Friday, 21 January 2011

One Call Per Week

(Continuation of Five Telephones)

The calls came once a week for a while, then he got special permission for more. About that time, we switched to being pen pals. He wanted someone to know his story or his version of the truth. He also wanted to know what it was like on the see trees, to walk along the lake, to go to parties and shop in a supermarket and choose your own meals.

Lengthy letters arrived. He told it from the beginning.

When I was sixteen, I had a girlfriend. She got pregnant. My father wanted to buy us a condo and help us out. He was the anchor for the Channel Five News. My mother wanted us to have an abortion. She was a primary school principal. Parents divorced. My mother won. No condo. So we slept in my car and went into my girlfriend's house to shower during the day when her Mom was at work.

I was too young to work legally, so I got working with a guy who stole televisions and small stuff. Always did it during the day when people were out at work. But one day, we came across a pensioner. She was in the living room. I cased the kitchen and picked up a radio. I heard him gagging her in the living room. It got ugly. I left the radio there and we parted ways at the gate. I never saw him again and never knew his real name.

I told my dad I'd been in some trouble. He set me up with a condo and a car. And I moved out to LA. Everything was sweet until eight years later. I had a car crash...drunk driving. The plates went through the computer...fingerprints. I was done. They matched the prints in the kitchen. And so I was flown out to Stateville immediately.

I tried to explain that there was no way I could have killed that woman as I was in the kitchen. My prints were proof of that. But the other guy wore gloves. He was the professional.

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