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Message-ID: <50256asstr$1106190603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 25 {Gina Marie Wylie} (teen, mf, cons)
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Date: Wed, 19 Jan 2005 22:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 25.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: teen, mff, , voy, cons.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, by Gina Marie Wylie.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http://www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 25 :: A Deposition and a Proposition

My stomach growled louder and I looked up from the book, as I
finished it.  It was now almost eight and no one had appeared. 
Odd.

I looked at the book.  A stray thought crossed my mind.  They
don't write books like this any more.  It wasn't anything like
Harry Potter; nothing like Goosebumps or Alanna, nothing at all
like Middle Earth.

Had the world ever been as fucked up as the book said?  Waiting
for the Bomb?  Not just unsure if it would come, but positive
that it would?  That it would mean the end of all civilization? 
Would it?

I shook my head and my stomach growled again.  It was, I thought,
not at all like either Mom or Wanda not to tell me that they
weren't going to be home for dinner.  Dad -- Dad never talked to
me about such things, he always left it to someone else to tell
me.

I pulled my cell phone out and started to dial. The display
stayed dark.  That wasn't good!

I contemplated battery charge and shook my head.  When I took my
pants off at night, I put the phone on the charger.  Always.  It
was the last thing I did before I went to bed.  And last night? 
I was pretty sure I'd done it.  Nonetheless, I walked to my room
and pushed the plug into the phone, expecting to get my messages.
 The light on the charger lit, but nothing on the phone worked.

I took the phone and whacked it with my finger, not hard, just
enough to let it know I was unhappy.  Nothing happened; it stayed
dark.

I pulled the battery out from the phone and looked it over.  It
didn't seem to be leaking, so all I could do was shrug.  I went
to the cordless phone in the kitchen.  There were no messages
there, but it did have lights and dial tone.

I took a few steps and pulled a can of bean with bacon soup out
of the cupboard and opened it, then levered the contents into a
saucepan.  If this was a test, I was going to be ready!  I set
the timer for five minutes, and went into the family room.

The poker table was, I'd been told, under repair.  How, I
wondered, do you repair bullet holes?  How, I wondered, do you
repair piles of money spread through the room?  I closed my eyes;
wishing Hammer and Chief Ortega were present.  I wanted to
apologize for them getting shot.

I was still thinking that when the timer in the kitchen beeped
and I went in to check on my soup.  Yes, Davey, that was cool! 
That was wonderful!  I turned the burner on the electric stove on
and reset the timer.  The soup would warm a lot quicker, I
thought, with a little heat under it...

How ready was I?  I mean, really?  I'd sat at the table and
watched, until told to move.  Hell, even Fissionhof, when he'd
punched me in the stomach, challenged me to move.  Maybe I had
lead muscles, maybe not -- but in my mind's eye, I was as soft as
always.  Why hadn't I reacted?  Why hadn't I felt afraid?

Not for the first time, I felt like I was in a place where the
walls were closing in on me.  I shrugged it off.  That was
stupid!  I was fine!  Fesselhof was in jail!  Terry Toohey and
his friends had been kicked out of school!  Miss Kimmel was
wanted by the US Government and Willy Coy, Blade and Hammer
seemed very determined to catch her.  So did Chief Ortega.  Had I
any reason to doubt their determination?  Nope!

The timer beeped again, and this time the soup was warm and
getting warmer.  I stirred it for a few minutes, then poured it
out of the pan and into a bowl and then went and sat down at the
TV set in the family room and turned it on -- something I didn't
usually do.

I found that I'd timed it right, it was now just eight o'clock
and I was watching a new show called "Birds of Prey," a Batman
sequel.  I personally thought Batman wasn't that good, not in
either of the movies I'd seen.  But this show was cool, and the
ability to jump off buildings and land lithely on the ground was
beyond cool.

The show was just about over when Wanda and Emily came in,
talking about the party on Saturday.

A few minutes later the show was done and Mom came home.  "My
cell phone battery appears to have died," I told her.  "I didn't
get any messages that everyone was going to be late."

"I left you a message," she agreed.  "Maybe you and Phil can stop
tomorrow after school and get a new one."

I shrugged.  I'd forgotten about the deposition, and I hadn't
written down my account of what happened.  I went into my room
and sat down and did it, just like Dad wanted, longhand.

He came home about ten minutes after I finished, and sure enough,
he wanted to look at it.  He read the page-and-a-half and
grunted.  "It'll do.  You didn't bring up anything else, and
that's good.  Listen to me.  Tomorrow, when they are asking you
questions keep your answers simple; yes and no are the best
answers.  Don't elaborate; don't bring up something that wasn't
part of the question.  And if I tell you not to answer, don't
answer."

