In this one, an ex-convict named John Sawyer—played by Herbert Ellis, who appeared in three of the color episodes—is repeatedly accused by his bitter, estranged wife of committing robberies. Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon, having to take seriously allegations against an ex-convict, repeatedly investigate John Sawyer and conclude that he did not commit the crimes he has been accused of doing.
Finally, John Sawyer does commit a robbery, thinking that Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon won’t believe that he did it, since his wife’s stories are not panning out. This is a grave miscalculation on his part, because Sergeant Joe Friday always gets his man.
Once John Sawyer is in custody, his wife gets very angry with Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon for throwing him in jail. She turned him in for all the crimes he didn’t commit only because she wanted him to come back to her.
Some women have funny ways of saying what they want.
– • –
I shut off the TV and videocassette recorder, and then I go to the front window to close the curtain. Another day is almost over. It’s
one of the most exhausting I can remember, although I do not keep data on my level of exhaustion each day. In any case, I am happy that it is through.
Across the street, under the streetlight, I can see Donna Middleton standing behind her car. She is talking to a man. Her arms are moving rapidly. He is leaning in toward her. It looks like he is yelling.
I step over to the front door and crack it open. I can hear them.
“You’re supposed to stay away from me, Mike.”
Mike. Holy shit!
“I just want to talk,” he yells at her.
“No!”
“Yes, goddamn it!”
This is bad. Up and down my block, lights are coming on.
“I never want to talk to you again.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“Because you’re a fucking cunt, that’s why.”
This is really bad. I go over to the telephone and dial.
“Nine-one-one emergency.”
“A man and a woman are arguing on my street. I think she has a restraining order against him.”
“What’s the address?”
“Six Twenty-Eight Clark Avenue.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“Donna Middleton.”
“Do you know the man’s name?”
“Mike. That’s all I know.”
“Can you see what’s happening now?”
I go back to the front window. “They’re yelling.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Edward Stanton.”
“And where do you live, sir?”
“Six Thirty-Nine Clark Avenue.”
“Can you still see them, sir?”
“Yes.”
“What are they doing?”
“Still yelling.”
It happens so fast that I gasp in shock. Mike strikes Donna Middleton across the cheek with the back of his right hand. Her body jumps at the blow and lands against her car, and then she falls to the ground.
“He just hit her!”
“OK, sir. Stay calm. Officers are on the way.”
Donna Middleton is on her hands and knees, and she’s trying to scramble away. Mike grabs her and flings her backward to the concrete of the driveway, where she lands on her back, and then he pounces down upon her and wraps his hands around her neck.
“He’s choking her.”
“Sir, officers are almost there. Stay with me.”
“I have to help her.”
“Sir, stay right here on the phone.”
As if out of nowhere, three police cars converge on Donna Middleton’s house. The officers emerge from the cars, guns drawn. I can hear them yelling at Mike.
“Hands off her. Stand up. Hands behind your head.”
After Mike lets go and climbs to his feet, two of the police officers take him hard to the ground and cuff him, while the other attends to Donna Middleton. An ambulance rolls up. My neighborhood
is lit up with red-and-blue strobes. I can see my neighbors standing on their front porches, talking and gawking.
After Mike is wrestled into a police car and taken away, one of the officers who tackled him crosses the street and walks up to my house. I meet him at the door. I have seen this police officer before.
“Is she OK?” I ask.
“She’s shaken. She’ll have some bruises. But she’ll be OK.”
“She has a restraining order against that man, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Why was he here, then?”
“Well, it’s a court order. It’s not a jail cell. He’ll be in one of those soon enough.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Yes, it is. It could have been a lot worse, Mr. Stanton. Thanks for calling it in.”
“You’re not going to call my father, are you?”
The officer chuckles. “No. You did the right thing.”
Mike:
You are scum. You are subhuman. You are a horrible, horrible man.
You have no right to go where you are not wanted, to defy a legal restraining order against you. You have no right to be at Donna Middleton’s house. You have no right to yell at her, to hit her, to choke her.
I can only hope that the full weight of the law puts you somewhere you can’t hurt her again.
