The Witness

Preface

I was seven years old when I witnessed a crime for the first time.  A real crime, not that stuff that plays on perfectly scripted TV shows.

July 12, 1990. The day Grandpop died.

Grandpop and I were at the mall, a trip we often made when my family visited my grandparents in New Jersey. By all standards, the day was like any other. I was too young to realize that crime didn't just happen on stormy days with power outages and howling winds. Back then I still perceived crime the way Hollywood wanted me to see it: perverted, yet wickedly romantic.

With a belly filled with far too much mint chip ice cream - and a t-shirt stain to prove it - I made my way through a crowded sunglasses outlet. This store was our tradition, our ritual. I wouldn't leave until I'd tried on every pair of designer shades on display.

Quite the feat for a seven-year-old who couldn't reach beyond the first shelf...but even then I was stubbornly optimistic.

I wasn't paying attention to anything other than my goofy reflection and the store's summer radio music. The Aviators were far too big for my face, but I didn't care. I wanted to look like the girls I saw in Mom's magazines. You know, the ones hanging out with Aerosmith after their shows.

"These don't work...." I mumbled, dramatically ripping the Aviators from my short nose. A pair of Ray-Bans immediately replaced them and I pursed my tiny pink lips in mock scrutiny.

In my reflection I saw him. A caramel-skinned teen with sunken cheeks and oily black hair. I only noticed him because he was loud, screaming words I didn't understand.

"Well, GET the money old man!" He slammed his hands on the counter, the sound deafening. I saw it then, precariously positioned in his hand: the gun. "I don't have all day!"

"I'm sorry, but I don't have the key...." The store clerk stammered softly, licking his lips in some sort of anxious reaction. The teenager did get one thing right: that clerk was old. "I'm just a retired schoolteacher...I don't want any trouble."

"I DON'T CARE!" The gun was up, clutched between two shaking hands. Was he angry or scared? His voice sounded like he was both. "You have ten seconds, old man. TEN!"

What happened next seemed like slow motion. Grandpop appeared beside me and squeezed my shoulder tightly. He held a finger to his lips to signal that I should be quiet. "It's going to be alright, Sammy Hammy."

Before I could respond, Grandpop lunged at the teenager. Screams erupted as the two struggled for dominance.

"Oh my God!"

"He has a GUN!"

"SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!"

People began running in every direction, but for some reason I couldn't.

I didn't know where to go. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what was going on.

The struggle between Grandpop and the teenager seemed to last for hours; I was told later that it only lasted two minutes. It ended abruptly with two loud pops, like firecrackers from last week's July Fourth celebration.

But I didn't see any fireworks. I saw Grandpop fall to his knees and then awkwardly slump over onto the floor. In that moment, I stopped wondering what was happening.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't turn away.

In the background, Stevie Wonder's Superstitious echoed from the store speakers. Helpless, I watched the color drain from Grandpop's face as the teenager ran from the store.

By the end of the song, Grandpop was gone.