"Sure," I told him.  This was obviously something he had
experience in, and I'd just as soon as keep my own experiences
that way very limited.





Wednesday morning I swam, ignoring the fact that it was chillier
outside in the morning than it had been.  Emily came out and got
in, but just stayed for a few minutes, telling me it was too
cold.  I laughed and told her that I was compensating by swimming
faster.  Still, when I got out myself and was toweling off, I
started to shiver.  And I had to set the shower temperature way
low, to rinse off, because the usual temperature felt like the
water was scalding hot.

When I got to school, I sat down next to Mercedes and she
responded by scooting a little closer.  "Miss me?" she asked.

I put on my best poker face.  "You went somewhere?"

"Did you do any research last night?" she said, ignoring me.

"I wrote a longhand report for my dad about last Saturday night.
After school tonight, I have to give a deposition.  They say it
is unpleasant; worse than that night at the police station."

"They were idiots.  I take it you didn't do any research."

"I read the book my dad gave me.  It really didn't have anything
in it that would help.  And it's nearly fifty years old,
anyway."

"I did more research.  This is going to take our best effort,
Davey.  I want to go this summer, and this looks like my best
hope.  Babysitting is something you can keep; I can't do it and
study at the same time.  I can't do research; I have to watch the
kids.  I don't want my father's help, but I don't see any way to
get what I want without it."

"I've found that there are worse things than doing what your
parents want."

To my surprise, she leaned her head on my shoulder and rested it
there for a few seconds before sitting back up.  "I keep
forgetting that people keep trying to hurt you."

"I keep trying to forget," I replied, trying to joke about it.

Emily and Karen had been standing a few feet away, talking.  When
Ms. Weaver showed up, Emily tugged on my sleeve.  I turned to her
and she smiled.  "I told Rob that he could interview me Saturday
afternoon after the party, on camera.  I'm going to do it!"

"Good!" I said, hoping she was making a good choice.  "I hope it
goes well."

She grinned.  "Rob wants to do this right.  Could I ask you a
favor?"

"Sure," I told her, "just about anything."

"We need someone to hold the microphone, Karen said she didn't
want to do it.  Wanda said she'll be busy with party cleanup. 
Would you...?"

"No problem!"  I wasn't sure why she couldn't hold the microphone
herself, but then, maybe she didn't want to.  On the other hand,
I would have a certified excuse for not helping with the
cleanup.

At lunch everyone decided to go to Mercedes' after school to
study, since I was going to be gone for an unknown amount of
time.

The rest of the day blurred past, and it helped that I'd put what
was going to happen after school out of my mind.

Dad was there to pick me up, and I mentioned the phone battery. 
He checked his watch.  "We have twenty minutes.  Let's try Radio
Shack."

We went to Radio Shack, and they told me that a new battery was
$65 dollars.  Dad went ballistic, then more so, when they offered
to sell us a new phone for ten dollars, if he'd sign me up for
another year.

"I'll think about it!" he snapped, and we walked out.

A few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of a small
office building.  "One last time.  Keep it short, keep it simple,
don't expand on your answers."

"Yes, sir!" I said, and saluted.  I could see that made him
angry.

"Davey, this is like getting an enema at a hospital.  It's not a
nice thing.  You can fight it, but usually that just makes it
worse.  The lawyers for Fesselhof are here, and they'll be asking
questions as well.  Screw up and we could be sued.  Screw up and
Fesselhof might never come to trial, and if he does, he might be
acquitted.  Screw up and if my company decides they don't like
the publicity, I could get fired.  We'd have to move, Davey. 
Consider the number of very unpleasant things that could happen
if you screw up.

"Lately you've been acting like you understand things better than
you did a few months ago.  This isn't a good time to have a
second childhood!"

"Sorry," I told him.  "I guess I wasn't nearly as funny as I
thought I was."

"We never are... that's why it's nice to be around people who
love you.  They'll forgive us the smaller mistakes we make."  He
waved at the building.  "Inside, you will find some cruel,
rapacious bastards.  And those are the ones that are supposed to
be on our side.  In there, Davey, the only person truly on your
side will be me."

Definitely something to think about!

We fetched up in a brightly lit conference room, with a whole lot
of people in it, one of whom was Chief Ortega.  He held out his
hand to me, not to my father.  "Your turn, Davey.  Be cool!"

Someone loudly, a little angry I thought, and loudly cleared his
throat.  The chief grinned in the direction of the throat
clearing and left the room.

