Not Leavin' Again

Trigger warning: mentions of gun violence.

The doorbell rings and I mutter under my breath, “Who’s on my porch? It’s Tuesday, not Friday.”

Deliveries aren’t an unusual sight here in the boonies but they’re not commonplace either, and no one comes out here just to chat. The internet hasn’t invaded here yet, so people contact me by snail mail or call me on my landline for casual conversation. I like it better this way.

The doorbell rings again, and I yell, “I’m coming!” My Social Security check goes only so far, so I’ve been polishing some scribbles into something a magazine will accept. Pushing them aside, I rise and start down the stairs. Another doorbell prompts another response, “I said I’m coming already!”

  Only it’s not a delivery guy. Unlocking the two deadbolts and opening the reinforced door reveals two unsmiling men with bulges under their bulky suits, shuffling their feet in the cold. The storm door is also locked, a necessity, affording me the veneer of protection from intruders, and the ability to talk to strangers without them being able to open it.

“Whadya want?”

“US Marshalls. We want to talk with you.”

“Show me some identification.”

Two badges are held up against the weathered plexiglass window. They could be counterfeit. How would I know—I’ve never seen a US Marshall badge before. At least the grainy ID photos match their grim faces. But I’m not inviting them inside where it’d be too easy to commit mischief. After unlocking the storm door, I step onto the porch, being sure to remain in view of the security camera.

The older man shoves a document into my chest, “You’ve been served,” and the pair walks away.

“Ain’t that somethin’.” I wait until they get into their car and drive out of sight before going back inside and securing both doors. “What can this be?” My life has been far from exemplary, but I’ve never done anything that would merit a subpoena. At least I don’t think I have, except for the assault charge that got reduced to a misdemeanor in a plea deal. Besides, that was years ago.

The refrigerator gives up a cold soda, and I settle into the sofa and tear open the envelope. “Blah, blah, blah,” it reads, and then the order. “You are required to appear at the Federal District Court in Portland at 10:00 a.m. on January 27, 2025. A Grand Jury will question you about the events of July 4, 2024. Your attorney may accompany you, but not inside the Grand Jury room. You may be required to testify more than one day.”

Oh boy. The Fourth of July celebration. I’ve never ventured further from this one-stop-sign town than that day at Fred’s farm, twelve miles from my house, albeit across the state line. There’s no reason to leave here. Fruits and vegetables form neat rows in the field next to my house, and my freezer is filled with venison, most of the deer killed during the legal hunting season. The Walmart, forty miles away, carries flour, butter, canned goods and other foodstuffs I can’t provide for myself, and they deliver my standing grocery order on Fridays.

How did I get into this mess? All because I enjoyed listening to the festival’s featured Motown group on CD and wanted to hear and see them perform in person. All because I was invited onstage and became a first-hand witness to the shooting. I thought all the commotion had come and gone once the cops finished interrogating me. Apparently not.

After checking into a cheap motel in the outskirts of Portland—writers don’t make enough to stay in a decent hotel—I walk the streets. Sidewalks! Actual concrete sidewalks provoke a chuckle. Don’t need ‘em at home, why are they needed here? A single car comes to a stop at a red light, with no other cars in sight. A stop sign would work just as well and would save electricity and the driver’s time and patience. LED lights line the street, allowing fewer stars to twinkle than I can see from my porch. Most people out tonight are solo, and a couple of them are hitting up passers-by for money. Good luck.

Portland sure is different than home.

The movie theater is letting out, and people disperse, talking about CGI and the Surround Sound score. Many hurry to their cars, others to an all-night diner, and some stragglers enter The Tree Haus, a cheerless tavern. Might be a good idea, and I follow them, if only to get out of the late January cold.

My eyes don’t have to adjust to the neon lighting because what little light there is competes with thick cigarette smoke. The bartender wipes a glass while listening to a guy in overalls and a red flannel shirt complain about Generation Z. Two bored women dance out of rhythm to an 80’s rock classic blasting from the Wurlitzer. A couple grappling in a back booth are trying, without much success, to be discrete. I grab a cracked vinyl stool at the end of the wood plank counter.

“What’ll ya have?”

“A beer.”

“We got Bud, Bud Lite, Miller, Miller Lite, Hamm’s, Stroh’s—”

“Hamm’s.”

A frosted mug soon appears, sitting on a cardboard coaster, foam sliding over the thick rim. When I lift the beer to my lips, printing on the coaster appears. “Beer today, gone tomorrow.” Sure hope I’m gone tomorrow.

“Thanks.”

The bartender returns to the timeless and pointless complaints about the younger generation.

