Spilled Milk, no. 1

  SPILLED MILK

  First Smashwords Edition

  © 2011 Michael J. Scott

  All Rights Reserved

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  ICHABOD on Smashwords

  Spilled Milk

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael J. Scott

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Chapter 1

  “What would you do to protect your kids?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  I looked away from the table, saw the wooden floor of the courtroom, still reflecting the late afternoon daylight that shone from the dirty windows set high in the concrete walls. Somewhere outside, the sun shone in a clear blue sky. Birds flew in lazy arcs, landing on wires, nesting in eaves or the tops of drainpipes—utterly oblivious to anything but the constant cycle of feeding, flying, and tending their young. They cared nothing for the questions this judge asked me. Elsewhere, people went to work or mowed lawns or did whatever it was they normally did in their own constant cycles. Maybe my story would be a blip on the evening news. A headline they’d skip over in tomorrow’s paper. Just another unfortunate who lost his way, ground up by the system we all somehow supported with our taxes and endured because it was too much trouble to think about how oppressive and life-sucking it had all become.

  Unless it was your life that sucked.

  Handcuffs bound my wrists in front of me, denying me the freedom of the nesting birds or oblivious people who lived without a care in the world. I wished I had the strength to rend the steel, vault over the courtroom barricade and shatter the window, flying into the freedom of the clear blue sky, but I didn’t. What with my kids held hostage by the CPS workers awaiting my sentence, I was chained down by more than the handcuffs on my wrists. There was nothing left for me now but to nod my head in understanding and agree with whatever decision this buzzard in a black robe doled out from her lofty perch, and accept the end of my life.

  Because that’s what civilized people do.

  What they don’t do is chamber a sabot round in a 12-gauge shotgun and aim that gun at the Sheriff’s deputies who come knocking on their door at eight o’clock in the morning, assisting a CPS worker in her legal duty to protect my children from their father.

  I’m not a bad parent. I suppose if I can be faulted in anything, it would be in letting this whole thing escalate. It would’ve made more sense to simply comply with the initial order from the FDA and dump the milk that would help feed my family for the week. Thinking back upon it, I can see that this was where I made the fatal mistake. I assumed that I had a right to do what was in the best interests of my family. The truth is, I only had the right to do what was in my family’s best interests when the government-appointed bureaucrats who came knocking on my door that night agreed that it was in my family’s best interests. Regardless of the facts, regardless of the science, they expected me to tow the line, do as I was told. That’s what good citizens do. They don’t object. They don’t raise a fuss.

  They don’t escalate.

  “Mr. Smith?” said the judge. I looked away from the floor and met her eyes for the first time today. She cocked her head, birdlike, awaiting my response. I tried to smile politely, but it felt like my mouth wouldn’t work.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “I said, ‘What would you do to protect your kids?’”

  Judge Julia Rawles shook her head. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith, but I am not the one standing for sentencing today. You are.”

  “Apologies, your honor. The question was rhetorical. I have nothing further.”

  She looked away from me then, as if I no longer merited her full attention. “Gerrold Smith, you are hereby remanded to Coxsackie Correctional Institution for a period not less than ten years, after which time you will be eligible for parole.”

  She continued speaking, but I was looking out the window again. Ten years? In that time my children would grow up without their father, lost in the hell of the state’s foster care system—being raised into God-knows-what by God-knows-who.

  Undoubtedly by someone who’d listen to the government’s so-called experts, and would pump my son up full of medicines and other questionable chemicals in an attempt to fix a problem easily resolved by a tall, frothing glass of raw milk. Exactly the same milk that those stupid pinheads from the FDA demanded I dump out on the ground. They didn’t care a bit about its healthful benefits. They didn’t care when I told them about how well Matt was doing since I took him off the government’s approved diet and started him on the regimen. They didn’t even bother listening when I informed them that he’d gained weight, gained energy, that his asthma was gone—or even that his whole outlook on life had improved.

  To put it bluntly, they didn’t care about Matt at all. They only cared that I towed the line; that I kowtowed to the authority of the feds; that I scraped and groveled before the wisdom of my betters in Washington. When I realized that, I felt a surge of pure, black, frustrated rage bubble up from somewhere deep inside and come spewing out of my mouth like some freshly dug West Texas oil well.

  That’s when I told them to get off my land, and if they ever came back, there’d be hell to pay.

  If only I’d known then how downright prophetic that was.

  They did come back. The very next day, in fact. Armed with deputies from the local Sheriff’s office, a slip of paper that said they had the authority to dump out my family’s milk supply, and a warrant for my arrest. Apparently I’d threatened them by saying there’d be hell to pay.