I was waved to a chair at the head of a long conference table
where I sat down.  Then the man to my right hand started naming
people, skipping only Dad, who was sitting on my left.  In the
corner, like at the police station, a woman was sitting, typing
on something that didn't much look like a typewriter.  I realized
I'd spaced out and missed almost all of the names, when the man
finished speaking.

"And I am Detective Pat Sweeney, an investigator from the City
Attorney's office."

I opened my mouth and started to speak.  I managed "Yes, sir,"
but Dad stomped on my foot and I swallowed the rest of the
comment that I'd was just about to make about how I remembered
him from before.

I looked down at my hands and thought furiously.  Keep it simple.
 Don't elaborate.  Don't say anything except in answer to a
question.  Don't go someplace other than where the question led.
I remembered the first time, with the detective asking questions
about the man who'd tried to run Mercedes and me over.  I
remembered the admonition from Willy Coy that evening about not
bringing Hannelore Kimmel into the responses.  At the time I'd
felt smug, having followed instructions, then helping Mercedes to
do the same thing, so they would leave her alone.

"I would think," the detective said, his voice stiff with anger,
"that you'd be interested in the instructions.  Considering who
was the likely target of the attack."

"Strike that," one of the lawyers spoke up at once.

"Sorry," I told the assembled group.  "I'm not used to this."

"Just answer the questions," the detective told me.  "I can ask
them," and he indicated two people sitting on opposite sides of
the table as well.  "They can ask questions.  You may ask your
counsel, in this case your father, for advice."

Something from my eighth grade civics class flashed through my
mind.  I could always plead the Fifth.  And as quickly as I
thought that, I realized something.  I wasn't under arrest,
Fissionhof was.  I wasn't sure what would happen if I refused to
talk, but I was tolerably sure it would be good for Fissionhof. 
Fesselhof, I mentally corrected myself.  This would not be a good
place to call the rat bastard names.

I looked up.  "I'm ready, Detective."

It's a good thing I was ready, because for the next ten minutes I
answered one dumb question after another.  What was my name? 
Where did I live?  What was mother's name?  My father's?  Did I
have any brothers or sisters?  Where did I go to school?  I
looked them in the eye and told them Wanda was my sister; I
patted myself on the back for not mentioning Emily.

I was asked what I was doing on Saturday evening, September 14,
2002.

"I was invited to play poker with my father and some of his
friends."

I was asked for a list of names, their occupations, phone numbers
and addresses.  I gave the first two for everyone there and told
the detective that I didn't know the last two items for anyone
except my father.  I also said that Willy Coy and his friends
"worked at the air base."

For the first time, someone other than the detective spoke up. 
"Aren't you rather young, Mr. Harper, to be playing poker with
adults?"

"There's more to poker than a simple reading of the rules would
lead you to think," I replied.  "I think it was meant to be
educational."

"And do you play for money?"

I glanced at my dad who nodded.  "Yes, sir."

"Do you think that's appropriate?" he asked.

I decided that this had to be one of Fesselhof's lawyers.  "I
didn't think about it.  My father and his friends thought I could
play with them.  They asked me back, something they don't always
do."

"It's illegal in Texas to gamble for money."

My father snorted and I just laughed.  "Maybe," I told him.  "But
I don't think I'd want to be the person entrusted to try to stop
it.  Texans can be... sudden."

There where several chuckles around the room.

"Do you think it proper for the Chief of Police to play poker?"

"My sister taught me when I was six," I told the lawyer.  I
decided that my sister had also taught me a lot of ways to
cheat... but just to show me how it was done, not to take my
money.  "As for Chief Ortega, I don't think he either wants or
needs my opinion about how he lives his life."

My dad kicked me under the table again.  I decided that was just
a warning.  I was starting to get a little talkative.

Then, forty minutes of questions about the shooting itself. 
Every little detail, everything anyone said.  Over and over
again, from every possible angle.  I silently blessed the first
night at the police station.  They'd done the same thing, and
after I got over my anger at how stupid they had to be, to ask
the same question over and over, I'd memorized my answers and
would just repeat them back by rote.

Out of the blue, my father spoke.  "My son prepared a written
statement of events.  Would you like to see it?  He covers the
events in sufficient detail therein."

That was like asking a school of piranha if they were hungry.  A
person from each side of the table left to make copies, and after
a few minutes, they were back, with multiple copies of my
statement.  Everyone except me got several copies.

More questions, more repeats of the questions they'd already
asked.  I just repeated the answers I'd set my mind to.  Finally
the detective looked at the guy I figured had to be the City
Attorney or whatever.  "Any further questions, sir?"

The answer was in the negative and the detective turned to
Fesselhof's side of the table.  "Any further questions,
gentlemen?"