So city-people, if Portland qualifies as a city, entertain themselves the same way we do at home. A sip confirms my thoughts. Yep, I could be sitting in The Town Pump back home, if I had sold a story and could afford to celebrate.

Thoughts of tomorrow elbow their way to the front of my mind. Even though the cops, before they took the handcuffs off, asked me why I went to the concert, I’m gonna be asked the same questions again. Most everything after the shooting remains a blur, and I struggle to remember what I told them. But my answers better match up.

The instant the shots were fired is burned into its own brain cell. Instinctively, I had pulled out my Glock and pointed it downward, but which was in the direction of the band’s fallen front man, where he laid bleeding out. The image of me on stage, gun in hand, splashed across newspapers for days. A deep breath escapes my lips. I’m gonna hafta relive this again while the killer walks free somewhere.

I finish the drink and walk back to my room.

The clock radio alarm goes off and I gather my thoughts while sitting on the side of the bed. Count to three before answering each question. Keep your answers short—yes or no are best. It’s OK to say I can’t remember, if it’s true. Don’t look guilty. Remember you’re innocent; you’re a witness, not a suspect. Don’t lose your temper.

 A shower refreshes me, followed by a mediocre fast-food breakfast across the street. Back in the dingy room, I reluctantly put my Glock between the mattress and box spring and hang Do Not Disturb on the doorknob.

I pull out of the parking lot and turn left after signaling, but only when there’s a big gap in traffic. Getting a ticket and keeping the Grand Jury waiting would not go over well. The same red light from last night stops me, but now several cars are at the intersection, so I guess a stoplight is needed after all.

A short while later, I pull into a parking lot and enter the Federal Building. A magnetometer affirms the decision to leave my piece behind. I find the assigned room and sit in a chair outside it.

At 11:22, a man in a navy-blue suit and striped grey tie comes out of the room and asks my name. A nod, and he motions me to follow him inside.

The room surprises me. The paneling is outdated, showing wear and tear, and fluorescent bulbs flicker. The man, he must be the District Attorney, points to a chair in a raised box where I sit on a hard wooden seat.

About twenty people are in cushioned chairs, staring at me. Most are in their 40s, a couple are younger, and the rest are older. One lady, about my age, has thinning gray hair and thick glasses perched below a wrinkled forehead. She’s frowning. Four of the men are wearing suits and ties, the rest sport casual pants, mostly tan or black. No blue jeans or overalls. Ordinary people, they look like my neighbors back home. Were any of them in the saloon last night?

I’m sworn in, advised of my limited rights, and we go through the preliminaries of name, date of birth, address, etc. Then it begins.

“Where were you in the afternoon of July 4, 2024?”

“Why were you there?”

“Are you in the picture?”

Glancing up, the familiar image looms larger than life. There I am, standing over a dying Black man, my gun aimed at him, with chaos on stage and in the audience. Stop. Breathe naturally.

“Yes.”

“Why were you carrying a gun?”

“I always carry a gun when I leave the house.”

“What specific gun do you carry?”

“Glock 19.”

“Do you have the gun with you now?”

Be careful. Count to three. Keep your answer short. Don’t explain you left it in the motel.

“No.”

“What’s the capacity of your Glock 19 magazine?”

“Fifteen rounds.”

“How many rounds were in the magazine after the shooting?”

“Twelve.”

“Did you fire your gun that day?”

Where is he going? A slow breath. “Yes.”

The room goes silent as the jurors, especially the old lady, stare at me. He asked me a yes or no question, but I can’t let this go without an explanation. “Earlier that day, I shot at a coyote poking around my chicken coop.” Damn! Too quick and too easy an alibi. Remember to pause before responding in a slow and even voice.

“Why did you point your gun at the singer lying on the stage?”

“I was taught to point my weapon down when I draw it, as a safety precaution, instead of pointing it aimlessly into a crowd.” I seize the opportunity to elaborate, although I’m breaking my rule about short answers. I point at the blown-up photograph, and the jurors’ eyes follow my finger. “Notice in the picture that I’m looking up, over and past the audience, trying to find where the shots came from. And my torso is turned away from the stage.”

“What caliber is your Glock?”

“Nine mil. And that’s another thing, he was shot with a .223 assault—”

“Stop! You have no direct knowledge of the weapon used or its caliber. It’s hearsay testimony. Jurors will disregard the witness’s remarks about the purported weapon and caliber that killed the victim.”

“Did you shoot the victim?”

“No.”

“No further questions. You may step down.”

What! That’s it? I came all the way to Portland for this? I stumble out of the box and exit the room with my head held high. The same chair in the hallway beckons me, and I collapse in it, shaking. Think! Why did they subpoena me? Nothing makes sense.

