I Am the Messenger Read Online Free PDF Page B

and tell my version of what happened in the bank. This has happened sooner than I thought.
    It’s set down for two-thirty in the afternoon. I’ll get some time off during my shift and drive back into town to the court.
     
    When the day arrives, I show up in my uniform and they make me wait outside the courtroom. When I go in to give the evidence, the chambers are spread out before me. The first person I see is the gunman. He’s even uglier with the mask off. The only difference now is that he looks angrier. I guess a week or so in custody will do that to you. He’s lost the pathetic, luckless expression on his face.
    He wears a suit.
    A cheap suit. It’s all over him.
    Once he sees me, I look immediately away because his eyes attempt to gun me down.
    A bit late now, I think, but only because he’s down there and I’m up here, in the safety of the witness-box.
    The judge greets me.
    “Well, I see you dressed up for the occasion, Mr. Kennedy.”
    I look down at myself. “Thank you.”
    “I was being sarcastic.”
    “I know.”
    “Well, don’t get smart.”
    “No, sir.”
    I can see by now that the judge wishes he could put me on trial as well.
     
    The lawyers ask me questions, and I answer them faithfully.
    “So this is the man who held up the bank?” I’m asked.
    “Yes.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “But tell me, Mr. Kennedy—how can you be so positive about that?”
    “Because I’d know that ugly bastard anywhere. That, and he’s exactly the same guy they put in handcuffs on the day.”
    The lawyer looks at me with disdain and explains himself. “Sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but we need to ask these questions in order to cover everything that needs to be covered, by the book.”
    I concede. “That’s fair enough.”
    The judge chimes in now. “And as for ugly bastards—Mr. Kennedy, could you please refrain from casting such aspersions? You’re not an oil painting yourself, you know.”
    “Thanks very much.”
    “You’re welcome.” He smiles. “Now answer the questions.”
    “Yes, Your Honor.”
    “Thank you.”
     
    When I’m finished, I walk past the gunman, who says, “Oi, Kennedy.”
    Ignore him, I tell myself, but I can’t help it.
    I pause and look at him. His lawyer tells him to keep his mouth shut, but he doesn’t.
    Quietly, he says, “You’re a dead man. You just wait….” His words attack me, faintly. “Remember what I’m telling you. Remember it every day when you look in the mirror.” He almost smiles. “A dead man.”
    I fake it.
    Composure.
    I nod and say, “All right,” and move on.
    God, I pray, give him life .
     
    The courtroom doors shut behind me, and I walk out into the foyer. It’s caked in sunshine.
    A policewoman calls me back and says, “I wouldn’t worry about that, Ed.” Easy for her to say.
    “I feel like skipping town,” I tell her.
    “Now listen,” she says. I like her. She’s short and stocky and looks sweet. “By the time that chump’s been through jail, the last thing he’ll want is to go back.” She considers it and seems confident in her appraisal. “Some people go hard in jail.” She jerks her head back to the court. “ He isn’t one of them. He spent all morning crying. I doubt he’ll be after you.”
    “Thanks,” I reply. I allow some relief to filter through me, but I doubt it will last very long.
     
    You’re a dead man. I hear his voice again, and I see the words on my face when I get back in the cab and look in the rearview mirror.
    It makes me think of my life, my nonexistent accomplishments and my overall abilities in incompetence.
    A dead man, I think. He’s not far wrong. And I pull out of the parking lot.

 

    Six months.
    He got six months. Typical of the leniency these days.
    I’ve told no one about the threat, choosing instead to take the policewoman’s advice and forget about him. In a way, I wish I didn’t read about his jail term in the local paper. (The only good fortune is that early parole