Buried Treasure

In the five years that I'd been with the Harford County State's Attorney's office, this was the first time I'd ever been distracted by what a defendant looked like. If I had been anywhere else, that would have been a good thing. But I was in court, standing behind the trial table, and the young defendant, Brisa Kramer, was on trial for forging an opioid prescription. I knew her fifty-something, balding lawyer, Roland Carson, because he'd been around the Harford County District and Circuit courthouses for a long time, way before I even went to law school.

We all faced Judge Hannah Kyeon, a young Korean-American judge known for her compassion and punctuality. When possible and with as much discretion as possible, I glanced to my right, stealing glimpses of Brisa, blond and beautiful and teary-eyed. No doubt, she was anticipating the worst, a possible jail sentence. She pled guilty, and then I laid out the facts of the case, concluding my oration with a recommendation for jail time. "Your Honor," I said, "this is Ms. Kramer's second criminal conviction. She was on probation once before after pleading guilty to writing a bad check. She's never served any time in jail. Perhaps it's time she does. Therefore, the state recommends that she serve at least minimal incarceration in this case."

Roland Carson then spoke, arguing why his client should receive probation. "Your Honor, the opioid was for Brisa's mom, not her. Jasmine Kramer is in court today." He turned to point her out before continuing. "She suffers from constant pain because of her degenerative disc disease. As Your Honor is aware, many doctors today won't prescribe opioids because of the nationwide crises. Brisa Kramer was simply trying to relieve her mom's suffering, and she didn't think medical marijuana or other pain meds were enough. As for the misdemeanor bad check conviction, it was for fifty dollars, issued when Miss Kramer got into financial difficulty. She did it out of desperation, although she now realizes that was no excuse. Brisa Kramer is twenty-two years old. She works part time and attends college full time. In sum, she's a responsible person who is guilty of a misguided but well-meaning effort to help someone in need. Respectfully, I'm asking Your Honor to give her another chance on probation."

At the mention of her mom's suffering, Brisa began to weep. Roland tried to comfort her, patting her on the back, whispering into her ear.

Being a compassionate guy, I sympathized. Still, it didn't seem to me that she took breaking the law seriously enough. "Your Honor," I said, "I think we can all sympathize with this situation. And if this was Ms. Kramer's first offense, probation would be appropriate. But it isn't. The bad check conviction had nothing to do with her mom's medical condition. Again, the state would ask for a period of incarceration."

Judge Kyeon ruled with the defense. She sentenced Brisa to three years to the Division of Correction, suspended the sentence and placed her on three years' probation. "This is your last chance, Ms. Kramer," Her Honor said. "If I see you back here again, you'll serve the rest of your sentence. Got it?"

Wiping her eyes, Brisa nodded. "You won't see me back here, Judge Kyeon, I promise."

*****

I didn't think that Judge Kyeon's ruling was entirely inappropriate. Again, I'm no hard-ass devoid of sympathy. Still, I harbored doubts about Brisa's prospects for completing probation. I'd seen it before, a defendant's lawyer talking a good game, persuading the court to grant their client probation, only to see the client back in court for a probation violation. I wished a better outcome for Brisa. She seemed like a decent kid. And man, was she pretty! She's someone I could see myself approaching in a crowded room, be it at a party or a bar during happy hour. I might even be able to overlook her criminal past, such as it was. I might even do it knowing it could jeopardize my relationship with Janine, the woman I was dating. We weren't "serious," though Janine wanted to get serious. Emotionally, we were in different places, but she was willing to hang in, hoping I'd "come around." I didn't see that happening, yet didn't dismiss the possibility either, however remote. No surprise, I concocted romantic fantasies about hooking up with Brisa, laughable in light of my recommendation that she receive jail time. The girl was most likely seething with hatred, might even stab me in the heart if I approached her at that hypothetical party or in a bar.

In the weeks that followed, those fantasies faded, and I returned to living life in the only manner I knew how, to the fullest. That included riding my hybrid bicycle along the trails that crisscrossed the numerous stream valleys of the region. That also included firearms. I owned a few pistols and rifles and shot them regularly. Shooting can be an expensive hobby, especially if you don't reload and I didn't. Working for the State's Attorney's Office could never make me rich; however, my salary was more than enough to bankroll my ammo supply.

