Jack’s rap sheet was a resume of stupidity: a few petty thefts, several residential burglaries, and the occasional trespass. Highlighting his stupidity was a conviction for punching a cop while being arrested for jerking off in public. Why little Jill married a bona fide shitbird was a mystery to most, but the reason was blatantly obvious to me–she wanted to be the one dame to tame a wild bad boy.

Three years and two babies seemed to mellow Jack. But family life didn’t tame his inner punk. Jack grew resentful of the two needy children and the damage they did to Jill’s figure. He unleashed his frustrations by slapping Jill around. A black eye, several contusions and a laceration later, Jill divorced Jack.

Soon enough, Jack went back to committing petty crimes. Participated in the weekly bar brawl. Lived the life of your typical, run-of-the-mill punk.

A year passed. Jack started making veiled threats, sent cryptic messages. Told Jill in a roundabout way that he was going to kidnap the kids and take them to a non-extradition country. One night, Jack circled Jill’s place in his car, drunk dialing from various pay phones.

Jill told me her tale at the bar. Not your typical Saturday night conversation, but not unexpected for a nightclub promoter. I was a shrink at times, listening to and advising my dysfunctional club kids. I sipped my scotch, listened to the broad, recalled what she looked like before she married Jack, back when she was one of my regulars. She asked me for advice. “You oughta get a retraining order,” I told her. “He sounds like a real creep.”

“You don’t know him,” Jill replied, defensively. “He’s a good father to the boys. He’s just going through some hard times right now.”

Jill didn’t want advice. She only wanted her delusion validated. As she walked out of the club, I knew that she’d be another item on Jack’s resume of stupidity. Only time would tell whether the line would read, “Domestic Battery,” “Kidnap” or “Murder.”

Tags: divorce · domestic violence · marriage · nightclub · relationships

Jim’s divorce was the best thing that could have happened to him. The only problem was that he still had feelings for The Ex.

Two years after they parted ways, Jim bumped into The Ex at his favorite watering hole. She struck up a conversation. He was receptive. They left the bar together, rekindled an old flame.

About month later, The Ex had news: “I’m pregnant.” Jim was elated.

Seven months passed. The Ex dropped the load. A healthy baby boy with a strong resemblance to The Ex. Everyone was happy. Jim didn’t seem to notice that the timing was a little off. A passing thought: Why doesn’t the baby look anything like me? But babies change fast. Jim dismissed the thought.

Two years later. The Ex never went back to work. Jim got stuck supporting her and the baby. The boy got bigger. Changed every day. Yet no resemblance to Jim. Doubt crept into his head. Only one way to be sure.

The blood test revealed that Jim was not the baby’s father.

Who was baby daddy? Good question. Jim snooped around. Discovered that The Ex had been fooling around with an unemployed ex-con before he hooked up with her again. Abortion was out of the question. She knew that Jim was still into her. And he was gainfully employed. The Ex planned the chance encounter at the bar. Created the illusion that the baby was Jim’s.

Jim confronted The Ex with facts. Told her that he was going to sue her for all the money she’d sucked out of him for the past two years. The Ex filed for bankruptcy. Jim never saw a dime.

Even worse than being bamboozled for his money was the fact that the baby’s first word was “daddy.”

Tags: divorce · love · marriage · parenting · relationships

Mary’s studio apartment. Quarter to three. Diagonal shadows from venetian blinds pinned us to her bed. She lay next to me. Tense. Frigid. She was expecting something. Or someone.

A silhouette of a man broke the striped pattern covering us. Someone outside. I asked, “Expecting company?” She slowly, silently, shook her head. A lie.

Knuckles tapped glass. Brief silence. The shadow knocked again, impatient. It was the other guy. No, I was the other guy. Did Mary double book? No time for dumb questions. I got dressed, chamber checked my gun, made sure there was one in the pipe.

Mary got up, opened the door slightly. There was shouting from outside the door. A lover’s quarrel in Vietnamese. No subtitles. I was unable to get the gist. The punk barged in, broke the door chain.

No way to sneak out. I stood my ground. I kept my pistol in hand, inside my jacket pocket. Put my finger on the trigger. No other way to play this.