The one attorney who'd spoken before nodded.  He looked at me. 
"Mr. Harper, you are obviously an intelligent young man.  Now, I
want you to think most carefully about the answers to the
questions I'm about to ask.  Please, young man, answer them with
a simple yes or no.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."  I thought that was funny, myself, saying I would and
then using two words in the answer.  It made me think of Shellie
and the way she twitted Colonel Terrell.  That led me to realize
that the Colonel had all but stopped calling on either Shellie or
me.

"Did you see who was shooting at you that night at your house?"

"No, sir," I was on a roll; I was going to go for it.  The next
time I was going to throw in an "I did," or "I didn't."

"Thank you Mr. Harper, that's all."

I had my mouth half open, ready to answer the next question.  I
closed my mouth, feeling stupid.  The sneaky bastard had
sandbagged me!

Everyone started getting up, the woman who'd been taking the
notes was packing up the long tape from her machine.  Dad put his
hand on my shoulder and propelled me out of the room.

When we got in the car, he laughed.  He actually laughed.  "Now
that went well!"

"I didn't think so," I said, grumpy and hungry.

"You really, really, need to learn to control your face.  You
looked positively shit-eating happy when you replied 'Yes, sir'
at the end.  No doubt you were going to push the envelope for the
next question."

"I was thinking about it," I admitted to him.  Well, maybe more
than thinking about it.  But I hadn't done it.

"I suppose; it's a small thing.  But Davey, it's never a good
idea to pick at a rattlesnake.  Odds are, he's more interested in
getting home in a hurry, but now and then, you'll piss it off. 
Then you can land in serious trouble.  It was better this way."

"They didn't ask any questions about Fesselhof."

"Another time," he said.  "Maybe.  There are several important
things about last Saturday night you haven't thought about."

I shook my head, not sure what he meant.

"There was a full moon, Davey.  No one actually saw someone they
can say was really Fesselhof.  There was a witness who saw
someone who looked like a teenager, who rode off on a motorcycle.
 But no one can stand up on a witness stand and say it was this
Nick Fesselhof.

"I know this is painful, but you did right by never mentioning
his name."

"There weren't any questions about him," I said, trying to
understand.

"In any trial, doesn't matter if it's civil or criminal, there is
a great struggle between the parties over what is admissible
evidence.  What this was about tonight was if you saw Fesselhof
or had any knowledge of him wanting to shoot you.  All of the
decisions about evidence goes on behind the scenes, in motions
the lawyers make to the judge.

"Right now, until the police develop some physical evidence that
ties Fesselhof with the scene of the shooting, they've agreed to
not ask you for reasons why Fesselhof might not like you.  That
last question was to put it on the record you didn't see who did
the shooting."

"I don't think I understand," I told him.

"Mr. Simpson was given two opportunities to identify Fesselhof in
front of lineups.  One was a group of young men, all teenagers. 
Explorer Scouts, except for Fesselhof.  Mr. Simpson didn't
recognize any of them.  Then, a lineup with young men in ski
masks.  He didn't recognize Fesselhof there either, and worse,
said, 'It could be any of them.'"

I swallowed, feeling a cold chill running down my spine.  "The
neighbor across the street from Fesselhof's grandmother's
couldn't pick him out of a lineup, either."

I looked at him.  "This is like what they said about Miss Kimmel,
isn't it?  There is no real evidence to tie her to what happened
to us in the parking lot?"

He nodded.  "And now, the painful part.  What I want is for you
to be able to stand in front of another roomful of people like
you were just in, and to be able to swear on a stack of Bibles a
mile high, that no one told you not to talk about Fesselhof
before your deposition tonight."

"No one talked to me about not mentioning him."  I was a little
puzzled.

"That's right.  And you didn't.  Because if you had, later that
could be considered evidence that you had him in mind, that this
was a private vendetta on your part to screw Fesselhof, that you
saw a chance and took it."

I was going to retort angrily, but I shut my mouth.  "That
wouldn't make any sense.  Who else would shoot at the house?"

"Person or persons unknown, the same ones who tried to run you
over in a shopping mall parking lot.  But that never came up
either."

It was like a light going on over my head.  Oh!

"Do you remember a TV show we watched a few years back called
Connections?" he asked.

We didn't watch very much TV as a family, but when that show had
been on, everyone who could be there had been glued to the TV. 
It had been fascinating, even for me, who wasn't as old as the
rest.

"Everything is connected, Davey.  One event, another event.  And
if there is no connection, and if it's to someone's advantage to
manufacture a connection, they do it.  Everyone knows how
connected the world is."

"Oh," I spoke weakly, echoing vocally my earlier mental gasp of
surprise.  I wished I could crawl into bed and make the whole
world go away.