I belonged to Patriot Arms, an indoor range that also sold ammo and firearms. Sometimes I shot after work; other times on weekends. It was on one such Sunday morning that I ran into Brisa Kramer. I had just walked into the lobby after a half hour of range time and saw her standing at the counter with a man who looked old enough to be her dad. He was talking to a staffer about range rules, the price to shoot, etc. I tried to avoid her seeing me. But then she turned and our eyes met. Neither of us said a word until the man she was with took note. "Dad, this is the guy, the State's Attorney, who wanted me in jail," she said. "Isn't that right, Kevin Wrubel?"

Momentarily lost for words, I just stood there, anxious for this awkward encounter to be over. Finally, I said, "It wasn't like that, Brisa. I hope you're doing okay."

"I'm doing great," she said, her pretty face tensed with scorn. "No thanks to you." Her dad, a thin man with thinning light brown hair who stood about an inch under my height of five-ten, eyed me contemptuously. Apparently, I was the enemy in his eyes also.

Ignoring him, I said to Brisa, "Glad to hear you're doing well. Is this your first time here?"

She folded her arms against her chest and shook her long bangs out of her eyes.

"Yes. What's it to you? I'm not a convicted felon, you know."

Her dad nudged her. "Come on, Brisa, we came here to shoot. Let it go." Then they both turned around to face the staffer.

I turned and left, but not before getting a glimpse of Brisa's adorable butt and shapely legs wrapped in tight jeans. Shame on me, right? Well, maybe not. I could see her challenging the professional façade of any guy in my position, any guy drawn to young women with Brisa's considerable feminine assets. I also had to wonder if she owned a firearm or planned to own one. If she did, was she angry enough to shoot me? She sure as hell looked it. One thing's for sure, I hoped to avoid her from now on.

But, weeks later, there she was again, same place. We pulled into the Patriot Arms parking lot, almost in unison. This time, she was alone. "We have to stop meeting like this," I said as we climbed the few steps to the entrance, hoping to diffuse the tension. Her response was a guttural sound along with a look of contempt. I let her enter first, then followed her to the lobby to check in. She carried a shooting bag, no doubt packed with heat (because her convictions were for non-violent misdemeanors, she could possess firearms). Uh oh. Still, I surmised I'd be safe from any homicidal thoughts she might harbor once we got inside.

She checked in first, told the female staffer that she'd be shooting .22 pistol, same as me. She then walked into the range area while I checked in. The staffer assigned me to lane 2, Brisa to lane 3. About three-quarters of the lanes were taken on this late Tuesday afternoon. My intent was to mind my own business. However, curiosity got the best of me, curious as to what gun she possessed and her skill level. We could see each other's target from where we stood, but a short partition kept us from seeing much of each other. From twenty-five feet out, she was hitting all over the place, scoring very few rounds in the black circle (7-10 points) of a standard NRA pistol target. Between rounds, I peeked through a crack in the partition to see that she was using a slab-sided, seven-inch barrel Ruger, a very accurate gun if one knows how to shoot it right. Discreetly, I stepped back to watch, noting her stance, the way she held the gun, her sight acquisition. She flinched right before pulling the trigger, jerked the trigger, I should say, a big no no. Also, she didn't seem to know with which eye to focus or which way to stand. Either her dad didn't instruct her right or he didn't instruct her at all, I surmised.

While reloading her Ruger's magazine, she sensed my presence and turned around.

"Yes, can I help you?!" she cried, her face contorted into a look of leave-me-the-fuck-alone annoyance.

"Just watching you shoot," I responded. Our ear protection forced us to shout.

"I see that. I'm here legally, you know. So don't even think about calling the cops." She held the half-loaded magazine in her hands, licked her sweet pouty lips and narrowed her beautiful blue eyes, staring me down. Even in anger, she looked adorable.

"I'd like to help you, give you pointers to improve your shooting," I said.

She cocked her head to the side and adjusted her baseball cap. "I bet you would. Look, Mr. Wrubel, just leave me be, okay? You've done enough."

"Suit yourself," I shrugged, and then returned to my lane. Per NRA match rules, I was shooting one-handed with my classic High Standard Supermatic and scoring in the high seventies and low eighties from forty feet out, hardly marksman level but respectable. Between ten-shot rounds, I'd glance through the crack in the partition and see Brisa's mounting frustration. Few of her rounds landed inside the black circle shooting with both hands from twenty-five feet. Some landed outside the target area entirely. I also noticed her glimpsing at my target when I scrolled it in. Impressed? I couldn't be sure. In any case, I planned to keep my distance per her wishes.

