First Offense by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

again from the other side of the partition. “It was right over there, wasn’t it? You know, where you were shot?”
    Without answering, Ann picked up her work and quietly left her cubicle, deciding to find an empty desk she could use temporarily, one that didn’t have a window overlooking the parking lot.

    At twelve-thirty, Ann heard her name being paged on the loudspeaker system. Collecting her papers and files from the long table in the conference room where she’d been working, she rushed back to her desk to take the phone call.
    “Hi,” Jimmy Sawyer said. “I wanted to see how you’re feeling.”
    “Oh, Jimmy,” Ann said, recognizing his nasal voice. “It’s nice of you to call. To tell you the truth, I was going to call you this afternoon.” Not wanting to give him the bad news over the phone, Ann suggested he come to the office so they could talk. Then she thought better of it. “Tell you what,” she said. “I owe you one. I’ll buy you lunch. Why don’t you meet me at Marie Callender’s?” No matter what anyone said, Ann was grateful that he had stopped to help her. Many people didn’t want to get involved, and Ann knew she could have bled to death on that sidewalk.
    “Marie Callender’s is too far from my house,” Sawyer said. “Let’s meet at the Hilton.”

    Ann got to the hotel restaurant, took a table, and was looking over the menu when Sawyer walked in. His long hair was slicked back in a ponytail, and he was wearing Levi’s and a white shirt with an embroidered pocket. “I can’t really stay,” he said, not sitting down. “I have to go. I’m late.”
    “You mean you don’t want to have lunch?” Ann asked, surprised. “I wanted to do something for you. I mean, I know it’s not much, but…”
    Sawyer was having difficulty maintaining eye contact, she noticed. He would look at her and then flit away. “I thought you said you were going to take me back to court, tell them what I did. You know, get my probation switched so I don’t have to report every month.”
    “Why don’t you sit down, Jimmy?” Ann said, studying his face, her assessment of him shifting by the second.
    “I can’t. I have to go. I have to study.”
    “Are you in school?” she asked, confused. She really recalled very little about his case. It seemed like everything that had occurred right before the shooting had simply vanished from her mind.
    “No,” he said. “But I will be by next semester. I have to get my SAT scores up.” He stopped abruptly and rubbed his hands on his jeans. “I’m going to one of those cram courses. If I don’t get my scores up, I’ll have to go to a stupid junior college.”
    A stupid junior college, Ann thought, compressing her lips in distaste. She knew kids who would love to go to any college. “That’s not so bad. A lot of people do the first two years at a junior college and then transfer to a university. My husband did that, and he later graduated from UCLA with honors.” Mentioning Hank in Sawyer’s presence gave Ann a strange sensation. Suddenly the night of the shooting reappeared in her mind. Why had she thought Hank was present that night? Ann knew she’d been delusional, but still it had weighed on her mind. If anyone could dispel this, Ann thought, it should be Sawyer. He had been there. “Jimmy, can you describe the people who stopped the night I was shot?”
    “Some old couple. I don’t know. I don’t really remember.”
    “Detective Abrams told me there were a lot of people that stopped. Did you see a man about my age, crew cut, small eyes, tall, stocky build? Someone that looked like a drill instructor, maybe?”
    “Look,” Sawyer said, getting annoyed, “I was trying to help you. I don’t remember.” His anger mounted as he added, “The cops treated me like I was a suspect or something. Let me tell you,” he said, “if I had to do it again, I don’t know if I would stop.”
    Ann swallowed, feeling a pang of guilt. If she didn’t