  I remember looking at Deputy Mark Grier as he put the cuffs on me, reading the apology in his eyes. “Guess I shouldda said ‘please,’ huh?” I joked. He smiled, but didn’t take the cuffs off.

  I guess I could’ve taken my licks and put it all behind me right then and there. That’s what a civilized man would do. But something in my gut—maybe that well of oily blackness that had gotten a taste of daylight the day before when telling off those feds—something just wouldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let it go.

  The judge banged her gavel down, startling me from my reverie. I found myself suddenly aware of the rest of the courtroom. The polished oak of the empty jury box. The sturdy frame of the judge’s bench. Even the unfamiliar seal on the back wall of the court. It looked like a pair of scales that were supposed to represent justi
ce. The national motto emblazoned in wooden letters on front of the judicial bench: In God We Trust. I wondered how much of it was true anymore.

  An American flag hung forgotten in the corner. At one time, I’d sworn an oath to protect and defend that flag and the constitution it represents against all enemies both foreign and domestic. I served with honor in the United States Marine Corps many more years ago than I care to count. None of that seemed to matter right now, except maybe to me. Semper Fi.

  I heard the sound of the bailiff approaching me from the right, crossing in front of the practically empty room to lead me to my sentence. My largely useless attorney, Bill Jefferson, shuffled some papers around in his briefcase, evidently preparing for his next case as diligently as he’d prepared for mine. In mere moments my life as I’d come to know it would be over, and my kids wouldn’t see their Daddy again till they were grown up and he was an old man.

  I don’t remember deliberately sizing up the bailiff. He was a large man. Not quite as tall as me. Maybe a little rounder about the mid-section. The muscles on his arms strained against his shirt sleeves, and I wondered if he hadn’t chosen his shirt a size too small, if only to accent how big and strong he was. It was an intimidation tactic, the kind employed by small creatures to ward off dangerous predators—like a puffer fish, or a cat when threatened by the neighbor’s dog. I’d seen cobras do the same kind of thing, spreading out their hoods and rattling their tails, not because they meant to strike, but because they wanted to warn away some kind of threat.

  I wondered if the bailiff thought of me the same way. In retrospect, I suppose he should have.

  I can’t say that I planned what happened next. It might’ve been intuitive. Something along the lines of pure animal instinct—like a bear protecting her cubs. Truthfully, it was a bit of a blur. All I know is that the bailiff came close enough to me, reaching out to take my arm, and that was all it took.

  In a second I slipped by his arm, body-checking him into the table even as I yanked his service revolver from its holster. After that, my training took over. Maybe it already had.

  Chapter 2

  I fired at the bailiff first, hitting him point blank in the side. He dropped like a bale of hay off the back of a truck, hitting the table and tumbling over to the floor, taking the table with him. Startled, Judge Rawles rose from her chair, which was the last thing she should’ve done.

  I didn’t have anything against her, just like I didn’t have anything against the bailiff. But I was operating on instinct and adrenaline now, and anyone and anything that got between me and my kids, and then freedom for all of us had to go.

  The bullet caught her just below her navel, throwing her back against the wall until she crumpled down behind her bench, leaving a crimson streak beneath the circular plaque of justice.

  I hazarded a glance at my attorney, who cowered on the other side of the table, his briefcase in front of his chest, shield-like, as if he hoped that the leather case and scant legal briefs he carried would be sufficient to stop a .357. Ignoring him, I dropped to the bailiff, who still lived, as far as I could tell. His keys hung from his belt. I'd need them for my cuffs. Yanking the ring free, I took two steps to the lawyer. He whimpered and cringed, and I could smell the distinct odor of ammonia reeking from his soiled trousers.

  I nodded toward the bailiff. “Help him. Pressure on the wound.”

  I knew I had but scant seconds to get out of there. I moved behind the bench and bent over the judge, who was breathing shallowly. The stenographer trembled behind her table. She cried out as I came around to her. I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into the open. She was shaking, with tears streaming down her ashen face. It pained me to see her like this, knowing I was the cause, but there wasn’t nothing else to do. I aimed her toward the judge. “Help her.”

  I kept my gun trained on the doors at the back of the courtroom as I pushed through the back door behind the bench. Closing it behind me, I found the deadbolt and turned it quickly. Shouts and the sound of a growing ruckus from the other side told me the cavalry had arrived.

  I looked around. The room was spacious, but not nearly as large as the courtroom I’d just left. It held a dark stained, oak desk with a trio of red leather chairs around it over a pale blue carpet, a series of bookshelves containing leather bound legal tomes that I barely glanced at, as well as various pictures showing the judge with her family—loving husband, adoring child, and at least one looking like a photo of a favorite vacation spot in Nantucket, or someplace similar. I averted my eyes from the photographs almost as quickly as I saw them. It was bad enough that I’d shot the woman. I didn’t need to sear my conscience any further with the enormity of what I’d done, the life that I’d ended so I could preserve my own.

