THE BLOOD RED TEARDROP

Chapter 1 There’s tension in the air all right. But this time I feel something more than ordinary jitters. Something crazy is going to happen. I just know it. The packed courtroom is so still you can almost hear the clock ticking. On the stand is star witness Barbara Gardner, wife of the accused. I watch her being sworn in and wonder how she can possibly be handling the attention she’s now getting. Small-ish, dressed in beige, mousey brown hair—she’s not the kind of woman that makes heads turn. I’d say she’s probably in her late thirties, though it’s hard to say. But one thing’s for sure. Today she’s very, very nervous. During the trial I’d catch her sneaking the odd peek at her husband. Then she’d turn her head away quickly. She must have been terribly humiliated. Who wouldn’t be if their husband had been caught planting cameras in girls’ bath-rooms? Fidgeting with the string of pearls around her neck, Barbara Gardner takes a deep breath. The moment has come. She’s about to give evidence. We’re all expecting a bombshell. But will she deliver? “I…ah…” she start—then goes wide-eyed. She’s staring straight ahead at the woman in the third row who has leapt to her feet. It’s realtor Amber Arsenault. Amber is wearing a form-fitting navy suit with a simple white blouse under the jacket and holding a gun to her head, ready to blow her brains out. I can’t believe my eyes. Where’d the gun come from? I flash on the old ex-cop at the metal detector. It’s got to be him. Goggle-eyed behind his bifocals, he must have over-looked her purse while looking her over. “I’m gonna shoot myself!” Amber yells. The gallery is in shock. All eyes are on the gun. It takes a few seconds before the clock starts ticking again. And that’s when it gets worse in a hurry. Pandemo-nium breaks out. Lawyers grab their trial bags, trip over each other as they push their way through the aisles and out of the courtroom. Seconds later security officers flood the courtroom, re-porters scramble for their cell phones and court artists sketch frantically. I still don’t understand why the judge didn’t allow cameras. Did he somehow know this was coming? “Order! Order!” screams the Honourable Jason Kramer pounding his gavel and setting his neck veins bulging. No one’s going to off herself in his courtroom. I can’t let this happen. I drop my note pad, jump over the bench behind me and lunge at Amber. This suicide must be stopped. Amber Arsenault is as guilty as the accused— guilty by association. In fact, she was screwing the accused. How much more associated can you get? I reach her just in time. Letting out a sob, she drops the gun and collapses into my arms. I know Amber. She’s a former hooker who allegedly turned over a new leaf, took some real estate courses and re-invented herself. And there was Barbara Gardner, about to spill the beans. It’s a wonder Amber didn’t shoot Barbara in the face right then and there. She was close enough. The gallery bursts into spontaneous applause. Every-one’s on my side. I saved someone’s life. But I don’t have long to savour this tribute. “I’m citing you for contempt!” the judge bellows. Who? Amber or me? I was trying to save a life here. The bailiff isn’t impressed. He reaches for his hand-cuffs, strides to where we’re still holding each other and cuffs us both. “Bite me,” Amber snarls, struggling to break free. As her shoulders flail around, her jacket flies open and her breasts pop out of that simple white blouse. “The gun wasn’t loaded anyway,” she spits out with a smirk. Judge Kramer’s eyes widen. Craning his neck he stares over his glasses at Amber’s enhancements. “Ahem… court recessed until tomorrow morning,” he in-tones with a tinge of regret in his gravelly voice. “All rise!” cries the clerk, needlessly. Give me a high five! Movie producer Lucien Bloom, the guy I’m working for, wants quick staccato writing, nudity, action. I think I’ve covered it nicely, if I say so myself. Now, let’s see… What happens next? Okay. Judge Kramer asks to have Amber brought to his chambers. There’s a chance she won’t have to do any jail time if she offers an… ahem… apology to the court. I’m on a roll, but just as I get to the risqué scene in the judge’s chambers, the dog starts to bark. Damn hell! My husband must be pulling into the driveway. Well, it’s my own fault. I did train the dog. “Daddy’s home!” was the signal for Laachuk to go ballistic. Usu-ally at six-thirty or so when Nick gets home. Now he goes ballistic as soon as the car nears the driveway. I love my husband but why does he have to ap-pear just when I’m about to nail a scene? I can just imagine Dashiell Hammett walling himself off in his beach cottage, chain smoking and drinking non-stop to keep the juices flowing. I bet he didn’t let Lillian Hell-man disturb the flow until he was good and ready. And I’m sure he didn’t have a dog. In any event, my train of thought is broken. I must rush out to kiss hubby and do the how-was-your-day thing while all along I’m thinking about my work. I do feel guilty. Not about hubby but about the screenplay. I’m totally absorbed by it. At times it seems more real than my own daily life, and at other times, it feels as if only a thin membrane separates me from the characters I’m creating. My screenplay is fiction, of course. But fiction based on a true story—my true story, or at least a part of my true story. I’m inventing a new genre: true-crime fiction. And I’m not doing it for the money—well, not entirely. I see my writing as a mental health benefit. Even fictional-ized, my screenplay is cathartic. Hopefully it will bring an end to something dark and unwholesome in my life. Besides, as screenwriter, I will finally see my name in lights! Now, I didn’t start out to be a screenwriter. I thought I’d be penning a series of exquisitely wry and amusing mystery novels. But that was not in the cards—and not for lack of trying. Instead, I got talked into writing a screwy screenplay for some shady dude. In my book that doesn’t make me a loser, or does it? After putting on the feedbag for my hubby, I retreat to my dark, moon-shadowed sunroom. I love the cozy corner by the window where my computer has been set up. It’s peaceful and still and, before I know it, I’m lost in the lives of my characters. There are three of them, not counting me. Paul Gardner, his wife Barbara and realtor Amber Arse-nault. Paul’s the bad guy, the voyeur Colby prof who got caught after he hid a video camera in a female stu-dents’ bathroom. Barbara is his poor long-suffering wife and Amber is a spicy number who sells real estate in a bad economy. As I work deep into the night, long after hubby has turned in, I feel as if I’m wearing a scarlet letter. In my case it’s O for Obsession. Is my obsession about writing this screenplay so great that, had I known what was to come, would I still have continued? Surely not. But how was I to know that I would lose everything?—the people I care for and love, my peace of mind—and even my memories. But my story begins at the beginning. I can’t start with the end.