched thumb. The ornate road sign read "Lexington Court." Paul began walking past rows of snow-dusted houses with neatly trimmed lawns. His breath betrayed the cold. Within moments, he stood in front of the brick edifice located at 1421. "Welcome" the doormat communicated indiscriminately.
He was moving on autopilot; his intentions unfolded with the moment. He pushed on the s-shaped brass handle and felt the door give. Apparently crime was not a factor in this neighborhood. He pressed the door inward, stepped inside and surveyed the marble floors and leather furniture. The smell of cinnamon and pine filled the air. A stairway curved romantically to the floor above where Paul could hear someone singing.
Outside, Brian pulled the BMW into the driveway and saw the opened front door. He sat and stared at the scene for a moment while his mind searched for a reasonable explanation.
"The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout. Down came the pain..." Paul moved up the stairs in the direction of the lullaby, "and washed the spider out." He stopped half-way listening to the woman sing, "Out came the sun and dried up all the rage."
Opposite the polished banister, family pictures hung along the angle of the stairway. He was slowed by each picture of the couple laughing in scenes from distant places. Places cut from magazines. Thoughts of Charlotte made him think. The enemy would not sing lullabies. "And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again." He stopped almost at the top of the stairs, turned, and started down again. He was half-way down the steps when Brain Lancaster burst through the open door.
"What the fuck are you doing here?! Get out of my house!" Brian stood at the base of the stairs.
Paul said nothing but raised a deferring hand and continued descending the steps, eyes on the open door and the swirling snow beyond it. He heard a noise behind him and the singing stopped.
"Lilly!" Brian fumbled with his belt, releasing the gun from it's holster.
Lilly appeared at the top of the stairs, "Brian? What's going on?!" Brian looked at her, and Paul took the opportunity to run. Brian reacted by grabbing the gun and swinging it in the direction of the man on the stairs. Still looking at Lilly, he pulled the trigger.
The gun cracked. Both men watched as a small scarlet circle appeared on Lilly's forehead. Her expression froze as her legs buckled and she collapsed against the wall. "No!" Brian yelled. He dropped the gun and ran up the stairs in the direction of everything that mattered. "God, please! Don't ...please!"
Paul stood in the open doorway and listened as the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney pled his case to some higher authority. He turned in the direction of the cold November wind and thought of Charlotte.
"Dismissed," he whispered, as he closed the door behind him.
User Reviews
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2007-06-06 23:40:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:14:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2