"Welcome to the grown-up world, Davey," Dad went on.  "Parents
like to put off the day their kids meet it face-to-face.  I've
never been sure if that's a good thing or not.  I was lucky that
way... I wanted to play football and there is no better reality
check than someone twenty pounds heavier than you, running you
down and smashing you into the ground with a tackle.  That
happened, for me, for the first time in seventh grade."

He hadn't even started the car, instead he grinned at me.  "I
wasn't sure what it would take to bring you face-to-face with
reality.  I was beginning to think you'd were going to skip it. 
Just goes to show you, how little we know."

He punched my shoulder, not gently.  "Let's go get a steak, then
go blow the shit out of some innocent paper targets!"

I was hungry, but I had no desire to shoot.  It wasn't like I had
a choice.

Steaks again, the same place.  The steak was good; the platter of
onion rings as large as ever.  I put down my coke glass and tried
to keep from belching when I finished.  I dabbed my mouth with a
napkin, then cleaned my fingers for the thousandth time.

Dad looked at me.  "It's another dirty trick.  If you ever want
to shoot in competition, you don't eat just before you shoot. 
Or, for that matter, it's not really a good idea to eat this much
before a game, either.  Right now your body knows there's food to
be processed and blood is rushing to the stomach and intestines
to haul off the goodies.  All that blood there means less
elsewhere, and more importantly, the changes in blood pressure
don't do you any good when it comes to performing consistently."

I nodded, trying to pretend I understood.  It wasn't good to eat
much before shooting or a big game.  So what were we doing?

We drove to the range and Dad went to speak to the man at the
counter and a few minutes later we were headed back to the actual
shooting area.  I waved at the two large gun cases he was
carrying.  "Do you rent them?"

We fetched up at one of the firing positions, and he put the
larger of the two cases down on a bench and unzipped the other. 
He hefted the rifle and handed it to me.  "Notice the bolt is
open, and here at the end of the bolt," he pointed to where he
wanted me to look, "there is no red warning."  He twisted the
little knob there, and a bit of red paint appeared.

"Red means the safety is off, black means the safety is on.  Like
all mechanical devices, never trust it.  In a second, I will
demonstrate to you, with nothing in the chamber, with the muzzle
pointed downrange.  It's not terribly good for a firing pin to
dry fire; occasionally they break and then you have to see a
gunsmith to get it fixed.  In the olden days there were a lot of
gunsmiths and they had a very high opinion of themselves.  These
days it's a vanishing art and their high opinion of themselves
has been augmented by rarity.  It would be, in fact, cheaper to
buy a new bolt, than have a gunsmith repair it.  Cheaper still to
do it yourself."

He tapped the rifle.  "This was given to me by my father on my
twelfth birthday, as it was given to him by his father on his
twelfth birthday."

"But not me," I said, trying not to feel angry.

"It's a different world, Davey.  When I was a kid, I'd get on my
bicycle with my friends and we'd go plink tin cans.  I didn't
even have a case for it; I used a rope to tie it around my back.
You could buy ammunition at any hardware or sporting goods store;
most supermarkets and convenience stores sold it too.  I bought
many boxes of ammunition and no one ever said a thing.  Now,
unless you are eighteen, you can't own a firearm and you can't
buy ammunition for a firearm."

He looked at me.  "I wasn't sure about you.  I couldn't be sure
if you were just being ornery or were just stupid.  Handing a
stupid person a loaded rifle is asking for trouble."

"I'm not stupid," I said.  No, I was seething.

He chuckled.  "You matured a little later than I did, is all.  I
was wrong, okay?  You could probably have handled it.  It was
easy to put off because of the laws.  Be damned with the laws! 
Stupid damned politicians, sitting on their fat asses making one
set of rules for ghetto kids and ranch kids.  The same set they
want to apply to responsible adults and certifiable nutcases."

He hefted the rifle.  "This is a single shot .22.  It fires the
short, the long and the long rifle cartridges.  It was made by
Remington and sold for a couple of bucks back then."

"If it's yours," I asked, "why keep it here?"

He stared at me and I realized he was thinking I'd asked a stupid
question.  Oh!  He thought I was stupid and couldn't be trusted
around guns, an opinion which I was now in the process of
justifying.  It is sobering to realize your father thinks you are
a fumble-fingered dolt, not to be trusted with what he'd owned
since he was twelve.

"Before you go quite ballistic," he said, his voice filled with
sarcasm, "that was one consideration.  The other is that your
mother is a liberal woman of her times and purely hates guns. 
She wasn't happy about the other night and is even more unhappy
about tonight.  Life, Davey, sometimes doesn't make you happy. 
But we adapt.  Do you understand?"

