Crimes, Torts, and Trials

(Revised 12/3/2022)

This is yet another departure from our typical fare. Will wrote the prior (A Butterscotch Sky), and I (Devo) am offering this multi-character, multi-arc story, with segments related by each in first person.

The original version of A Walk Changed Everything rates fairly high, so we know our readers aren't afraid to dive into complicated stories. Though it's not complicated in a similar way, I'm still hoping you enjoy the tale I offer. After all, everything any author writes is an experiment.

Finally, Will helped me with a crap-ton of research for this tale. We couldn't find legal experts who were willing to consult without being paid for their time, and the attorneys we personally know don't practice in the fields portrayed here. If you do, please suspend some disbelief if we depart from reality.

As always, all characters engaging in intimacy are over the age of eighteen.

We hope you enjoy Crimes, Torts, and Trials

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CHAPTER 1

RIVER
Wednesday, July 24, 2019

My right thumb was so far inside her body I couldn't stick it in any deeper. I pressed it toward the bone I felt at its pad. I hoped what I was doing would work because I had no clue what else to try. She was beginning to move a little which was an encouraging sign. The moans I heard were, too, since it all meant she was still alive.

"Does anyone have a 911 operator on the line?" I shouted without looking up to the half-dozen or so people observing the spectacle from various positions and distances.

Though every single person was holding a phone, not a single one answered.

"Idiots doing it for the gram ," I mumbled to myself as I pulled my own from my pocket with my free hand.

Thank god I'd recently added my left thumb's print to the Touch ID.

"911. What is your emergency?" said the operator who answered after probably two minutes of being on hold.

"I'm with a female, approximately twenty years of age. I think she's been shot. She was bleeding profusely from her leg. I need an ambulance and police near the intersection of 31st and Indiana near the south entrance to Dunbar Park."

"I have your location. Police are already in the area. Second Fire Battalion is responding. It's less than a mile away. Stay on the line with me."

"Okay, but I need to put my phone down. I'm putting you on speaker so I can use both hands to keep pressure on her. Give me a few seconds."

"What's your current status?" the operator asked once I confirmed we could hear each other.

"I have my thumb in the wound. I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

"Perfect. Keep doing what you're doing until an EMT advises otherwise."

Within seconds, I heard the wail of sirens approaching from the south and saw a cruiser's flashing lights rounding the corner of 31st to the west. The evening rush hour had long since ended, so I was hopeful the EMTs would be able to quickly navigate the less than a mile's worth of streets which otherwise would have been congested.

Two officers exited the cruiser. The shorter one spoke first.

"Well! If it isn't Markie !"

I didn't look up when I said, "Give it a rest. I literally have my hands full right now, okay?"

"Oh, shit ," the taller gasped when he grasped the meaning of my words. "What happened?"

The shorter cop pissed me off, and I was a bit terse with the other as a result.

"I'm pretty sure she's been shot. I mean, there's this hole in her thigh, but how would I know what made it? I heard what I thought were firecrackers. This lady had jogged by me going the opposite direction, and I heard her collapse behind me. At first, I thought she just tripped or something, but then she grabbed her leg, and I saw it bleeding. She passed out a few seconds later."

"The firecrackers. The sounds. Where'd they come from?" the man asked.

"I think from the direction of the softball field," I answered, pointing northward with my head because my hands were occupied.

"What did you hear?"

"Like I said, I thought it was firecrackers."

"Yeah. I get it. Can you describe it better? We were already nearby. Dispatch had already received a couple of calls of possible gunfire in the area."

"It was like … bang. Bang bang bang."

"So, four?"

"Yeah. I think so. One, then three more a few seconds later."

"Did you see anyone?" the officer asked.

"No one except some dog-walkers, this lady, and the idiots who've suddenly and miraculously disappeared who were taking pictures or videos of the whole thing. There was also a couple of people in their sixties riding a yellow tandem bicycle along the other side of the street. Their shirts had the Manchester United crest on the back."

"Units on TAC-3, check the vicinity near and north of the Dunbar Park softball field. Witness heard shots from that direction," the officer spoke into his radio's shoulder-clipped microphone. "That's great information, ma'am."