After shooting about fifty rounds, I packed my shooting bag, preparing to leave. Imagine my surprise when she stepped back to face me. "Okay, look," she said, "I guess I could use some advice. From the looks of your targets, you're obviously experienced." Her hostility was still apparent, looked like I was the last person she wanted to see. I figured it took lots of pride swallowing for her to ask.

I nodded and put down my bag. "Sure, be glad to help." After we stepped up to the shooting line, she let me demonstrate with her Ruger. Leaving her target at twenty-five feet, I proceeded to shoot two-handed, scoring in the mid-eighties. "You can sight in with one eye, but once you do, aim with both eyes open," I said. "Two-handed shooting is fine, but you need to get your position right. You keep changing from the Weaver to the isosceles. Select one stance and stick with it. Also, you need to condition yourself not to flinch before you SQUEEZE the trigger, not jerk it."

"I flinch?"

"Don't feel bad. I did the same thing when I started out, didn't even know it until an experienced range buddy told me."

She asked me to stand and watch her for another string of ten rounds. Stepping to the line, she shifted her feet back and forth, unsure how to stand. "May I?" She nodded, then let me touch her in order to guide her arms and feet into the triangle of the isosceles position. "Okay, both eyes open," I instructed after she took aim. "Now, squeeeeze the trigger."

She glanced back. "And don't flinch, right?"

"Right." It's the first time I saw her smile.

"Better, much better," I said, watching her groups narrow. She even got some of her rounds inside the black circle. "Keep practicing and you'll be hitting bullseyes in no time."

She smiled in gratification. "Thanks for your help." He smile collapsed into a frown. "So, I guess you're leaving."

"Yep. Fifty rounds are enough for me," I said, picking up my shooting bag. "See you around."

I began to leave the shooting area when she touched my shoulder and said, "Wait, I'll walk you out to the lot."

I waited at the counter while she paid for her range time (I had a full year, unlimited shooting membership), then followed her outside. I still wore my work attire, dress pants and shirt, sans the coat and tie that remained in my green Jeep Wrangler. Brisa wore tight spandex slacks and a black pull-over jersey that said TIGERS in orange letters across the top. I couldn't help but run my eyes over her shapely form. She knew it, too. Women always know.

"You go to Towson University, I take it," I said as we stood by our cars.

"Yes, senior year. Then I plan on nursing school." She eyed me warily, almost suspiciously. "Why are you being so nice to me all the sudden?"

I chuckled. "Why shouldn't I be? I enjoy teaching people proper shooting technique."

"Mr. Wrubel, a few weeks ago you asked a judge to lock me up."

"It was nothing personal, Brisa. Like I told Judge Kyeon, I didn't think you took your charges seriously."

She shook her head and gritted her teeth through clenched jaw. "Nothing personal? Well, I took it plenty personal. It's MY freedom you were trying to take away."

"Look, you might not believe this, but I'm glad she gave you another chance. If you can be responsible owning and shooting firearms, you can be responsible for other things."

"I AM responsible for other things. I work and attend school. My mom was suffering, begging for stronger meds. My dad wanted to help but was adamant about avoiding trouble. So it was left up to me to try to get my mom help. And you know the rest of the story."

"By the way, how is your mom? Her back?"

Her face softened. "Thanks for asking. Somewhat better. She's been getting nerve block injections. I know now that I acted irrationally and impulsively."

"We all make mistakes, Brisa." She stared me down, as if debating whether I meant that or said it to appease. Honestly, it was a little of both.

Slowly, her hostile expression morphed into a relaxed grin. "Mistakes like flinching and jerking the trigger, you mean."

I smiled back. "Yeah, like those. Easily corrected through regular practice and doing the right thing."

Her knowing look told me she knew my line meant more than just improving her marksmanship. She paused, holding her shooting bag in front of her with both hands, letting it dangle just above her knees. "Speaking of practice," she said, "maybe you could give me more lessons. Not to put you out, Mr. Wrubel, but maybe we could meet here and practice together."

"Fine. Only call me Kevin from now on. Can you do that?"