In other words, forget it.  It still left a tight angry knot in
my gut.  Then I realized he'd said several things, not just one,
in that little speech.  Mom had to adapt, I had to adapt, he had
to adapt.

For the next few minutes, he busied himself showing me the rifle.
 It really didn't take but a few minutes, it was pretty simple.

Then he slid a single shell in the chamber, pushed the bolt
closed and aimed at the target.  It was loud, but not as loud as
I'd expected.

"That was a long rifle," he told me.  "What I was shooting when
we were here before, what Nick Fesselhof was likely shooting the
other day.  Now, you try it."

It wasn't hard, although I wished the rifle had telescopic
sights.  I lined up and pulled the trigger.  The noise wasn't bad
at all, and the kick was less than one of Wanda's playful
punches.

"Where did it go?" he asked.

I'd remembered from the first time.  "High and to the right."

He nodded.  "That's because you're jerking the trigger.  You just
squeeze, Davey.  A slow, steady squeeze.  With the best of
weapons, you never know until it happens, when the trigger goes.
No flinch, no jerk."  He put a cartridge in the rifle and I shot
again.

"A little low," I said, without taking my eyes from target.

"A little low," he agreed.  A second later he put another round
in the rifle.  I moved a bit and fired.  This time it was lower
still, but still directly below the dot on the target that was
then bull's-eye.

I told him where it had gone and he grunted.  "And what did you
do wrong?"

I was mildly exasperated.  "I have no idea.  Obviously
something."

"You moved," he said simply.  "Golf, tennis, football, baseball,
shooting.  The principle is the same.  Consistency.  Learning how
to get it right, and thereafter doing it the same way, time after
time."

He showed me how you are supposed to hold a rifle.  You always
put your hand on the same place on the barrel and on the stock;
you tucked your thumb against your cheekbone... all intended to
make sure that each time you shoot, you are in the same
position.

I got the bullets into the target in progressively smaller areas,
and then he talked me through how to move that group where I
wanted since the rifle didn't have adjustable sights.  With
those, he told me, you didn't have to guess.

"That's enough for a minute," he told me.  "Rest a second."

"I'm not tired," I told him.

He laughed.  "Pull the bolt back and aim at the target."

I did as requested.  "Now, tell me where the rifle's pointed," he
told me.

The sight was making small circles on the target.  I'd been too
focused before to notice them.  I focused again, but there wasn't
much I could do to stop them.

"The movement is because as light as that rifle is, you're not
used to holding it," he told me.  "With practice, you'll be able
to adjust," he paused and changed the word, "adapt, to the
movement."

He nodded at the target.  "Reel it in, Davey."

I did, and he applied a small ruler to the last couple shots I'd
fired.  I'd been shooting three times at each of the individual
bull's-eyes and he held the ruler up, with his thumb marking off
how far apart the bullet holes were on the last couple.

"Three-quarter-inch group," he told me.

I nodded, not having any idea if that was good, bad or average.

"Normally in a .22 match, you fire one shot at each bull's-eye. 
Ten shots in the prone position, ten sitting, ten kneeling and
ten standing, or offhand, which is what you've been doing.  Prone
and sitting are the most accurate positions, kneeling less so,
and offhand is considered the most difficult.  Forty shots, four
hundred possible points.  Three sixty is okay for a score, three
eighty makes you a hero of your team and anything above three
ninety gives you a shot at best score."

I did the math.  If you shot all nines, you'd have three hundred
and sixty points.  Which meant that I needed half-inch groups.  I
was suddenly quite certain that it would not be an easy thing to
get better.

He put another target up and pressed the button to move the
target away.

He didn't stop at the distance the target had been at before. 
Instead he ran it out half way to the end of the track.  "A
hundred and fifty feet," he told me.  "How large do you think
your three-quarter-inch group will be at this range?"

"Three times as big," I said confidently.

He handed me three bullets.  "Sit down, Davey."

He had the rifle, so I did as told.  He talked me into the right
position, with one elbow resting on my knee.  He suggested both
elbows on my knees but that wasn't comfortable at all and he
didn't insist.  Then I fired three shots at the first bull's-eye,
without any interruption.

"Where did those shots go?" he asked, as I put the rifle down
after the third shot.

I considered lying.  "I have no idea.  I know I put one between
the first and second bull's-eyes.  But that's because I can see
it."

He pulled the target in and I winced.  How big was my group? 
There was no way to tell, because there was only one bullet hole
in the target.

"Before you say anything or think badly of yourself, you're
tired, it's the end of a long day, and you've had a big meal. 
You didn't do badly at all, Davey.  This was to show you
something."