"Justin, don't waste your breath. I'll fill you in later," the shorter policeman said.

Less than a minute elapsed before two CFD trucks and an ambulance arrived along the curb.

"Move back, please," a paramedic already wearing blue exam gloves demanded.

"I don't think I should yet," I said.

I removed my left hand from over my right, affording the man a view of the situation.

"Oh . Yeah, don't," he said, jaunting back to the ambulance as another paramedic went to work placing an oxygen mask and checking vitals.

The first guy then returned to us and situated a couple of items. One was a packet of granules, the other an applicator he deposited them into. He readied himself, placing his hands next to mine.

"When I say three , remove both of your hands out of the way of mine and move back."

"Understood."

"Okay. One … two …"

I removed my thumb one second later and he placed Celox granules into the wound.

"You did a good job slowing the blood loss. We'll take it from here. One of the guys over there will help you clean up," he said and nodded toward some firemen who seemed eager to assist.

As I walked toward them, the short officer taunted behind me, "Aw, did you get your hands dirty?"

I thought about giving him a piece of my mind but decided I didn't need to waste my time.

A particularly observant firefighter must have somehow sensed my thoughts, or maybe my face conveyed them.

He said, "I know what you're thinking, but don't do it. That particular asshat is known for being a little heavy-handed, and I'm not sure it matters to him that you're a woman."

---

My name is River Marquette. I don't like it shortened to Riv . I'm not French, so it's not pronounced Revée , and don't ever call me Markie . Once I'd kicked asses in the Corps, the others in my unit caught on quickly enough to address me as Sergeant Marquette, or only River when ranks weren't expected.

I completed my service, the last of it in Okinawa training other countries' units in specific instruction. In my current job, I get along just fine with most police officers, but a few didn't seem to care for me too much.

---

One of the guys motioned me over to the side of the truck.

"Stand back. This might come out a bit fast at first," he said, uncapping a bulkhead where a hose would normally be fitted. He pulled a lever and water poured onto the ground, splashing back on my leggings at my shins before it slowed to a suitable flow.

"Sorry about that," he sheepishly said.

"Don't worry about it. Water on my legs is the least of my concerns right now," I said, stepping forward so I could at least try to rinse the drying and coagulating blood from my hands.

The water did a decent job, but thankfully, another firefighter came alongside with a pump of antiseptic soap and a few paper towels. I held my palms out and he deposited blobs into both. It helped a lot, but I'd have to worry about the undersides of my fingernails later.

"Can I ask you a question?" the guy supplying the water said.

"Go ahead," I replied and began to rinse.

"Did you really have your finger in her leg?" he asked with an oddly elevated pitch in his voice.

"My thumb, but yeah."

"How'd you even think to do that?"

"All of you are EMTs, aren't you?"

"Yes, but only basic life support. I'm not a paramedic like the bus drivers," he said, pointing toward the ambulance.

"I've read a lot of books. I read a lot when I had downtime overseas. You know, when my unit was on standby or waiting before a hurry-up."

"Military?" he asked, handing me the towels.

"USMC. Second of the Second."

"Oorah! Semper Fi , sister!"

I chuckled at his exuberance. "You, too?" I asked as I dried my hands, trying to fish out the rusty flecks under my nails.

"Yes, ma'am. I was based at Camp Gonsalves in Okinawa. I exited five years ago."

"The JWTC? A jungle rat, huh? We might have been on the island at the same time. I completed my service seven years ago."

We compared MOSes and tours to discover we were only a year apart in age.

"Shit⁠—um, sorry for the language, ma'am." He blushed. "Small world, isn't it?"

His self-aborted expletive tickled me because I was accustomed to far worse than his slip. As he shut off the flow of water from the truck, I walked a few steps down the sidewalk to deposit the spent paper towels in a waste bin.

"Thank you for helping me clean up," I said.

"No problem, ma'am," he answered.

I chuckled again. He was polite, cute, and quite well-built. Given his left ring finger was bare, I sensed where the interaction might head. I decided I'd gently turn him down if he tried to ask me out because the last thing I wanted was to get involved with yet another sort of adrenaline junkie.

