Raven's Rants

So what happened next?

Miguel quickly frisked the two of us. Apparently Stan was clean but it only took him two seconds to find my gun. He plucked it off of me with a smile on his face and stuffed it down the back of his pants. He didn't even waste his time with a smart comment or an insult, for his lack of refinement, he sure was a smug asshole at times.

Anyway, he then walked around behind us and told us to get moving. He must have tucked the gun in his pocket or something because we walked through open air for a good three blocks or so. Someone surely would have seen him waving around that hand cannon if he hadn't, even in that neighborhood at that time of night.

So what did you see?

You mean besides my life flashing before my eyes? Just the look on Stan's face. He looked, I don't know, empty, broken you know? I couldn't tell if he was mad at me or mad at himself or what. He just looked deflated. Like someone had taken all of the wind out of him. My heart kind of broke for him though. I realized that the whole thing was my fault and that my stupid fucking decisions were hurting other people, mainly those that cared about me and helped me.

I guess I felt pretty low right then. On the upside though, it stopped my hand from shaking, it's kind of hard to be nervous about dying when you think you deserve it.

Anyway, where did Miguel take you?

He took us to his car that he, like me, parked a good ways from the station. The funny thing was that I was expecting one of those giant tank cars that gangsters usually drive. Instead, he had this beat up sedan looking thing. When Stan and I slid in to the back seat, we felt like we were packed in shoulder to shoulder and, though neither of us are small guys, we're not exactly huge either. It was just pretty comical for Miguel to be driving a sardine can on wheels.

So what happened then?

Sorry, I'm stalling, I know. It's my story though and I want to tell it my way.

I understand, but we don't have a lot of time.

I understand. So anyway. We started driving. He must have gotten a few good blocks or so before he realized that he didn't have a clue where in the Hell he was going. He must have been nervous too.

But while he was stammering around the city in this metal box he called a car, Stan kept looking over at me, making motions with his head and trying to say something with his eyes. It was like he was trying to communicate some kind of plan but I sure as Hell couldn't get any of it. Grunts, eye gestures and head movements don't make much for a conversation to me. I just sat there looking at him while his frustration grew and his movements became more aggressive, like he was speaking English louder in France.

Eventually though, Miguel did figure it out, and he twisted his rear view mirror so he could see the two of us and said, "So where am I going chico? Where's the money at?"

I froze. I didn't know what to do. I just looked at his eyes in the rear view and tried not to throw up.

Somehow though, I began speaking, it was really broken and shaky, but understandable, "If you're going to kill me no matter what, why should I show you where it is?"

Miguel let out a mean growl, he wasn't happy about it, "Because you little shit, you tell me, I'll make it quick. If you don't, I'll get two sick ass homeys to go postal on your ass with knives, bamboo and a car battery. We can make you suffer a long time chico. You believe it."

Must have been a pretty scary moment. Not easy to have that kind of threat hanging over you.

It was. I felt a lump in my throat. I'd gotten used to the idea of dying a while back but this was a new level of fear. It hit me right in the stomach, it felt like I was choking on it. I felt bile come up and I just knew I was going to puke. I bent over to let it fly, if you know what I mean, but the urge subsided.

Miguel let out a chuckle and said, "Aww, little bitch going to be sick?"

It was strange though, when he said that, anger flashed across me and the fear went away. It was like I could only hold one emotion at a time. Immediately my brain went into overdrive and, before I'd formed the thought, I sat up and said, with a stern voice even, "I'm hypoglycemic you asshole, I need to eat something or I will be."

"You can eat when you're dead, tell me where the money is," Miguel shot back.

Stan slid forward and put his hand on the back of Miguel's seat, "You wouldn't deny a man his dying meal now would you? That's fucking cruel. That's not you Miguel, I know that."

"Things change man, things change, but you're right."

Stan leaned back and the car got real quiet. We drove for what seemed like hours and all you could hear was three people breathing and the sound of the tires on the road. It was dead. You wanted to scream, to do something, but everyone just sat there.

You'd think I'd had formulated a plan in that time but no such luck. I was too scared and too amazed to think rationally. All that I could think about was reaching around, grabbing one of Miguel's guns and dueling it out with him there in the car.

