hospital room with a door, not the ICU.
“What about Chucho? Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“They arrested him, but he’s out on bail. Your uncle put up the money.”
“What’s he charged with?”
“Drunk driving. Speeding. Resisting arrest. The works. You were too, you know.”
“I was what?”
“Under arrest. You were chained to the bed. Don’t you remember?”
“No. How long have I been here?”
“Five days.”
“Am I still chained to the bed?”
“My God, no. Someone taped the whole thing. A police officer shot you without provocation. Now he’s on leave and under investigation. Don’t you remember anything?”
Danny tries.
“I can get flashes of things, like little snapshots. He told me to get up. I put my hands up, exactly like he said. But he shot me anyway.” Danny feels himself heating up just thinking about it.
“Well, a couple of lawyers have called. They want us to sue the bastard. They say we have a good case.”
“I’m supposed to rejoin my unit in a week.”
Aimee throws back her head and laughs. “Soldier, you ain’t going nowhere.” Then she leans over and hugs him, and bursts into tears.
Danny itched even after he’d had the good fortune to shower, which happened maybe once a week; the constant dust and grit irritated his skin. It worked its way under his watchband, under his waistband, under the sweatband of his hat. When he took his boots and socks off, there was a fine mud between his toes that he tried to remove with baby wipes.
Danny wanted to wear a bandana over his face when he worked the checkpoint, but his sergeant said no, it would spook the Iraqi civilians if they couldn’t see his face. When he coughed and spat, his phlem was brown.
A man Danny doesn’t recognize reaches up and pops a videotape into the slot in the television bolted to the wall. Gray screen suddenly goes to black with white walls, an upswing motion as the camera seems to be thrust upward, then pointed down.
Danny recognizes Chucho’s metallic blue Corvette, the front bumper crumpled, white streaks from side-swiping something.
“Get out. Get out!”
A figure on the right is holding a gun with both hands. The door opens and Danny puts his feet on the ground. He doesn’t see Chucho, although he can hear him yelling.
“It’s okay,” says Danny. He has his hands up.
“Get out of the vehicle and down on the ground.”
Danny hesitates.
“I said get down on the ground!” The voice is agitated, angry.
Danny kneels down slowly, then rolls onto the ground.
He remembers how he had been asleep, or so drunk as to be virtually asleep. That’s why he had left his car and ridden with Chucho.
The camera is jostled as the operator tries to focus on the policeman, on Danny lying on the ground. He is a light-colored, prone figure on a black background. The quality is poor, bluish for lack of light. It reminds him of night vision goggles.
“Get up!” the voice barks. It cracks with tension, near hysteria.
“Okay, I’m getting up now,” says Danny. “I’m going to get up.”
He rises to his knees, starts to put his hands up again.
That’s when the shots ring out, three of them. The camera wobbles wildly, but Danny does not see this part, because he’s shut his eyes and turned away.
“It’s okay, darlin’,” says Aimee, clutching his right arm, the good one without all the tubes in it.
Danny can hear Chucho yelling again. He must still be in the car. Danny opens his eyes and sees himself slumped sideways, close to the open door of the car.
“I told you to lie down!” screams the policeman.
Another police car pulls up, and Chucho is pulled roughly from the driver’s seat.
“He killed my friend!” Chucho screams. “He shot him in cold blood!”
“Shut up,” says a voice.
Chucho is spread against the far side of the car, searched.
“We are not armed, officer!”
“Just shut up. I’m arresting you on suspicion of drunk driving and
“What about Chucho? Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“They arrested him, but he’s out on bail. Your uncle put up the money.”
“What’s he charged with?”
“Drunk driving. Speeding. Resisting arrest. The works. You were too, you know.”
“I was what?”
“Under arrest. You were chained to the bed. Don’t you remember?”
“No. How long have I been here?”
“Five days.”
“Am I still chained to the bed?”
“My God, no. Someone taped the whole thing. A police officer shot you without provocation. Now he’s on leave and under investigation. Don’t you remember anything?”
Danny tries.
“I can get flashes of things, like little snapshots. He told me to get up. I put my hands up, exactly like he said. But he shot me anyway.” Danny feels himself heating up just thinking about it.
“Well, a couple of lawyers have called. They want us to sue the bastard. They say we have a good case.”
“I’m supposed to rejoin my unit in a week.”
Aimee throws back her head and laughs. “Soldier, you ain’t going nowhere.” Then she leans over and hugs him, and bursts into tears.
Danny itched even after he’d had the good fortune to shower, which happened maybe once a week; the constant dust and grit irritated his skin. It worked its way under his watchband, under his waistband, under the sweatband of his hat. When he took his boots and socks off, there was a fine mud between his toes that he tried to remove with baby wipes.
Danny wanted to wear a bandana over his face when he worked the checkpoint, but his sergeant said no, it would spook the Iraqi civilians if they couldn’t see his face. When he coughed and spat, his phlem was brown.
A man Danny doesn’t recognize reaches up and pops a videotape into the slot in the television bolted to the wall. Gray screen suddenly goes to black with white walls, an upswing motion as the camera seems to be thrust upward, then pointed down.
Danny recognizes Chucho’s metallic blue Corvette, the front bumper crumpled, white streaks from side-swiping something.
“Get out. Get out!”
A figure on the right is holding a gun with both hands. The door opens and Danny puts his feet on the ground. He doesn’t see Chucho, although he can hear him yelling.
“It’s okay,” says Danny. He has his hands up.
“Get out of the vehicle and down on the ground.”
Danny hesitates.
“I said get down on the ground!” The voice is agitated, angry.
Danny kneels down slowly, then rolls onto the ground.
He remembers how he had been asleep, or so drunk as to be virtually asleep. That’s why he had left his car and ridden with Chucho.
The camera is jostled as the operator tries to focus on the policeman, on Danny lying on the ground. He is a light-colored, prone figure on a black background. The quality is poor, bluish for lack of light. It reminds him of night vision goggles.
“Get up!” the voice barks. It cracks with tension, near hysteria.
“Okay, I’m getting up now,” says Danny. “I’m going to get up.”
He rises to his knees, starts to put his hands up again.
That’s when the shots ring out, three of them. The camera wobbles wildly, but Danny does not see this part, because he’s shut his eyes and turned away.
“It’s okay, darlin’,” says Aimee, clutching his right arm, the good one without all the tubes in it.
Danny can hear Chucho yelling again. He must still be in the car. Danny opens his eyes and sees himself slumped sideways, close to the open door of the car.
“I told you to lie down!” screams the policeman.
Another police car pulls up, and Chucho is pulled roughly from the driver’s seat.
“He killed my friend!” Chucho screams. “He shot him in cold blood!”
“Shut up,” says a voice.
Chucho is spread against the far side of the car, searched.
“We are not armed, officer!”
“Just shut up. I’m arresting you on suspicion of drunk driving and
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