Saving Lucian Ch. 01

The sun sets down on the freeway-- the day has been rough, violent, and short. The cars speed past the hidden bloodshed, oblivious to the scenes of criminality and depravity; after all, it is not their life.

The radio jingles with deep melodic tunes-- she has sunglasses on, dark brownish blonde hair, and shifty pale skin. She is slightly overweight-- she's in her thirties and does not exercise, and she works inside all day, so there's a soft flabbiness to her build.

She is not unattractive; she is not Venus either. The air conditioning is blazing inside the car, a Toyota something. The car is mostly clean, except for a few bottles of Nestea in the back. Under her mirror is an ornament she bought in Costa Rica, a little ball with the rainforest draped all over; she loves it, despite the tackiness.

She drives to the exit. There are old industrial buildings and unused office space here; the whole place is a wasteland of vacancy and decay. There are many Mexicans walking the streets-- immigrants mostly, who have found the area cheap and suitable to live in. They are strong, small, and sturdy; their tanned brown bodies glint underneath the sun.

The Spanish on the signs, along with the smattering of Korean and Vietnamese, makes the place seem somewhat foreign. She drives past the words and weird symbols and over speaker phone, asks her husband what he wants today.

He says he wants to eat out, but she won't hear it. "I just went shopping on Saturday," she says. "There is no way we're eating out."

He tells her he doesn't really care-- he never really cares. She drives past the intersection where a month earlier a gang shooting had taken place. She wasn't involved in that investigation, but she had heard from her colleagues that it had been the spark that ignited the recent outbreak of violence. All the shootings that had been taking place were a direct result of the intersection killing.

The melody changes into a voice. "...in Cherry Hill, another gang shooting has taken place. Three men, aged eighteen to twenty-four, were gunned down in a local restaurant by two men suspected to be members of a rival gang--"

"M-38," she says out loud. M-38 was the gang responsible for many of the shootings; they had provoked the violence by killing several Cherry Hill Mafia at the intersection that lone month ago.

"The escalating violence has been attributed to disputes between rival gangs in the area. The Cherry Hill Police Department states that, 'the shootings can be attributed to one thing and one thing only: control of the drug market'. According to the CHPD and local high schools, 'drugs are the number one reason why the community is experiencing an all time record high of murders and dropouts'."

She likes the news story. But then it ends and fades to commercials. She switches back to the melody.

She arrives home-- it is dark outside. She locks her car and enters her two floor cookie cutter. She smells pasta. "I'm home," she announces. She walks into the kitchen. "Cooking today? Really?"

He smiles; like his wife, he is also slightly overweight, actually more so. He has a fading brown head, but a thick, scroungy beard. His dark blue eyes complement hers. "I wanted to cook today," he says. "For a change."

She shuffles through the mail. Bills, bills, junk mail. She puts them down and groans. "God, I hate bills!" She sits down at the small round table and starts to rub her eyes. "Why did we have to buy this house!"

He brings out two plates of pasta and places them on the table. "Ally, what did the doctor say?"

She shakes her head. "It's negative. He says that we need to get tested, so we can know who needs the help." He gives her a bottle of Nestea. He sits down with a stern expression on his face. "Did you schedule anything?" he asks.

She shakes her head again. "No. It's so expensive, like two thousand dollars. I want to wait until we pay off everything else."

"Ally, you know that--"

"Look, we don't have the money for it--"

"We'll have to sacrifice--"

"No. We're not sacrificing anything! Why are you in such a hurry? I still have time-- I'm not even at that stage!"

He is quiet. The two study their pasta and remain quiet during the meal. After, he watches television and she washes dishes. There is disquietude in the air; he tries hard to escape into the game; she thinks about the day and her career.

She slips into a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweats. She brushes her teeth and turns on the bedroom television. Her favorite show, Project Runway, is on. She turns on the air-conditioning in the room and flings herself on the bed. Over the course of an hour, she is lost in the fantasy of reality; she forgets everything and only knows the petty drama of the screen.

He enters the room as the show is ending. He takes off his shirt; his belly plops out and there is scraggly hair all over his chest. He doesn't have the energy or will to shave it. He glimpses at the television screen, shakes his head, looks at his wife, and shakes his head.

After washing up, he gets on the bed. "How is work, by the way?" he lamely asks.

The show is over, and she is tired. "It was all right I guess." She doesn't bother to return the question. He sets the alarm grudgingly.

They both lay silently, their eyes closed to different directions. The sound of the air conditioning is noticeable. He wonders for a moment, but can't find the drive to do it. She does that to him sometimes; one of her many flaws. He stares at their wedding picture; once, she used to make him horny everyday. But, it was always for the most wrong and perverted reasons. Now, they're married, and his desires seem to be suppressed. He wants something else, something more. He wants love, romance, passion, the ability to look at her and fly. He wanted to feel suave, handsome, charismatic, heroic. But with her, everything was so realistic and rational, nothing was left to higher tendencies. Not that she was a total cold bitch; she was female in many aspects. But she didn't endear him in ways that he liked in a woman; he wanted a woman like his high school sweetheart, now married to a mid-level office hack somewhere in boring suburbia. He wanted someone that had her looks, her caring personality; he missed her, the experiences. But now he was rambling onto a different and nonsensical tangent...

The morning is a rush against time. She worked so far away-- all the way in the city. The freeway is hell this time of day. To cope with the boredom and wait, she listened to podcasts. But sometimes that got dreary, so she would just dream and imagine something.