I said, "I can do without the ma'ams, and also the sist⁠—"

The sound of a metallic ping was preceded only by maybe a second before distinctive twin pops. And those sounds preceded the searing pain I felt at my hip by maybe two. I didn't realize what was happening until I saw the two cops run to the opposite side of the firetruck. I instinctively followed them to cover. The douchebag officer was suddenly all-business when he shouted into his radio.

DONAGH

"Vinnie !" I shouted to one of the paramedics when all hell broke loose. "This lady's hit! Get them both out of here!"

I'd seen it. I was damned near certain I did. A tear appeared in the fabric of her running pants, revealing skin which began to bleed before she yelped and squatted to the ground.

Vincent ducked as he maneuvered himself to the back doors. The woman withdrew her hand from her backside, and I saw blood on her palm.

"Oh, damn," she groaned.

"Can you make it over here on your own?" Vinnie shouted to the woman crouching next to me.

"I think so!"

"Then do it!" he yelled and pointed into the opened door.

She managed to make it there, but struggled to climb in. Vincent grabbed her under her arms and pulled her inside. He scuttled back to the cab after securing the rear door. The sirens engaged, and they departed in the direction opposite from where we all thought the gunfire originated.

"Unit 17, advise status," I heard on one of the officer's radios.

"Suspect is disarmed and in custody. Some drunk moron was popping shots from his patio with a 1911. Mark us in transport to holding."

"10-4, unit 17."

Everybody around me was visibly relieved, myself included.

"That'll make you piss your pants." One of my crewmates chuckled morbidly as we went back to the other side of the truck to shut down the pump panel.

"Check this out," he added, pointing to a hole in the side of the red-painted body. "You got lucky."

"Well, those two ladies didn't."

RIVER

"The trauma surgeon has already explained how the team plans to extract the bullet, and why it should be removed to prevent long-term pain and possible future complications, correct?"

I nodded.

"The good news is there's several ways I can provide anesthesia, and I'll leave the choice to you."

He described my options. I was already doped up with hydromorphone and felt its effects, but I tried my best to pay attention.

"That's what I want," I said after his last description.

"Alright. Let me get what I need and get started."

"Oh!" I said before he'd walked too far away. "Make sure the surgeons save whatever they take out of me. See if someone can take a picture of it next to something to give it scale."

He nodded his acknowledgment.

Yeah. I'd been shot in my ass. Again .

Well, I guess that's not entirely accurate. The first injury wasn't from a bullet. It was from a fragment of a training mortar which squibbed in its tube fifty feet away from me. Somehow, the entire unit walked away with only minor scratches, but I was the one teased for getting my backside "fragged ."

My anesthesiologist was correct. The lidocaine injections were more painful than the original wound, with the⁠—what'd he call it? A cluneal nerve block? Well, whatever its name was, it felt like the nerves in my ass were being zapped with electricity when the ultrasound-guided needle found its targets. Mercifully, I became completely numb within a few minutes after he was done giving me the shots.

Twilight anesthesia is funny stuff. All I remember was the doctor pointing to the anesthesiologist and saying something to the effect of, "Your best buddy is giving you something which will help you relax⁠—" followed immediately by the voice of a recovery nurse coaxing me to wake up.

I was soon fully alert and still numb where I wanted to be. It'd taken the surgeon about an hour to extract the bullet from my backside and repair the damage it had caused.

I was discharged from the hospital eighteen hours after I'd been admitted. I taxied to my residence. The driver, even though he looked like a big gruff oaf, took pity on me, and helped me to my door. I asked for his name and added it to my mental list of good guys.

---

CHAPTER 2

CANDACE WATERS
Monday, July 29, 2019

"He did what ?"

"She . The woman probably saved your life."

"By sticking a finger in my leg?" I challenged.

"Yeah. So I've been told," my doctor answered.

"Huh," I said, thinking to myself. "Seems strange. Why would anyone do that?"

"To gain hemostatic control. I know, it's medical gobbledygook which means stopping or at least slowing the loss of blood. The bullet which injured you nicked a major artery. What she did kept you alive until the paramedics arrived. Otherwise, you might have bled to death."

