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Investigation ongoing in shooting death of college student:
Authorities are continuing their investigation into the late-August shooting death of twenty-year-old student Ethan Anderson. Anderson was shot by off-duty drug agent Marco Gonzalez at Gonzalez’s home in Dallas. According to Gonzalez, Anderson entered his apartment and threatened him at gunpoint before he shot Anderson once in the chest. Anderson died at the scene. No weapon was found on the victim and the two had no prior acquaintance. Gonzalez has been on administrative leave since the time of the shooting. Anderson’s family, as well as community leaders, are calling for his immediate firing and arrest. The district attorney’s office has announced that murder charges are being considered. Gonzalez’s whereabouts are currently unknown, but his attorney, Dallas defense lawyer Harvey Cantrell, said Gonzalez is prepared to turn himself in to authorities should charges be filed.
Somewhere in the middle of the earth-shattering article, I reached for Marco. He’s been a comfort in my times of trouble, but now he’s the one in need of support. The crazy thing is, he’s holding on so tight it almost hurts. Shock numbs me.
No wonder he’s afraid. Murder charges?
Shame turns my face away.All this time.My me-syndromeis worse than I realized. How could I not notice, really notice, his turmoil?
But I can’t go there in my head, lest I make even this moment about myself. “I had no idea.”
He sort of laughs. “Yeah, I know—but you’re one of the only people in America who didn’t.”
I glance down at the bright banner of the country’s top cable news network, and it finally registers. Oh my. “It’s national news?”
“That’s what happens when you shoot an unarmed kid.”
My mind whirrs. “But he came into your apartment. Threatened you.”
He lets go and rests his elbows on his knees. “Apparently that’s debatable. He must have stumbled backwards when he was shot and ended up outside, so they question my story. Plus, when they found no gun, it kind of shot my story in the butt.”
“I don’t understand.” The news account is a concise summary, but there’s a ton of detail omitted. Detail that matters. “Tell me what happened.”
He drags his hand along the back of his neck. “It was late. I’d just gotten in after a long assignment. I stopped by the store for some groceries, carried them in, set them on the counter, then turned around to get the pack of paper towels I’d dropped. But there was this guy there, at the door. It was dark except for some light in the breezeway, so I couldn’t see his face, and he just stood there. I had my gun, so I reached for it, but before I could say anything, he mumbled something, took one step inside, kind of laughed a little and started to raise his arm. I saw—thought I saw—a gun. I told him to drop it. He didn’t…so I fired.”
My heart sinks.
“He went down, and when I ran over to him, I tripped. Fell across the coffee table, kind of hard. Stunned me for a second. That’s how I ended up with this.” He touches the half-inch, now-healing gash on his temple. “I got up, called 9-1-1, and started pressure on his wound.”
Marco’s gaze follows yet another vehicle making its way down the street, the heavy bass of metal music vibrating the air. He sighs. “He was a kid, Allie. Blond hair, freckles. And he bled out on my door mat.”
Help me, please, because I can’t help myself. I curl both my arms around his waist and burrow my face into his chest. “I am so sorry. That must have been so awful.”
His arms wrap around me, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder. “He’s not the first man I’ve shot, you know, but…”
His mouth is near my ear when his voice breaks, and his hold tightens. It’s weird, because I wasn’t there and I’m not the one in trouble, but I am the one in tears. Prison? Marco is way too good a man for that. The world would be a worse place without him in it.
“You crying?” He gives my shoulder a wiggle.
“No!”Repeat after me:I will not make this about myself!
“’Cause if you’re not, you’re drooling on me.”
A hiccup stutters out.
“Hey now.” He jiggles my shoulder again. “No need for tears.”
Not a minute ago he was crumbling. Now he’s comforting—again. I am so weak and he’s so unbelievably strong. I pull away and stare. “How can you say that?”
In the lock of his jaw and the twitch of his eye, I have my answer.
“It’s alright to let down, Marco. Let me comfort you for once.”
Something heated—I can guess what, mostly because I feel it, too—flares in his eyes. But I watch him shake free of it. He’s serious as a heart attack about keeping things on the up and up with us, a gentlemanly impulse that melts my core.
“Comfort, eh? Tears are a nice strategy.”
“Hey!” I elbow him, or at least as much as I can at the angle he’s holding me.