However, he was bigger than me, a Hell of a lot calmer and a much better shot, not good odds. Worst of all, if the struggle got out of hand or I shot him in the car, God knows what would have happened, we could have crashed into a telephone poll and all been dead. I couldn't take any chances.

So, instead, you waited?

I know it sounds stupid, but yes. I waited and waited until Miguel finally pulled into a small gas station before I even formed a complete thought, much less took action.

Unfortunately, the first complete thought was kicking myself for not running to the cops after the PI was killed. I knew then I was in over my head, I just didn't know how far. I should have just run to them, did my time and chalked it all up to a big mistake. But I did what I always had done and kept running and now I was finally paying for it, for all of it.

After that, I wished that the cops knew where I was now. They could get me out of this, it may not be pretty, but at least I'd have a decent chance of being alive when it was over. Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, so the old saying goes.

Then, finally, the thought went somewhere. I wished that I had a way of telling them where the Hell I was. After all, I was sure that they were looking for me, for questioning if nothing else. They had to have pieced together the whole PI thing by now and, even if they hadn't my wife had to be seriously pissed, worried or both. Either way, they had to be looking for me, at least somewhat.

Now, all of that happened in a couple of seconds because, when I was done thinking, I was greeted by Miguel opening the door. I looked up at him from the seat and he just snarled at me, didn't say anything, well, nothing intelligible anyway. I think he muttered, "Get your food gringo" or something to the like, but the way it spilled out it sounded more like a snarling wild animal than English.

I stepped out of the car and made quick note that Miguel stuffed his gun in his front pocket. I don't know how the Hell it fit in that pocket, but it meant he had both his gun and mine and, even if I could get one off of him, I was still as good as dead, not with the kind of shot I was destined to be.

So, instead, I walked into this little Quick-E-Mart, shoulder to shoulder with Stan while Miguel hovered a few feet behind us. I quickly ran through all of my options for the thousandth time and came up empty. Nothing seemed to work, as in, not getting me shot.

But then I had a master stroke, I walked in quickly grabbed a whole bunch of candy, a few sodas and a few odds and ends and threw it down on the counter. Then I made my bold move, I paid for it all myself using my credit card.

Why is that such a bold move?

Think about it, I knew the cops were looking for me and I figured, if they were, they were probably tracking my cards, ATM, credit and otherwise. I just knew that would send up a flare. I just didn't know how long it would take.

So, with that in mind, I did my best to stall. This was one of those gas stations with a little restaurant inside and, though the place itself was closed the booths were still open. I threw my strange assortment of purchases down on the table and started, as slowly as I could, eating.

A few minutes later, Stan sat down next to me, having gotten himself a coffee and some kind of pastry that I couldn't identify, and followed suit. Miguel, being the kind of guy he was, sat down across from us and folded his arms across his chest, watching us like hawks.

I ate painfully slow, looking out the window for any sign of life, but it never came. I ate three candy bars and drank two sodas, all by taking the tiniest of nibbles and sips. I felt like a child almost, but, with Miguel hovering over us, I guess it'd be easy to feel that way.

But, as you might imagine, it wasn't long before Miguel grew impatient. He checked his watch and looked up at us and said, "It's been almost thirty minutes gringos, we gotta go."

I looked over at Stan who, somehow, was still calm not looking too upset over the whole situation. I looked down at my food and saw that I still had a bag of chips and another soda left.

"Now gringo, now!" Miguel said, startling everyone within earshot, including the attendant.

I felt the air leave my body, I knew help wasn't coming. It was over. I said a silent prayer to myself, well, after kicking myself for letting my last meal be cheap junk food, and resolved myself to making my ending quick.

Stan slid out of the booth and I did the same, my body trembling. I straightened my shirt, I guess in a failed attempt to find my dignity, and we started marching out of the gas station.

But then, just as we were about to leave, I heard the door chime sound and in walked, in the most blessed of all sights, a member of Charlotte's finest. I looked up at him, grinning ear to ear and he immediately recognized me.

"Jake Simpson," he called out, still about fifteen feet away, "You're going to have to come with me. We've got some questions we need to ask you."

I didn't care that I was going to jail, it was over, everything was over and, just like that, I was saved. It was the most uplifting feeling in the world, it felt like I was walking on air after months of moving through water. I was free and it was all I could do to restrain a cheer of some kind. But, can you blame me, it was all over.

Or, at least, so I thought.