"You're saying she was the proverbial Dutch boy who stuck his finger in a dam to save the village below?"

"Yep, pretty much," he answered.

"Well, if that's the case, why is my leg not getting better?"

"Clots dislodged causing reduced circulation. The heparin I've prescribed could help."

"Clots formed where some random woman stuck a finger inside my wound? When will we know more?"

"A week, perhaps two."

I'd already been in the hospital a week. Being there for another was putting a cramp in my life. The only thing I had to look forward to were visits from my fiancé.

---

DONAGH
Friday, August 2, 2019

I noticed her limp. I mean, who wouldn't? But I knew the reason for it, and I was happy to see she was ambulatory.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" I asked as she walked into the bay with a crutch under an arm and a duffel in her other hand.

She placed the bag on the front bumper of the quint. "I thought I told you last week to ease up on the ma'ams and sisters ."

"Yes, ma'am, you⁠—sorry. I don't know how else to speak to you."

"Like a Marine."

"Fine, jarhead!" I growled, leaning into the lingo. "Whiskey tango foxtrot, over?"

She laughed at the familiar taunt and radio call.

"Nice, but don't go overboard."

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"I brought your battalion some goodies," she said. "I hope your crews don't have any allergies and is in the mood for peanut butter cookies, because I baked like eleventy dozen as a thank-you."

She unzipped the duffel to reveal two disposable aluminum pans, then pulled back one of their lids to offer me one. I took a bite and regretted I didn't have a glass of cold milk to accompany the fantastically delicious treat.

"Oh, shit this is so good," I said, mumbling the words with my full mouth.

She chuckled. "Giving up your self-censorship?"

"Sorry, ma'am⁠—I still don't know your⁠—"

"I'm River."

"River," I echoed. "That's a beautiful name. Mine is Donagh. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," I said, pronouncing my given name with the proper inflection and accent.

Truth be told, it might be the only Irish word I can pronounce because my paternal grandparents were the immigrants and insisted on using it instead of my more common one. My mother is sixth-generation American, so yeah, there's that, too.

"An Irishman, huh? No way I can say it properly."

"Then call me Donny."

"That's easier. Nice to meet you, Donny. Don't hog the cookies for yourself. Share them, and make sure everyone here knows how much I appreciate what you all do for people like me and that other stranger."

"Yes, ma'a⁠—River. I will. How are you doing? I mean, are you okay?"

"I'm doing alright. The bullet fractured a bone in my hip, so I can't exactly put my full weight on it yet, but other than that, I'm getting better."

"Good to hear. How about the other woman?"

"I don't know much about her. She came to as the ambulance arrived at the hospital. As I was getting prepped for surgery, another ER doctor asked me exactly what I'd done with her, and he told me he was confident she'd be okay. To be honest, given her wound, I'm surprised mine wasn't worse."

"Did your doctor give you any clue what hit you?"

"Yeah. He printed a photo of it. I don't have a way to identify what it is, but I wanted it for the record, you know?"

"Do you have it with you?" I asked.

"It's in my car. Why?"

"Would you mind showing it to me? I might be able to help you out."

She nodded. "I suppose I could."

"Okay. I'm going to put these wonders inside. Be right back."

I considered violating the promise I'd made, but I placed the pans in the station's kitchen instead of my locker. I portioned cookies into zip-top bags for the other two shifts.

She showed me the picture when I rejoined her in the front parking area.

"Nice. He even put a scale there," I said, noticing the finely graduated measuring rule next to the deformed bullet.

I went to the toolbox in the bay and removed a similar one. The marks in the photograph aligned perfectly with the one I held alongside it.

"It's also printed to scale," I said.

I pivoted my scale to the base of the bullet in the print.

"Weird. This can't be right," I muttered to myself.

"What's wrong?"

"The cops arrested some drunk for shooting a pistol off his porch. It wasn't more than a few minutes after the ambulance left with you and the other lady in it. I'm pretty sure they said he was shooting a 1911."

"Yeah, and?" she pressed.

"A 1911 ACP. It's a common and popular handgun. Even though they were first made a hundred-plus years ago, they're still manufactured now."