Page 60 of Money Shot

SIENNA

January 13th,2015

Police cars, crime scene tape, and a firetruck aren’t the things a woman wants to see when her respective other calls and tells her to come and come quick.

“They may charge me with murder” wasn’t very comforting to hear, either.

I pulled the car right up to the edge of the crime scene tape, got out, and shifted my eyes toward the crime scene. Countless police officers, police cars, firemen, and what seemed to be an off-duty ambulance were all forced into a one hundred foot square area. It looked like what my father often described as a Mongolian clusterfuck. I shook my head, scanned the area for Vince, and ducked under the yellow tape.

“Ma’am, you’re going to need to step behind the tape, this is a crime scene,” an officer said in a demanding tone as he gestured toward the tape with his hand.

I disregarded his demand and continued walking toward Vince as if I was a crime scene professional.

“The dead are incapable of demanding justice, Ma’am, but it’s my responsibility to see to it that you stay out of my crime scene so I can see to it that justice is served,” he said as he puffed his chest out.

The officer narrowed his gaze and glared. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed the cheesy line waiting for an opportunity to use it. Dressed in jeans, Ugg boots, a sweatshirt, and Victoria’s Secret hoodie, I didn’t quite look the part, but I really didn’t care. As far I was concerned, Officer Responsibility needed to fuck off. I’d read enough books I could fake my way through some yellow tape, and I was sure of it.

I placed my hands on my hips and gazed up and into his eyes. “Well, in 1879 James Madison drafted a little document I like to refer to as the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, and it’s my responsibility to my client to see to it that justice is served in respect to unreasonable search and seizure, and it’s further my responsibility to remind him to exercise his right to remain silent and make every effort to avoid any police coerced self-incrimination in what is undoubtedly a stressful time. Now, with all due respect to you and your crime scene, excuse me, Officer,” I said as I stepped past him.

“Counsel,” he said with a tip of his hat.

Standing beside a police cruiser talking to an officer, Vince stood in a sleeveless black shirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A habit he had given up two years prior, the stress associated with shooting someone had probably caused so much mental anguish that he had to have a cigarette just to keep his sanity.

“Not another word,” I said as I walked up to where he was standing.

Vince turned to face me, glanced at my boots, shook his head, and grinned. “We’re done here.”

I turned toward the officer. “I’m his legal counsel.”

He glanced down at my boots, slowly shifted his eyes up along my frame, and locked them on mine when our eyes met.

“Is that right?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “Sure is.”

“Well, doesn’t look like he’s going to need any,” the officer said with a light laugh. “He clearly shot this shit bird in self-defense.”

He turned toward Vince, nodded his head, and extended his hand. “Appreciate your help with the report.”

Vince tossed the cigarette at his feet, blew out a cloud of smoke, and shook the officer’s hand. I was thoroughly confused. From what Vince had said when he called from the mail lady’s phone, he was involved in a shoot-out with a guy he was trying to convince to pay his debt. He was, at least at that time, worried he may be charged with murder.

Seeing his smiling face, jovial mood, and lack of overall concern made me immediately feel comfortable that something must have changed drastically. The officer clutched his notepad, turned, and walked toward another officer. After he was far enough away from where we stood that he was incapable of hearing us, I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Self-defense, I’m free to go,” he said.

“Nice shirt,” I said as I nodded my head toward what I could now see was formerly his nice black dress shirt.

He glanced at each tattooed arm, flexed his biceps, and grinned as he did so. “Cut off the sleeves to make a tourniquet,” he said.

“I fucking love you,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he responded.

“So we can go?” I asked.

He glanced around the chaotic scene and nodded his head as he turned toward me.