  A pounding on the door behind me meant that my pursuers were closing in. I didn’t know if they meant to break down the door, and I didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. Behind a sliding door I found the closet. A couple of dark judge’s robes hung from silver hangers. I snagged one and threw it down on the ground in front of the file cabinet. Thrusting with my shoulder, I hefted the cabinet up just enough to kick the edges of the silken robe beneath the frame before walking the cabinet away from the wall. It was tough enough to do with my hands still cuffed as they were, but I had no time to use the bailiff's keys just then. With the robe sliding between the cabinet and the carpet, I dragged it out and then shoved it against the door. It hid the wood and gouged the surface, refusing to budge further.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Spinning about, I saw the rear entrance to the judge's chamber. The door was shut, but the knob was just beginning to turn. With a cry, I launched myself against it, shoving it closed again just as someone tried to open it from the other side. I braced it with my shoulder. Someone kicked it, pushing it away from the frame. I thrust it closed and turned the deadbolt. My breath came in rapid pants. I could hear the officers on the other side talking to one another. The wood muffled their voices so I couldn't hear clearly. I wondered if the room wasn't soundproof.

  I needed something to barricade this door as well before the SWAT team showed up with one of those door-busting battering rams. The only thing that looked large enough was the desk.

  I swept everything off the surface: lamp, computer, phone, pens, knick-knacks, and a half drunk cup of coffee from the local Starbucks that spilled to the floor and made a widening stain. Grabbing the end of the desk, I hefted it up onto one end. Stuff inside tumbled and rattled, and several drawers popped open, spilling their contents onto the floor. Groaning, I hurled it end over end against the door. It struck with such force that for a moment, I thought it might have broken through.

  That would've been bad.

  The door held. I studied both entrances with my hands on my hips, panting. Nobody was getting in, and I wasn't getting out. The irony of it struck me, then. I'd just shot two people so I could stay out of jail, and now here I'd gone and locked myself away.

  On the floor beside where the file cabinet had stood, I spied the bailiff's key ring lying next to his gun. I didn't recall dropping either one of them, but everything was happening so fast anyway. Surprising that I hadn't lost them sooner. Scooping them up, I found the handcuff key and inserted it into the lock, which was a lot harder than it sounds. They don't make these things easy to get free of by yourself, probably for good reason, and it took a couple of tries before I got the damn things to release. I slipped the keys into my pocket and looped the cuffs over my belt, then picked up the revolver. It was a Smith and Wesson. Nice gun. My uncle used to carry something similar back when he worked for the Texas Rangers. He'd never had any kids and I suppose I was in his will, but the gun didn't come to me when he died. I wondered what had happened to it.

  Slipping the revolver into my belt, I shuffled through the mess I'd made on the floor over to the window. A glance outside confirmed what I already knew. Maybe a dozen police cars had converged on the building, setting up a perimeter with thei
r flashing lights and yellow police tape. It hadn't taken them that long.

  I drew the blinds and stepped away from the window. I was pretty sure the windows in this building were all bullet-resistant. Judges had to be hard targets for crazies, and I couldn't imagine they wouldn't take measures to protect them, but I didn't want to be proven wrong. Besides, if a sniper wanted to lie there on the rooftop of the next building and take potshots at the window with a .50 caliber, he'd be able to punch a hole right through the glass, and I didn't want to be on the receiving end of that possibility.

  I dragged one of the chairs over to the corner and took a seat, sizing up my situation. As far as I could tell, I was safely barricaded away from the police, but I also had no effective means of escaping either. If I were to somehow create a diversion and get through the doors, I'd need a disguise to slip out in the confusion.

  After that, I had to find a way to get back to my kids. None of this mattered if I couldn't get them away.

  I spied a broken picture frame lying on the floor. The shattered glass obscured the image of a dark-haired girl in a pink dress and pigtails. I picked it up, brushing away the fragments, studying the image.

  This was Judge Rawles' daughter. I could see the resemblance in her eyes and nose. She didn't look all that different from my own Sara. Hell, in another life, they might even have been classmates or friends.

  The realization that this little girl might not have a Mommy to tuck her into bed anymore pierced my heart. I could hear the questions she'd be asking her own Daddy that night. Questions like “When will Mommy come home?” or “Why did that man shoot Mommy?” And then the inevitable, “Will I ever see her again?”

  I knew questions like these all too well.