I return to my rented room and note the Do Not Disturb hangtag still dangles from the doorknob. Inside, I lift the mattress, retrieve my Glock, smell the barrel, and check the magazine. It hasn’t been fired. Lying down might help me figure out why I got a subpoena. It doesn’t.

Now it’s early evening and I go back to the bar where I take the same worn stool.

“What’ll ya have?”

“Hamm’s.”

The beer arrives on a cardboard coaster. This one says, “Don’t worry, beer happy,” provoking a subdued laugh. I’m not worried, but I won’t be happy until I figure this out.

“Tough day today?”

I nod.

“Wanna talk about it?”

I shake my head and count three glum patrons scattered among the tables, nursing their drinks. After wiping a wine glass, the barkeep peers at his work in the light and returns to the cash register. I sit, stew, and sip.

“Another,” I say, lifting the mug.

More Hamm’s arrives and takes its place on the damp coaster.

“Can I get something to eat?” Breakfast disappointed me and seems like a long time ago.

“Burger and home fries?”

“Sure.”

“What do you want on it?”

“Grilled onions, lettuce and tomato.”

Sliced potatoes start protesting when they hit the hot oil. The barman, now a short-order cook, slaps a patty on the grill and covers it with a dented tin lid. Chopped onions sizzle in melted butter next to it. A few minutes later, it all comes together in front of me, along with a caddy containing ketchup, mustard, relish, and mayonnaise. Perfect comfort food.

The bar food hits the spot, though it’s a bit greasy, or maybe it’s because I’m ravenous after an intense afternoon. Either way, the red plastic basket is empty minutes later, except for the checkerboard wax paper.

My hand rises and I say, “One more.”

He clears the basket and condiment tray and replaces the empty glass with a full one, eyeing me askance. My return glare tells him to back off. Yeah, it’s a little early and I’m pounding them back pretty good, but I’ve had a hard day.

Later, two customers walk in, jingling the bell on the doorframe, and the bartender greets his regulars by name. This is a good time to go. I drain the last of the suds, stick thirty dollars under the placemat, and leave. I weave my way back to the motel and put the Do Not Disturb tag on the doorknob. Sleep claims me soon after my head hits the pillow, though my dreams alternate between today and the Fourth of July.

Waking by daylight beats an alarm every time. I start the day with a shower and another crappy breakfast across the street. How do city-people eat this stuff?

I try to analyze yesterday from the District Attorney’s point of view. Why did he subpoena me? What was he trying to prove? The DA painted me as the shooter, but he ended when I denied it. And why did he object to my comment about an assault rifle killing the aging African-American singer? That would have proved I didn’t shoot him!

How many innocent men have been found guilty on circumstantial evidence and sent to prison? Or executed for a murder they didn’t commit? This state uses the electric chair. But I’m innocent and the DA knows it.

So why did he have that damn photograph in the Grand Jury room? Everybody saw it in the paper the next day. And it sure looks like I killed the singer, standing next to his body, with my gun aimed at him. And why did he ask about the missing rounds in the magazine? He knew the answer, and all the answers, because this information was in the police report that I signed.

Wait! Go back! The DA called me “the witness” when I tried to mention the guy was killed by a .223 slug. He knew the bullets didn’t match. Is that why he called me “the witness”?

That’s it! I’m a witness, but circumstances make me look like I’m the killer. Everybody thought I did it, including the police, at least at first. He had to ask me all those questions so the Grand Jury could hear my explanation. He didn’t want them to indict the wrong guy, and neither do I.

But why did he object to telling the Grand Jury what the murder weapon was?

Was he trying to present me as a credible witness? In that case, he had to clear me in the minds of the Grand Jury, so they’d believe the rest of my story. What did I say earlier? “… I’m looking up, over and past the audience, trying to find where the shots came from.” Maybe that’s what he needed from me, the location of the shooter, because I had the best view and the quickest reaction. Does that mean they’ve finally caught the killer and needed me to corroborate his position?

That’s their problem, not mine. I just want to leave. Things are never this complicated back home, and home is where I’m heading.

I pull up in the driveway and a sudden movement near the chicken coop attracts my attention, so I get out of the car but don’t close the door. My Glock leaves its holster, pointed at the ground, and I’m creeping toward the henhouse when all hell breaks loose. Chickens are squawking like their lives depend on it. They’re running in circles, their wings are beating, and feathers are flying everywhere. I take a breath, raise the Glock to eye level, and step around the corner.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

The coyote lies on its side, twitching its legs, but only for a couple of seconds.

Life is a lot simpler here.