He flipped the target over and drew a square about six inches on
a side.  "This is the family room," he said, then drew a little
arrow at the top, and put an "N" next to it.  "Now, draw for me
the window and the table."

I put a block on one of the edges for the window, and then
sketched in a circle, which ended up too big.  "Now, Davey, where
on this drawing is where the shooter was?"

He saw my expression and laughed.  "About three feet away.  Now,
Davey, draw me an arrow showing the shooter's line of fire."

That I could do.  I'd gone out and looked up at the pole, curious
about it.

"Now, Davey, lights.  Show me the lights that were on in the
family room."

I drew a small circle in the middle, "That's the overhead light,"
then I drew little cones for the track lighting.  "Here, here,
here, and here," I told him, "the lights aimed at the table."

"Now, show me where Hammer was sitting."  I did that too, very
curious what all this geometry was about.

"And the first shot came when Hammer stood up.  Would you assume
that means that the shooter saw him move?"

"Yes, sir."

"Except the drapes were closed.  More accurately, unless it was
coincidence, the shooter saw his shadow move against the
curtain."

I thought about it and nodded.  "Draw a straight line from each
light through Hammer and to the window."

I realized it was a trick question almost the instant he
finished.  The overhead light shone straight down, three of the
four track lights had been in positions where they wouldn't have
cast a shadow out the window.  So, I drew the line from the one
light, through Hammer and out the window.

"Now," Dad said, "draw a line from the shooter's position, to the
point on the window where the other line crosses.  Where the
shadow would have been on the window."

I did, and that line continued into the room, passing right
through where I'd been sitting.  I swallowed.  I racked my
memory; I was sure Hammer had been shot first.  I was positive.

"Let us assume," he went on, "that it was you up on the pole,
shooting offhand like you were a few minutes ago.  Where would
the bullet go if you aimed at the shadow?"

I'd miss, of course.  But if he hadn't been shooting at the
shadow, why did he start shooting?  It didn't seem to make a
whole lot of sense.

"There is one last little thing you need to consider," he told
me.  I looked at him.  "At that range, how many times do you
think you'd miss the window, altogether?"

I couldn't help blushing.  "I'd have been lucky to hit the
window," I told him, chagrined.

"Don't beat yourself up; I told you that.  But the shooter hit
the window each and every time.  After the first shadow, there
were no more targets, he was firing randomly into the room."

I nodded; that made sense.  "And the first shot was so far off
because of why?" he asked.

I looked at the diagram.  Shit.  I don't like to cuss, but shit!
"He wasn't thinking about shadows.  He was trying to miss!"

Dad nodded.  "Yep, like I said.  Assuming competent counsel on
Fesselhof's team, he's going to get off."

"Like as not," Dad went on, "he figured after the first shot,
everyone would head for the hills.  Instead, with the exception
of you, we all realized it was a badly aimed small caliber
bullet, and there was just as much chance of being hit in one
place as another.  And if we'd all tried to leave together, we'd
have been an easy target if the theory was wrong."

"And all I did was sit there."

He gripped my shoulder.  "I keep repeating it, one of these times
believe me.  Davey, don't beat yourself up about it -- it
wouldn't have made any difference, odds-wise, if you had moved."

Odds-wise, maybe not.  But what about my self-respect?  Dad
didn't say anything, but took out the other rifle.

"This is a .270 Roberts," he explained.  "This is the rifle I
like the best of all."

He then spent the better part of a half hour poking a lot of
holes in the targets, all of them out at the full extension on
the range track.  All of the holes were dead-center, I didn't see
anything less than a ten.  Of course, the bullet was bigger but
most of them were dead-centered on the bull's-eye.

We walked out later to his car and I sat myself down.  He turned
on the ignition and then turned to me.  "I hear that every time
you whack the baseball, you nearly tear the cover off."

"I wish!" I exclaimed.  "But, when it comes down the pike just
right... I surely can apply the bat to the ball.  Could I ask you
a question?"

He had his mouth open, like he'd been about to ask me a question.
 "Sure, Davey."

"Can I get a bat of my own?  Do you think the coach would let me
use it?"

He laughed.  "Do you know what a new bat costs?"

I blinked.  No, I had no idea.  Obviously, they were expensive.

He laughed harder.  "One day, Davey, you will have this figured
out.  A bat is fifty or sixty bucks, no big deal.  You need to
learn to bluff, but more importantly, you need to keep your cool
when someone else bluffs.  Making a hasty decision is a
prescription for failure; so is getting angry when someone bluffs
and succeeds."