Miguel, who was behind us, must have pulled out one of his guns and fired it up into the air. Stan and I hit the dirt out of reflex and then he took a second shot, this one right at the cop. When I heard that gun go off that second time, I thought he was dead but somehow, the guy ducked or Miguel missed and the shot struck a display behind him.

The cop pulled out his gun a pointed it at Miguel but before he could squeeze the trigger Miguel called out, "You make one move I'll blow this Gringo's head off. Get your ass outside now!"

Laying face down on the ground, I couldn't see much of what was going on, just flashes and shadows, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. Miguel was pointing his gun squarely at my head and taunting the cop.

I prayed it wasn't true but the suspicion was confirmed when I saw the shadow of a knee beside me and felt the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head. I was too afraid to move. I just listened and, when I heard the door chime and the cop leave, I knew he was gone. Miguel responded in kind, taking the gun away from my head, but replacing it with a boot in my back.

Stan and I were both breathing hard, practically choking on every inhale. I tried not to cry but my breathing became staggered as I stifled sobs. I thought I was ready for death, but I guess I wasn't, or maybe it was the uncertainty that was getting to me, I don't know. But I was losing it.

I think that's understandable though, I mean, those were pretty extreme circumstances.

Yeah but Stan, well, he was cool. he didn't even look deflated anymore and, after a few minutes, I could barely hear him breath at all, it was amazing. I really started to look up to the guy, he was facing death with such a stone face I just couldn't believe it. I mean, he wasn't even mad at me for it, at least not right then. Somehow is seemed like it was just the most natural thing in the world for him.

But he hit the dirt just as hard as you right?

Yeah, but that was self preservation and I don't see self preservation as the same thing as cowardice. At least that's what they taught me in those self defense classes I took.

Anyway, what happened next?

Well, I was expecting him to just get up and walk out with us, or maybe shoot us right there on the gas station floor. But he just hovered over us and, after a few minutes, the entire gas station was flooded with blue lights and, a few minutes after that, I could hear helicopters overhead. There must have been a hundred cops out there not counting the ones in the air.

Actually, those were news copters, the police ones came later.

Heh, my fucking luck there isn't it? You don't realize how bad things are until the news reporters show up do you?

Hey! I resent that, my wife is a newspaper reporter.

Sorry, but it's true. But anyway. It was obvious right then that, like it or not, I was in the middle of a hostage situation and guess who was playing the role of the helpless victim. Me.

So, in a few week's time, you went from king of the world to helpless fool on the floor of a gas station. What had to be going through your head?

Well, right then nothing. I was just listening for clues, trying to figure out what was going on. But all I could see out the side of my eyes was a sea of blue and all I could hear was Miguel mumbling to himself.

Sounds like you didn't know what the Hell was going on.

Pretty much. I wanted to though, I wish I did. Hell, I wish I did now. I just knew that I didn't have the courage to move. That, besides my trembling, I was frozen to the floor.

So what did happen?

Well, almost immediately the power went out. I figured the police had cut it. However, with all of those sirens out front one could still easily see around, it was just that everything had a dark blue tint to it and you had to squint a little. But then again, where I was on the floor, it was still dark and that was pretty damn scary.

Anyway, after a few minutes in the shadows on the floor, I felt Miguel's hand on the back of my shirt and he jerked me up. It felt like he was going to snap my neck in the process, I could feel the collar of my shirt digging into my throat as he lifted me up. I scrambled to my feet as fast as I could to avoid being choked, but if you look here, you can see that I got a nasty cut here and a burn here from it.

Ouch.

The worst part was not being able to breathe. I've always had a fear of being suffocated that scared the Hell out of me as much as the pain. No matter what though, Miguel got his wish and I was on my feet in only two seconds flat.

From there, he took two steps backwards and, though I couldn't see him, I could hear him raise his gun up and point it at me. He didn't say "Don't move" or anything to the like, but I got the point perfectly. So I just stood there, idly holding my hands up in the air, staring out over the display shelves and into the sea of twinkling blue lights.

It was right about then that a voice, probably aided by a megaphone of some kind, came blaring in the station. "Miguel Hernandez, let the hostages go and come out with your hands up!"

I wanted to nod my approval to the plan, but I still didn't dare to move. However, I did wonder how they Hell the cops figured out his name so fast, kind of figured he was a familiar face but I couldn't imagine how.

