over.
In what seemed like slow motion, the door of the patrol car opened and the officer stepped out into the seemingly peaceful street. The camera, positioned at shoulder height, moved jerkily toward the topped car. In the background came a steady murmur of continuing radio transmissions. Standing just to the rear of the driver’s door, the camera bent down and peered inside. Two young men were seated in front.
“Step out of the car please,” the officer said, speaking over the sound of loud music blaring from the radio in the Taurus.
The driver hesitated for a moment, then moved to comply. As he did so, his passenger suddenly slammed open the rider’s door. He leaped from the car and went racing up the toy-littered sidewalk of a nearby home. For a moment, the point of view toyed beside the door of the stopped Taurus, but the scene on screen swung back and forth several times, darting between the passenger fleeing up the sidewalk and the driver who was already raising his hands in the air and leaning over the hood of his vehicle.
“How come you stopped us?” the driver whined. “We wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”
By then Joanna had lost track of everything but what was happening on the screen. A sudden knot tightened in her stomach as she was sucked into the scene’s unfolding drama. She felt the responding officer’s momentary but agonizing indecision. His hesitation was hers as well. Should he stay with the one suspect or go pounding up the sidewalk after the other one?
Joanna’s mind raced as she tried to sort things out. As the fleeing suspect ran toward the house she caught a glimpse of something in his right hand. Was it a stick or a tire iron? Or was it a gun? From the little she had seen, there was no way to know for sure, but if one suspect carried a gun, chances were the other one did, too.
The kid with his hands in the air couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He wasn’t a total innocent. No doubt he’d been involved in previous run-ins with the law. He knew the drill. Without being ordered to do so, he had automatically raised his hands, spread his legs, and bent over the hood of the car. Most law-abiding folks don’t react quite that way when stopped for a routine traffic violation. They are far more likely to start rummaging shakily through glove compartments, searching frantically for elusive insurance papers and vehicle registrations.
As the camera’s focus switched once more from the driver back to the fleeing suspect, Joanna again glimpsed something in his hand. Again she couldn’t identify what it was, not for certain.
“Stop, police!” the invisible officer bellowed. “Drop it!”
The shouted order came too late. Even as the voice thundered out through speakers, the fleeing suspect vaulted up the steps, bounded across the porch, flung open the screen door, and shouldered his way into the house.
At once the camera started moving forward, jerking awkwardly up and down as the cop, too, raced up the sidewalk and onto the porch. Taking a hint from what was happening on-screen, Joanna began trying to wrest the Smith & Wesson out of the holster. Once again, the gun hung up on the balky leather while the belt and holster twisted loosely around her waist. Only after three separate tries did she manage to draw the weapon.
When she was once more able to glance back at the screen, the cop/camera had taken up a defensive position on the porch, crouching next to the wall of the house just to the right of the screen door. “Come out,” the cop yelled. “Come out with your hands up!”
Just then Joanna heard the sound of a woman’s voice
coming from inside the house. “Who are you?” the rising female voice demanded. “What are you doing in my house? What do you want? What…”
Suddenly the voice changed. Angry outrage aged in pitch and became a shriek of terror. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t please! No! Oh, no! Nooooooooo!”
“Come out,” the officer ordered
In what seemed like slow motion, the door of the patrol car opened and the officer stepped out into the seemingly peaceful street. The camera, positioned at shoulder height, moved jerkily toward the topped car. In the background came a steady murmur of continuing radio transmissions. Standing just to the rear of the driver’s door, the camera bent down and peered inside. Two young men were seated in front.
“Step out of the car please,” the officer said, speaking over the sound of loud music blaring from the radio in the Taurus.
The driver hesitated for a moment, then moved to comply. As he did so, his passenger suddenly slammed open the rider’s door. He leaped from the car and went racing up the toy-littered sidewalk of a nearby home. For a moment, the point of view toyed beside the door of the stopped Taurus, but the scene on screen swung back and forth several times, darting between the passenger fleeing up the sidewalk and the driver who was already raising his hands in the air and leaning over the hood of his vehicle.
“How come you stopped us?” the driver whined. “We wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”
By then Joanna had lost track of everything but what was happening on the screen. A sudden knot tightened in her stomach as she was sucked into the scene’s unfolding drama. She felt the responding officer’s momentary but agonizing indecision. His hesitation was hers as well. Should he stay with the one suspect or go pounding up the sidewalk after the other one?
Joanna’s mind raced as she tried to sort things out. As the fleeing suspect ran toward the house she caught a glimpse of something in his right hand. Was it a stick or a tire iron? Or was it a gun? From the little she had seen, there was no way to know for sure, but if one suspect carried a gun, chances were the other one did, too.
The kid with his hands in the air couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He wasn’t a total innocent. No doubt he’d been involved in previous run-ins with the law. He knew the drill. Without being ordered to do so, he had automatically raised his hands, spread his legs, and bent over the hood of the car. Most law-abiding folks don’t react quite that way when stopped for a routine traffic violation. They are far more likely to start rummaging shakily through glove compartments, searching frantically for elusive insurance papers and vehicle registrations.
As the camera’s focus switched once more from the driver back to the fleeing suspect, Joanna again glimpsed something in his hand. Again she couldn’t identify what it was, not for certain.
“Stop, police!” the invisible officer bellowed. “Drop it!”
The shouted order came too late. Even as the voice thundered out through speakers, the fleeing suspect vaulted up the steps, bounded across the porch, flung open the screen door, and shouldered his way into the house.
At once the camera started moving forward, jerking awkwardly up and down as the cop, too, raced up the sidewalk and onto the porch. Taking a hint from what was happening on-screen, Joanna began trying to wrest the Smith & Wesson out of the holster. Once again, the gun hung up on the balky leather while the belt and holster twisted loosely around her waist. Only after three separate tries did she manage to draw the weapon.
When she was once more able to glance back at the screen, the cop/camera had taken up a defensive position on the porch, crouching next to the wall of the house just to the right of the screen door. “Come out,” the cop yelled. “Come out with your hands up!”
Just then Joanna heard the sound of a woman’s voice
coming from inside the house. “Who are you?” the rising female voice demanded. “What are you doing in my house? What do you want? What…”
Suddenly the voice changed. Angry outrage aged in pitch and became a shriek of terror. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t please! No! Oh, no! Nooooooooo!”
“Come out,” the officer ordered
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