I nodded, and there was another second where neither of us
talked.  "Tell me, Davey, how is it that you can hit the ball so
far?  It takes upper body strength.  I've never seen you work
out.  What's your secret?"

I contemplated things.  A couple of times before, people had kind
of nibbled around the edges, even Dad.  I'd told the truth then;
I decided that the fact he was asking again meant he hadn't
believed me the first time.

"Dad, I told you before, I do chin-ups in my room in the morning.
 A bunch of them.  I swim."

"Swimming develops the cardio-vascular system.  Swimming gives
you more endurance, but not more strength," he said it as if it
was a law of nature.

"Well, that's what I do," I told him stubbornly.

He looked at me steadily for a second.  "Either you suddenly got
very good, which is always possible or you are telling me the
truth.  How many chin-up reps do you do, Davey?"

"I've been working on it for a year or so.  It took a while
before I could do more than a couple."

"How many is more than a couple?"

Everyone made a big deal out of chin-ups.  How were they
different than push-ups?  "Thirty or so.  Lately, well, sometimes
I'm pissed.  Fifty.  I've been practicing doing them one handed,
because I want to save my arm."

"Pissed, eh?" he asked.

I shrugged.  "It's a way to work off steam.  I swim like that
too, sometimes."

I swear, his eyes were like an x-ray machine, boring into me. 
"How is that, Davey?  How do you swim?"

"Well, I get pissed.  So I swim as hard as I can."

He shook his head.  "Then what?  What happens when you are
tired?"

I laughed.  "When I get tired, I swim harder.  What's the point
of quitting, just because you're tired?  Like I said, it happens
when I'm pissed.  Lately, that seems to be a lot."

"When you hit, Davey, are you pissed at times?"

"I somehow don't believe you want to hear what I think of the
asshole they had catching for me at first.  Or what I thought
when Fesselhof made comments about Mercedes.  You've told me a
thousand times what you think of whiners."  Ten thousand times,
maybe.

He laughed and shook his head.  "You are so totally wasted on
baseball, Davey.  You should be playing football."

"Dad, baseball is a gentleman's game.  You don't try to hurt the
guys on the other team.  Football is all about hurting the other
guys."

"You and I must have been watching different ballgames, then," he
said.

I realized he was serious.

"Dad, I don't want to play football, okay?  It's dangerous."

"Davey, you went to a movie and someone tried to run you over. 
You were sitting in our family room and a moron fired off a
couple of magazines into the room.  A .22 is not the weapon of
choice when you go hunting the biggest game of all.  But it will
do the job, if a round hits the right place."

Well, that was all true.  I spoke weakly, "I really don't see
myself as a football player."

"Next year," he told me.  "Davey, I won't insist that you do more
than give it a shot."

"Don't insist, because I won't do it."

"Okay," he was laughing again.  "How about if I ask pretty
please?"

"I'm not a jock," I said, knowing I was losing the argument.

"And just what do you think a jock is?  Some pile of muscle
without brains?"

Stupid surely didn't describe Jack the Ripper.  Or Chuck.  And if
Jack and Chuck weren't stupid, then their wanting Rob to play
quarterback wasn't a dumb idea.  Rob wasn't dumb and he was
considering it.  That had to be dumb, right?  At least according
to my theory about dumb jocks.

"I'll think about it," I told him.  I thought about it for a
second.  "Why do you think I'd be a good football player?"

"Because, when you get pissed, Davey, you're not really getting
pissed."  He reached out and tapped my forehead.  I tried to
avoid his finger, but there was no room.  "You think, you scheme,
you execute.  If you can do that on the football field, you will
go a long, long ways."

"I'm not a jock," I said, waving the flag of surrender even as I
protested.

He laughed.  "Davey, it's about doing the job.  It doesn't matter
if you're an astronaut or a football player.  Job one: getting it
done.  There are, Davey, athletes out there in all walks of life.
 People who did well in their sport, and who moved on in life. 
They don't wear a badge on their shirts... or their blouses. 
They remember, Davey.  Sure, maybe at an alumni dinner they wear
a letter jacket, but so what?"

I sat and thought about it as we drove home.  I crawled into bed
and thought about it some more.  I wasn't a jock.  I thought the
notion of my playing football was the craziest thing I'd ever
heard of in my life.  I did chin-ups!  Big deal!  What was
different between a chin-up and a push-up?  Nothing.  Nada!

I contemplated Mercedes and Shellie.  I visualized a wave from
Blue Crush.  That's what I want, Dad.  Mercedes!  Shellie!  And
the curve of a wave, the thunder of sound, the rush of a
lifetime, sliding through one of those tunnels of water curling
over my head.

<1st attachment end>


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