The punk looked at me, shouted at Mary. She yelled back. There was a .44 Magnum tucked away in the punk’s rear waistband. His heater was bigger than him. The punk cocked his arm back, slapped Mary’s face.

“I hate to interrupt,” I interjected, keeping my voice even. “Your lover’s quarrel doesn’t concern me.” I leveled my piece at the punk. I had the drop on him. He had no idea.

Slowly, the fool reached for his rear waistband. I carefully took out the slack in my gun’s trigger. The punk put his hands back down. “I don’t want any trouble with you, either,” he said. He spit on Mary’s face, stormed out.

Mary looked over at me in disbelief. “Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“Why would I play the sap for you, kid? Waste a bullet and go to jail? Why?” I took my finger off the trigger, took the heater out of my pocket, holstered up. “You set it up so the two of us guys would end up over here about the same time. You wanted us to fight each other over you–maybe shoot each other. But you ain’t worth fighting over. You ain’t worth going to jail for. And you ain’t worth dying for.”

I took some cash out of my wallet, put it on Mary’s nightstand. “Here’s some dough,” I told her. “Go find yourself a shrink and lose my number.” She sat in a corner of her room, sobbing.

It was a little after three. I walked out of Mary’s apartment, put a cigarette in my mouth. Stopped for a moment to light up, but never looked back.

Tags: domestic violence · relationships

Here are some true stories from around the State of California and beyond. I didn’t write ’em, but I know you’ll get a kick out of reading ’em.

Thinking Ahead

A Gardena police officer had detained a man for loitering when the man said, “Quick, read me my rights.” “Why?” inquired the officer. “Because I have a gun in my pants, and it’s sliding down my leg, and in about two seconds it’s gonna hit the ground.”

More Quick Thinking

In Des Moines, a 93-year-old woman surprised a burglar who had just broken into her home. Thinking fast, the woman pretended she was senile: “Oh, it’s good to see you again, Henry. Sit down and watch TV while I make you some lunch.” “Sounds good,” said the burglar. While he was enjoying a peanut butter sandwich, the woman excused herself and dialed 911. Officers say she was laughing uncontrollably as officers burst in and handcuffed the guy.

Your Objection is Noted

At a juvenile detention hearing on a bank robbery charge, the DA had just called the bank teller to the stand. As the teller sat down, the juvenile yelled, “Objection! That’s not the teller I robbed!”

Oh, Really

A robbery detective in Oakland was giving instructions to the men who were taking part in a lineup. “When your number is called take one stop forward and say, ‘Don’t move. Give me your purse.’” When the suspect’s number was called, he stepped forward and said, “But that’s not what I told her.”

Fun and Games with Radar

A man in Kirkland, Washington decided to test the accuracy of the city’s new radar sign that warns motorists how fast they are driving. So he drove to the end of the street, turned around–and hit the gas! The sign showed he was going 59 mph, so he looked down at his speedometer and was impressed that it, too, showed he was doing 59. Unfortunately, at this point he lost control of the car and crashed into the sign, destroying it and his car.

These stories were printed in the Spring, Summer and Winter 2007 editions of Point of View, a publication of the Alameda County District Attorney’s Office.

Tags: burglar · lawyer · police · robber

It was another busy night for the car prowler. He slowly cruised through residential neighborhoods, looking for cars owned by fools naive enough to leave their goodies on their dashboards or seats. His modus operandi was simple: smash and grab. He used a punch tool to silently shatter car windows, and his mitts to grab the goods.

Things were going good for the thief until he saw a pair of headlights in his rear view mirror. He was being tailed. Probably by someone wanting to be a hero. A goddamn vigilante. He had just the thing to scare the average residential do-gooder–a pellet gun that looked exactly like a 9mm Beretta.

The car prowler sped up and made a couple of left turns. His pursuer kept pace. He slowed down at a wide intersection, stopped and slowly got out of his car with the pellet gun in hand. He turned around, attempted to level the pellet gun at the silhouette of his pursuer.

A bright flash of light was the last thing the thief saw before hitting the pavement. He died without hearing the gunshot that killed him.

Tags: burglar · death · shooting