The Courthouse is busy as usual, with the flurry of people and paperwork making way in and out. She flashes her badge and skips the security check-- the guards know her well enough that she doesn't really have to flash her badge. But she does it because the people in line see it, her flash of power, and are forced to recognize, that she is someone to reckon with.

She enters her office-- actually her and Thurber's office. Thurber, a tall, wiry man with dirty blonde hair, somewhat older, is her fellow prosecutor. "Mrs. Lange, the witness will be coming at twelve. Could you prepare the deposition?"

She places her things on the floor next to her desk and scrounges for a pen. "When do you need it by?" she asks.

He looks amazed. "By twelve. I hope you've got the template and everything--"

"Oh, yes I've got everything, I just wanted to know."

He walks out of the office and into the hallway. Sometimes, Thurber can be very annoying, she says to herself. Very annoying.

The room is cold when she enters. Thurber is sitting next to the defense attorney; they are chatting quietly. The young witness, a scruffy looking black thug, sits alone, silent. She stares at him intently; he stares at her with the same intensity. His eyeballs stick out; they are so white compared to his face.

After a few preliminary questions and protocol, Thurber gets up and starts to pace around. He always does this; it's his trademark. He begins to ask the witness in a moody, inquiring tone. "So how did you know Roger Menendez?"

The young witness seems to be thinking. Then, in a low voice, he answers, "We went to the same high school. He was a grade higher. Used to sling meth and coke with some of the other Mexicans. Liked to mess with middle school shorties' a lot--"

"I don't see how this pertains to your knowledge of or any affiliation with Mr. Menendez," the defense attorney snaps.

"Please answer the question," demands Thurber. "How do you directly know Roger Menendez?"

The young witness seems to be no older than eighteen; his face still looks gentle and traces of the street seem non-existent. She eyes him strangely. "I know Roger from school. I've met him at some parties, but I've never like hung out with him." He looks somewhat defiant.

"So how do you know that he killed your friends Ruben Pritchard and Benny Cardozo?" Thurber asks.

"Cuz' the nigga started bragging about it to his M-38 eses and they told everyone that Menendez did it."

"But you don't know for sure that he did it," the defense attorney interjects, "it's only rumors right now."

"In Cherry Hill, no one claims shit they didn't do. You can get killed for doing that."

"But Mr. Bryant, why would Mr. Menendez publically claim a murder when his life, his family would be at stake?" the defense attorney asks.

"Cuz' the nigga wanted to be hard, and he wanted to impress M-38 to take him in. Plus the nigga doesn't give a shit about his family. Yeah the nigga would probably cry if you pointed a gun at his head, but shit, the nigga would sell his mami and papi for a blowjob if he could."

She couldn't help but think how stereotypical he was. With his defiant posture, he sits and answers questions without regard to the seriousness of the event. A child of the streets he is; arrested twice for robbery and once for drug possession. She jots down some notes; he can be useful for other cases.

"So what is your relationship to the Cherry Hill Mafia?" Thurber asks.

"None. I'm not connected to them," the witness replies.

"None at all?"

"Nope. Don't deal with them niggas. I freelance. Don't believe in gangs."

"But you do know members of the Cherry Hill Mafia and are friends with them, are you not?" the defense attorney asks.

"Just cause I know a few niggas doesn't mean--"

She raises her voice. "I have an interjection to make," she says. She clears her throat and stares at the witness. "Can you please refrain from saying the n-word?"

He looks at her and nods his head. There is a dazed look in his eyes.

The interview ends, and the young witness is led out. While she scrambles to finish the paperwork, the thug gives her a hard stare. She barely notices it, but she feels a certain feeling from him.

At home, her husband watches the television. "No cooking today?" she asks.

He doesn't move his head. Or his mouth. She notices the Chinese food bag. "I can't believe you bought take-out!" she screams. She ambles over to the living room and turns off the television. He looks at her sullenly. There is fire in her eyes.

"Why did you order take-out?" she yells.

He shrugs his shoulders. He starts to lay down on the sofa. "I couldn't wait for you to come home."

"Why didn't you just make yourself something?"

"Too tired."

"You're tired. Okay. Working five miles from here in a little cubicle is really tiring."

He jumps back up. "What the fuck are you saying? That my job is a joke?" His eyebrows are diagonal in anger. "Am I really that pathetic?"

"You're so over-dramatic."

"No, you are, Ally. You got upset that I bought Chinese--"

"Because we don't have any money! Nick, we're in so much debt and you think we have money to buy take-out and eat out everyday!"

He gets up and nudges past her and elevates up the stairs. She follows him with her eyes, with disgust. "Yeah, go to sleep, Nick! Just sleep sleep sleep your problems away. That way they'll be solved." He slams the door with a loud bang. "Why am I married to such a loser," she says quietly. She realizes that she's shaking, quavering, incoherent; she's like this when she's upset. She lays on the sofa.

She starts to think about high school and college and law school. She was so determined; she was so goddamn determined to make it and succeed in life. She worked so hard, and for nothing. She looks at the honeymoon photos on the mantelpiece. At that moment, she realizes she never loved him; she had been scared, worried that it was getting too late. She picked him because he was a decent guy and seemed to have a future in front of him-- who knew!

Some of her friends were still unmarried; they would howl when she tried to talk about her problems. They just didn't understand, the problems she was facing. Her other friends, her married friends, no longer kept in touch with her. They lived elsewhere and had families. They didn't and couldn't understand either.