The cops

I hated to be late. On my way to trial, my high heels clicked like a hammer against bone as I hurried down Michigan Avenue. I passed people, parked cars, and street venders. Panic and dread compounded the urgency to get to the courtroom, which was miles away. My briefcase had become so heavy I dragged it like a concrete block and considered leaving it behind. But even worse that being late, I hated being unprepared. My important notes were in this briefcase. Walking backward now, I dragged it along the sidewalk.

Then something caught my eye.

Senator Phil Peterson’s fiancé Alexis stared at me through the closed window of a car. From the vehicle, she watched me as the car crept along, keeping pace with me. Behind the pane of glass, Alexis pounded on the window. Terror filled her eyes. She was in trouble.

When I let go of the briefcase and reached for her car door, something stopped me. My ankle was shackled and chained to a concrete pillar. I couldn’t remove it, let alone reach forwa