Actually, to answer that one, the LAPD gave the Charlotte guys a heads up that he was coming, even faxed over a wanted poster with his picture on it. The uniform that stumbled in there after you must have recognized him.

Makes even more sense. I should have guessed that the Charlotte Police wouldn't be on top of it, not after the way Stan talked about them.

Okay, go on.

I don't know if Miguel gave them a gesture or anything, but he didn't say anything back. So, rather than trying to find some way for Miguel to get in touch with them, or at least trying something new, every ten minutes or so the cops would come over their loudspeaker and blare another request or demand, "Let the hostages go", "Miguel, what do you want", etc.

The problem was that, even though I still couldn't see him, I could hear Miguel jump because that thing was loud and, in between commands from the police, that place was dead quiet. Since the the attendant must have gotten out somehow, it was just the three of us, panting and gasping for air. You could have heard a roach scurrying across that sticky floor.

So the cops never did anything to actually communicate with Miguel?

Well, after a while, they said something about a phone and a few minutes later, the door opened and someone tossed in a small padded package. I couldn't see it much less describe it since it fell into the shadows of the store, but Miguel picked it up and seemed to instinctively know what to do with it, like he'd done it a thousand times before.

"What do you want pigs!" He said angrily.

I couldn't make out what the other guy was saying, but he seemed to have a calming voice. It put me at ease, but it didn't seem to do much for Miguel. He kept screaming into the phone, something about the "pigs" killing his friends in LA and that he was going to get revenge by killing the two assholes in front of him and taking out as many Charlotte's cops as he could.

Though he wasn't much of a wordsmith, he said it all quite masterfully, good enough to get the guy on the phone to back down anyway. Then, whoever was doing the negotiating started to get Miguel to talk, or at least try to, he started asking all of these questions, I couldn't hear exactly what, but Miguel kept talking about how he didn't have to say anything to him.

I don't know, but after a while, the guy must have hit a nerve with Miguel. Miguel had always been angry and upset, but now he was screeching into the phone and even stomping around the room a little bit, "What do you know about my mother! You don't know shit you pig!" he screamed.

Next thing I knew though, Miguel was crying. Actually, literally crying. I don't know what head games they were playing with him, but they were really messing with him. He was doing his best to sound angry but you could hear the sobs in his voice, it was actually quite pitiful. I almost felt bad for the guy.

It turns out that Miguel was abused by his mother until he was seven, when she abandoned him. He grew up in foster homes after that. Eventually though, they found her dead, drug overdose apparently, Miguel didn't take it well, but what fifteen-year-old would? Especially considering he was the one who had to identify the body.

Jesus, that's heavy. I bet the psychiatrists are going to discuss his case for a long time. You almost have to feel sorry for him.

Still though, it's no excuse, you have to agree with that.

I'm not excusing him, just feeling sorry for him. No one deserves that, I know it happens all of the time, but no one deserves it. Not even someone like Miguel.

But anyway, he was screaming into the phone.

Yeah, cutting loose on it too. He got so loud that I couldn't even hear him stomping around, much less tell if he still had the gun pointed at me or not. Still though, I wasn't about to turn around and find out.

Instead, all of the head games did nothing but make me more nervous. Somehow I knew the end was near. I'd seen enough of these on TV to know that, once the bad guy gets shaken up, the police come barging in, usually guns blazing. I just kind of prepared myself to hit the ground and began praying, really and truly praying. Something I hadn't done in a long, long time.

So what did happen?

I heard it, I don't know how I heard it over Miguel's screaming and crying, but I heard it. The gun that Miguel was carrying hit the ground, it must have slipped out of his fingers. It bounced twice on the ground, I heard each "dink" against the tile.

Then it went off.

All Hell broke loose. Though apparently the gun was pointed at the ceiling, that was all the cops needed. The front door seemed to explode, glass went everywhere and smoke began to fill the room.

I hit the dirt and I hit it hard, I even knocked the wind out of myself. But it was just in time. Miguel must have pulled my gun out of his pants and I went down just in time to see the snack display in front of me explode with a barrage of bullets, showering me with potato chips and pretzels.

