Seattle Press on Line

Reality

By Catherine Buell

Jan 31, 2002 -- Part 2 of 2

The room was full of gray suits and colored ties. An impossibly long table of wrinkled men stared at me as I walked in. Usually, everyone at meetings was talking and laughing by the time I got there, and hardly anybody would see me come in. Then, the boss would notice me, and greet me, and gradually everybody else would, too.

But today, there was no talking. There was no laughing. All of the men were staring at me. I self-consciously made my way to the front of the room, the padding of my feet on the carpet the only sound. The eyes followed. This was not an improvement over being scared out of my wits by bloody smears on the walls.

My boss was sitting at the head of the table, as usual. He had a wrinkled face like the rest of them, but his seemed older. Much older than he usually looked, and shocked. This, too, was unusual, as he was always smiling and cheerful.

I walked up to him, then set my briefcase down. Why doesn't anybody say anything? I thought, unlatching the case while the silence pressed against my ears. I started to take out the things I would need for the presentation.

"You won't be needing that." My boss broke the silence.

I looked at him. "What?" I asked. Finally, my voice seemed to be working.
"I said, 'You won't be needing that,'" he stated clearly. Lela was right about the bad mood. I don't think I've ever seen him that mad before. The others' eyes seemed to press upon me even harder.

"Why--"

"Empty your pockets, Yadot," the boss interrupted.

I was completely bewildered. "But, I never put anything in my pockets--"

"Just do it." His voice had a dangerous edge to it. An edge that implied I was about to be fired.

I obeyed, and stuffed my hands into my pockets, ready to turn them out, knowing there was something in them. My fingers wrapped around a distinct piece of paper. I froze, hands in my pockets, confusion whirring in my mind.

"Something wrong, Yadot?" the boss asked.

"N-no..." I slowly took the paper out of my pocket. "It's just that I seem to have something... that I didn't know was there." Frowning, I unfolded the piece of paper. Then, I yelled and dropped it. The paper fluttered onto the table, right in front of my boss. A smeary handprint met his eyes. I yelled again.

"A-another one! Oh, dear Lord, there's another one!" I yelled, paralyzed with fear. Meanwhile, my boss stared at the piece of paper. He had turned his back to me, so I couldn't see his face, but I caught the eye of one of the men at the end of the table near the door. He was looking at me with a hurt expression in his eyes, like a wounded puppy. How could you do that? his eyes said. I will never forget the irony in that face.

My boss turned on his swivel chair towards me. His loathing eyes met mine, and I stared right back at him like a deer in headlights. "I-I didn't k-know ab-ab-about the paper, it w-was just th-there!" I stuttered. "Really!" I added, seeing my boss' hard face.

"Captain!" he yelled, still glaring at me. One of the men sitting at the table stood up. "Arrest this man!"

"What?!" I yelled, "Arrest--What did I do?!"

The man walked over and calmly closed his hand around my arm. "You are under arrest for first degree murder and attempted homicide."

"This isn't right! All I did was come to work! I've never even so much as gotten a speeding ticket in my life! I didn't put that paper in my pocket! I didn't know it was there! I never put anything in my pockets! Really! I AM INNOCENT!"

The policeman and a few others who had been undercover handcuffed me and dragged me out of the room. I kept yelling my innocence, twisting and kicking at the officers like a two year old having a tantrum. But I wasn't fighting because I was mad. I was writhing for justice, for my life. Finally, as I wriggled away and pleaded to my boss, yelling at the top of my lungs, one of the policemen knocked me out. At least, I think it was a policeman.

And so I ended up here, after a trial in which I learned all the details of my alleged crime. I was accused of killing my boss' daughter and trying to kill a friend she had had over. All the evidence pointed to me. Nobody listened to my testimony; nobody cared. I lost the case.

If, in 22 years, I'm still alive, I will find whoever did this to me. He knew this was where I would end up. He is guilty and running free. He will pay. But who is he? One day, I'll figure it out.

Catherine Buell is a Seattle high school student who enjoys writing and singing. She looks forward to majoring in the sciences.

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Patrick	Jan 04, 2005	new york	stock market speculator
This is absolute trash. The author should get her titts banged off!


SPOL Editor	Jan 05, 2005
On the other hand, she spells anatomical references more carefully and correctly capitalizes proper nouns. Perhaps you should sharpen your own skills before bringing your rapier-like wit to attacks on schoolgirls' essays into literature, oh valiant critic from afar. (We don't normally publish email addresses, but your talents are so great that we'll consider our options in this case and perhaps allow as many as possible of our 800,000 readers to send you a message. Readers, what do you think? Should "Patrick" keep his anonymity?)