The kitchen equipment, designed to feed hundreds, now warmed pizzas and restaurant leftovers or witnessed the frying of an occasional egg. Most days she lived on peanut butter, which she doled out by the tablespoon. On the counter a collection of red and orange retro canisters added the lone pop of color to a sea of silver and black.
While the coffee perked, she tugged open the huge fridge, all but empty save for a bottle of milk, a tub of cream cheese, a half bottle of white wine, and what remained of a deli roasted chicken she’d grabbed at the grocery three nights ago.
She took the milk, smelled it to make sure it really was fresh and then splashed it in a mug. From the red cookie jar she dug out two teaspoons of sugar. From the cabinet she pulled an industrial-sized jar of peanut butter and scooped an extra large spoonful.
Peanut butter spoon and coffee in hand she moved to her L-shaped desk piled high with books and papers. She clicked on her computer and for the next ten minutes read emails as she ate peanut butter and sipped coffee.
There was an email from Channel Five. Susan Martinez requesting an interview. She quickly responded saying she’d be glad to meet. Several other messages weren’t so positive. All had seen her on the eleven o’clock news. Some supported her efforts but most emails began with bitch and whore and ended with white trash and prison scum .
Her blood pressure rose as she read each message. Several times she typed a fiery response but each time hit delete. To argue with anonymous served little.
The hinges on her chair squeaked as she eased back. She tapped the side of her mug with her finger, more irritated as she reread the last email. M AKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE AND DIE !
“Think I enjoy this?”
Rachel sipped her coffee, which now tasted bitter despite the sugar and milk. She’d not grown up dreaming to be a savior of lost souls. She’d grown up dreaming of being an artist. She’d lived to fashion clay porcelain into beautiful pieces of art. She’d not chosen this life. It had chosen her the night cops had shown up at her mother’s house and arrested her brother for murder.
“She was alive when I left her!” Luke had shouted as cops dragged him away.
This hadn’t been Luke’s first run-in with cops. There’d been a half-dozen drug- and alcohol-related arrests, but Rachel had sworn to help as she always had. She’d navigated the local jail channels to a private meeting with Luke, who had begged her for an alibi.
“Tell them we were watching television,” he’d whispered.
Rachel had been so sure that the truth would clear him. “ Luke, we don’t need to lie. The cops will find the real killer. They are on our side.”
Their mother had hired an attorney who favored cutting a deal with the district attorney rather than mounting a defense. The family had refused to bargain and subsequent legal defense fees had drained her mother’s savings and Rachel’s college fund. The night before trial, Luke had asked to see Rachel. He’d begged her again to lie. Tell them you were with me. But Rachel had still believed justice would prevail.
After a two-day trial, the jury convicted Luke of second-degree murder and sentenced him to twenty years in jail.
Luke’s conviction had not only altered his life but hers and her mother’s. Rachel had switched her major from art to political science and gotten a job as a bartender. She’d worked double time finishing college in a year and a half, and then entered law school where she’d learned how to request copies of her brother’s police record and hire a private detective. One month after she’d graduated law school, Luke had been stabbed to death in a prison fight.
Rachel stared at the piles of paper on her desk, wishing she had time to sit with a fresh block of ceramic, sculpt and pour her emotion and frustrations into the figures. When she sculpted the outside world vanished. She wanted to disappear. But she’d
While the coffee perked, she tugged open the huge fridge, all but empty save for a bottle of milk, a tub of cream cheese, a half bottle of white wine, and what remained of a deli roasted chicken she’d grabbed at the grocery three nights ago.
She took the milk, smelled it to make sure it really was fresh and then splashed it in a mug. From the red cookie jar she dug out two teaspoons of sugar. From the cabinet she pulled an industrial-sized jar of peanut butter and scooped an extra large spoonful.
Peanut butter spoon and coffee in hand she moved to her L-shaped desk piled high with books and papers. She clicked on her computer and for the next ten minutes read emails as she ate peanut butter and sipped coffee.
There was an email from Channel Five. Susan Martinez requesting an interview. She quickly responded saying she’d be glad to meet. Several other messages weren’t so positive. All had seen her on the eleven o’clock news. Some supported her efforts but most emails began with bitch and whore and ended with white trash and prison scum .
Her blood pressure rose as she read each message. Several times she typed a fiery response but each time hit delete. To argue with anonymous served little.
The hinges on her chair squeaked as she eased back. She tapped the side of her mug with her finger, more irritated as she reread the last email. M AKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE AND DIE !
“Think I enjoy this?”
Rachel sipped her coffee, which now tasted bitter despite the sugar and milk. She’d not grown up dreaming to be a savior of lost souls. She’d grown up dreaming of being an artist. She’d lived to fashion clay porcelain into beautiful pieces of art. She’d not chosen this life. It had chosen her the night cops had shown up at her mother’s house and arrested her brother for murder.
“She was alive when I left her!” Luke had shouted as cops dragged him away.
This hadn’t been Luke’s first run-in with cops. There’d been a half-dozen drug- and alcohol-related arrests, but Rachel had sworn to help as she always had. She’d navigated the local jail channels to a private meeting with Luke, who had begged her for an alibi.
“Tell them we were watching television,” he’d whispered.
Rachel had been so sure that the truth would clear him. “ Luke, we don’t need to lie. The cops will find the real killer. They are on our side.”
Their mother had hired an attorney who favored cutting a deal with the district attorney rather than mounting a defense. The family had refused to bargain and subsequent legal defense fees had drained her mother’s savings and Rachel’s college fund. The night before trial, Luke had asked to see Rachel. He’d begged her again to lie. Tell them you were with me. But Rachel had still believed justice would prevail.
After a two-day trial, the jury convicted Luke of second-degree murder and sentenced him to twenty years in jail.
Luke’s conviction had not only altered his life but hers and her mother’s. Rachel had switched her major from art to political science and gotten a job as a bartender. She’d worked double time finishing college in a year and a half, and then entered law school where she’d learned how to request copies of her brother’s police record and hire a private detective. One month after she’d graduated law school, Luke had been stabbed to death in a prison fight.
Rachel stared at the piles of paper on her desk, wishing she had time to sit with a fresh block of ceramic, sculpt and pour her emotion and frustrations into the figures. When she sculpted the outside world vanished. She wanted to disappear. But she’d
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