The cops stormed in, Miguel took two shots at them and they opened back with a hailstorm of bullets, it was amazing. I don't know what they were shooting with, but it sounded more like one long thunderclap than a series of bullets being fired. It was deafening and it was followed only by the crash of a display rack and the thud of someone landing on it, hard.

Though I couldn't see what was going on, I knew Miguel was dead. No one could have survived that and the way he fell, well, he wasn't getting up. If I had the wind knocked out of me, he had the life knocked out of him. It was over and I was literally bawling on the floor, just so happy to be done with it.

I just couldn't believe it.

Ok, go on.

Not much more to tell really. Everything after that is pretty much a blur, the hospital said I was in shock, but I think of it as my brain rebooting or something to the like. I just haven't been able to focus on much of anything. Like I was going through a fog.

But anyway, what I do know is that the cops arrested both me and Stan. Standard procedure in these types of things. Another one of those things I picked up in self defense class,

But, as you might imagine, their investigation was a bit more intense than usual. They'd been looking for me for a long time. My wife had apparently reported me missing a two days after I left, making me a local missing person and, after the PI was killed, I apparently became a national celebrity. I just didn't realize it.

The cops blamed me, not only for the PI's death, but for the wounding of the cops in the parking lot afterward. Somehow it was all my fault. Something about me creating the circumstances and whatnot. It's total bullshit, it's just that everyone who is to blame, save maybe Stan, is dead.

What did you say to them, the police

Not much. I'd been in too deep of shock until a few minutes ago. They'd ask me questions and I'd give dazed answers, like I was high on something. Their psychiatrist told them to back off of me, that'd I'd been through too much to be of any help right now.

They, the cops, didn't believe it though, they stopped short of roughing me up, but they got in my face every chance they could. I tried to help them, but nothing came out. Nothing that made sense anyway.

In fact, to be honest, I don't remember calling for you. I only began to stammer out of this daze a few hours ago, first thing I remember, clearly anyway, was laying on my bed in my cell, staring at the ceiling, then it all came flooding back to me like a tidal wave of nightmares.

Then the cops found you crying in your cell and brought you to the psychiatrist and then to me, I know, I heard that part.

So why are you here? Did I ask for a lawyer while I was doing all of that blubbering?

No, Stan sent me. When he heard you came to, he wanted to make sure you were well protected. He's covering all expenses.

Well, damn. I don't know what to say… Wait a second, Stan's out?

Stan was released within hours. They had no new charges to tack onto him and his bail was still good. He wasn't here but more than a few hours for questioning.

That bastard's amazing. How he held it together is beyond me. I'm just not cut out for this shit.

Well, he's very worried about you. That's why he sent me.

He probably just wants to make sure I don't squeal. You have to understand, I love the guy, but I can't trust him, or anyone else for that matter, not now anyway.

Actually, he told me you wouldn't do that. I'm just here to get your side of the story before he posts your bail.

Huh? What? Bail? Why the Hell would he do that?

I don't know why, but he likes you. From what I can tell you've been nothing but trouble to him. But he still wants to help you out, go figure.

Wait a second. I wreck his business, I get him arrested and then almost get him killed and somehow he wants to help me? That doesn't make any sense.

He said any friend of Little John is a friend of his. Apparently he means that.

God I love that redneck bastard. When will my bail be posted?

Within the hour, it's why we had to hurry.

So what happens after that?

I don't know, that's between you and Stan.

Meaning I'm back to square one, running away again. Figures, it just figures…

Cut the tape. This is over.

Notes:

After the interview, Jake's $150,000 bail was posted. The person who paid it left a false name and address. Jake and Stan both missed their scheduled court appearances and are considered fugitives. Police are currently searching for any information as to their whereabouts. They are to be considered armed and dangerous should you spot them.

Two weeks after this recording, a letter was received at the law office of Marthow & Associates. The letter was signed by Jake Simpson. It waved all confidentiality and asked for the interview to be made public in order "to let the world see why I did the things I did and understand that I'm not an evil man, just a frightened, lost human being".

The tape was then turned over to freelance journalist Danny Esposito, who in turn arranged it's publication in newspapers nationwide.

It is the hope of this paper the the printing of this transcript will aid not only in his arrest, but in his receiving the humane treatment all human beings deserve. It is our sincerest wish for Jake to turn himself in peacefully, and, if he's reading this, he should know that the staff of this paper will aid in that transition any way possible.

If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact your local authorities.