Or?

Or?

September 03, 2024

He walked through my unlocked back door just after midnight. He did not have a warrant. He did not have a reason. My security camera footage was not admissible in court (Judge’s order). It did show Officer Peter Holcomb put his hand on the knob and push, then pull, the door open. He said the door was open when he arrived. He entered with his pistol drawn. He used the excuse of officer safety. My internal cameras show he never identified himself, nor did he ever call for backup. Officer Holcomb went straight to my bedroom where I was waiting.

Waiting with my Glock.

In the firefight, he shot first (also inadmissible in court by the same judge) and hit me in the left shoulder. I shot last and hit him twice; once in the neck and once in the leg). Officer Holcomb went down and I soon lost consciousness.

I am now serving a 30 year sentence, with no chance of parole. Officer Holcomb is a paraplegic with no chance of any normal life. I am buried in prison. No one cares if I exist. Peter, lives what little life he has, for tabloid attention and the sympathy of the public.

Thus, I get to read about him.

And I do.

The taxpayers picked up his medical expenses and his early pension benefits. His wife wheels him around to make speeches about gun control and increased safety for essential workers. His audience dwindles in numbers with each month, each year, he keeps repeating the same lines. His wife, Caroline I think, has that look of boredom wherever and whenever she goes. She is too young and too beautiful to sit by his side for the next 40 years of his shattered life. I bet a carton of smokes that she would ditch him by year’s end.

And I was right.

By Christmas, Caroline made the talk show circuit to promote a movie she was in. She told of her struggles and her new life. When asked about the risque scenes in the movie, all she could do was smile and change the subject.

By the next summer, the TV reported his wife filed for divorce and took the children to “an undisclosed” locale.

Next year, he was the bedridden spokesperson for a charity of some sorts.

Eventually, a ghost writer penned a mediocre novel based upon Peter’s life story.

It failed as well as the associated made for TV documentary.

I spent these years pursuing my law degree, filing challenges to a series of prejudicial judicial rulings in hopes of gaining a new trial.

I also failed miserably.

But, at least, my star was rising.

Officer Holcomb had to have both of his arms amputated from exposure to a flesh eating virus contracted by an extended unsupervised stay in a hospital. The lawyers for the hospital claimed no responsibility for the events and did not want to settle. They insisted that dragging the case out for years was necessary to gather as much information as possible.

In 10 years, I finally secured a court date for a new hearing. I made a motion demanding Officer Holcomb appear in person to testify. This time, the judge agreed with me. This time, Officer Holcomb appeared, but could not speak because his ventilator stole that from him. I motioned for his testimony to be stricken from the record. The judge ruled against me and I found myself back in prison, but with a mistrial for my efforts.

I would never see the inside of a courtroom again.

In retrospect, Officer Peter Holcomb would never see the outside of his hospital room again.

His condition went from bad to worse. He began having trouble with his heart, then his intestines. Soon, he developed cancer of the pancreas. The doctors said these events all stemmed from the shooting of years before.

I wanted to sympathize, but I couldn’t. All I could say was, “Good!”

By the time I turned 50, Officer Holcomb had died from a variety of ailments. He was forgotten. He was indigent. He thought he was the victim of that night. I knew him to be a bad cop and I gave an interview stating so.

A local judge insisted that I was in contempt of court and added another year to my sentence.

At the conclusion of my stay, a very short news reporter asked, now that I was a free man, if I could do it all over again that night, would I? Since I was now free from the retaliatory clutches of judges and their ilk, I answered that if I had a wish, I would not do a single thing differently.

I would, however, give that wish to Peter, and permit him to answer accordingly.

He walked up to my unlocked back door just after midnight. He did not have a warrant. He did not have a reason. Officer Peter Holcomb reached for my door to open it, but then hesitated. My security camera footage shows a man with a sudden feeling of remorse struggling with inner demons. He really wanted to enter, but after an awkward pause of thirty seconds, he did not.

Officer Peter Holcomb departed my backyard to continue to his patrol car and leave the scene.

I had no reason to file a complaint or charges against the man I would never see again.

But, I did have a case of deja vu watching the very short news reporter conclude his local news cast for the night.