Briefly, she hesitated. Then: "I can do that."

After we exchanged numbers on our cell phones, I watched Brisa drive away in her blue Toyota Prius, wondering if anything might happen between us outside of Patriot Arms.

*****

Okay, I thought Kevin Wrubel was good looking. Hot even. I thought that even in court, even while hating him for recommending jail time. He looked great in a suit, the way his coat fit across his broad shoulders and tapered at the waist. His eyes, dark and penetrating, drew me in when we talked at the range. And his smile, cute and relaxed and sincere, wasn't at all what I saw when we were in court. Of course, we were both on different time then. He was my enemy and I guess I was someone he thought should be taught a hard lesson. It's amazing the way venue and circumstance can shape one's perception of people. I walked out of court despising Kevin Wrubel, only to like him, albeit cautiously, after that day at Patriot Arms.

He seemed to like me, too. Well, from the outside, anyway. Okay, I'm a hot chick, a blond, blue-eyed surfer-girl type, though I don't surf. Not bragging, that's just me, what I've been told, what's been reinforced. If you've got it, flaunt it, right? Except I don't flaunt it, not consciously. Sure, I caught Kevin admiring me in my tight spandex slacks. But I wear them because they're comfortable, not to be gawked at, though I'd be dishonest if I didn't admit to enjoying some of the attention. Meeting guys has never been my problem. Meeting the RIGHT sort of guy—now that's a different story. My mom joked that I could be a poster girl for the smart girls, dumb choices set. Maybe it's the nurturing side in me that once compelled me to choose low-achieving guys—some would call them losers—to hook up with, guys with problems, guys not going anywhere but down. "You can't change these people," mom told me, and I knew she was right but it hadn't stopped me from trying until recently. Finally, I got tired of ending up feeling nothing but contempt for these losers and then, by extension, self-contempt for my dumb choices.

By the time I met Kevin, I was dating a decent guy, Peter Jorgensen. Or at least I thought he was decent at the time. Pete was around Kevin's age, did IT work and treated me right. He was okay looking and, like Kevin, kept in shape, mostly through cycling. He was easy to talk to and seemed to accept me for me, legal problems and all. It wasn't a well balanced relationship, though, because his feelings were a lot stronger than mine. He was "crazy" about me, he said. I liked Pete—I was hardly crazy about him—and his possessive ways could make me feel claustrophobic at times. He wasn't what you'd call your classic controller, though I felt that he could become one, especially if I ever showed interest in another guy. He said he was "patient," willing to wait for me to "get there." Me? Well, I was willing to give it more time to see if there was a there there. I didn't think I could ever reciprocate his passion, though.

Speaking of passion, shooting was fast becoming one for me. I found it both relaxing and challenging. I couldn't thank my dad enough for suggesting it and then letting me borrow his Ruger to practice. Dad was willing to mentor me but Kevin seemed to know more. He was a better shot, that's for sure, and it didn't hurt that I found him a delicious piece of male eye candy. When days went by without hearing from him, I broke down and called him, asked when we were going shooting and he suggested Saturday. "This time we'll go to an outdoor range I sometimes frequent," he said. "I'll let you give my bigger caliber guns a try, my .357 and .45. How's that sound?"

It sounded great to me, not so great to mom. Exasperated, she asked, "You have a date with the guy who wanted to lock you up for trying to get me relief for my pain?"

"Not a date mom," I said. "Kevin's helping me to shoot better. And he seems like a nice guy. I forgive him. Well, sort of." She shook her head, then made herself scarce when he came to the door.

"I can see why she reacted that way," Kevin said as we drove away in his jeep. "You're her baby."

I just nodded, impressed that he was so understanding, so sensitive to the way she felt. Then I changed the subject. "Boy, I'd never guess what you do for a living," I said, eyeing his outfit, an orange sweat shirt over cameo pants and black sneakers. He wore his brown hair different also, relaxed and a bit disheveled, unlike the neat, slicked-back way he wore it in court. "If Judge Kyeon could see you now."

He laughed. "People wear different hats for different situations," he said. "But today, I'd still have you pegged for a college student," he continued, noting my jeans and black Towson Tiger sweat shirt. "And a beautiful one at that." He glanced sideways and grinned. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."

"No need to apologize, compliments are always welcome."

"And I'd bet you've had quite a few."