Edward Stanton
I put the letter in a new green office folder, labeled “Mike,” and file it away. I want to throw up.
– • –
As appointed, I go to bed at midnight. I can’t fall asleep, and I think I have to prepare myself for an unusual waking time in the morning, if I go to sleep at all. My data will be complete, but it will be erratic.
At 1:47 a.m.—I know because I am not asleep and I check the clock—I hear a rap on the front door. I crawl out of bed and go to the door, where I look through the peephole.
It’s Donna Middleton through the fish-eye lens. She has a purplish welt under her right eye. Her face is streaked and stained with makeup. She has been crying.
I open the door.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton.”
“Hello, Ms. Middleton. Are you OK?”
“Physically, I’ll be fine in a few days, they say. But I’m not OK.”
“I understand.”
She looks down. “I want to thank you for calling the cops.”
“Yes.”
“And I want to apologize to you for my reaction this morning—God, this morning. It seems like a long time ago.” She is weeping.
“Yes.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Mr. Stanton.”
“Edward.”
“Edward,” she repeats.
“I know.” I am not sure what to say to her.
“Are you a friend to us, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“OK, then. Thank you again. I was…” She is crying again. “I was sure I was going to die.”
“That was not going to happen.”
She tries to smile but just cries some more. She rubs her face and sniffles. “OK, then. It’s late. I probably woke you up. Good night, Edward.”
“Good night.”
I watch as she turns around and cuts diagonally across the street, from my front yard to hers. She walks up the steps of her porch, opens the front door, and disappears inside.
It’s 2:00 a.m. I always go to sleep at midnight sharp, but today has been extraordinary, and here I am, awake. I’ve never seen my neighborhood at this time. It’s quiet and beautiful. I can’t hear anything except the beating of my heart.
I am not surprised to see the man in front of me. It is Mike. Though he is at least seven inches shorter than me, no more than five foot nine, he weighs at least as much as I do, and unlike me, Mike is all muscle. His angular face seethes. He is holding a baseball bat, and he waggles it menacingly. That bat, I am sure, is intended for me.
I am surprised that Mike is not in jail. The cops in this town are terrible.
I am not surprised that he is advancing on me.
I am surprised that I am not running—indeed, that I am standing still.
I am not surprised that Mike has pulled the bat back for a mighty swing and that it is aimed directly at my head…
– • –
I am surprised that I’m awake. I am even more surprised that it’s 4:12 a.m.
It seems that there is little I can rely on anymore.
I try closing my eyes, now that I know I am safe.
But it is useless. I grab my pen and notebook and scribble down the time, and my data is complete.
– • –
As I pad through the living room toward the earliest bowl of corn flakes of my life, I stop at the front window and pull back the curtain. Life outside on Clark Avenue looks much as it did just a few hours ago. Only the streetlights pierce the dark. No one appears to be out and about, not at this hour. I tilt my head to the right and find Donna Middleton’s house. I wonder if she’s having trouble sleeping. I wonder if she is scared. I wouldn’t say she was scared when I talked to her earlier—shaken, yes, but there was firmness in her voice and what I would call resolve in her eyes. There is no empirical way to prove these things, of course, but that was the sense I got. I prefer facts, but sometimes sense is all you have to go on.
I’ve occasionally heard people say something like “I know his heart,” and I wonder how someone could possibly know such a thing. A heart is a mysterious thing to know. Doctors know how they work, of course, and can sometimes fix them when they’re not working correctly. But the mechanics of the heart are not what people are talking about when they say such things. They are talking about a person’s intentions or nature or goodness—or perhaps, in the case of someone like Mike, the opposite of goodness.
I do not understand how one can know such things, the way people know that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776, or that the cheetah is the fastest land mammal. Those things can be measured and verified. Hearts cannot. Still, I cannot fight the notion that Donna has a strong heart, no matter how imprecise I know that feeling to be.
I feel bad for Donna Middleton. It must be difficult for her. Boys, even good boys like Kyle, must be difficult to raise. She is
doing it alone, though she must be doing something right. I guess Kyle will be coming home today from his grandparents’ house in Laurel. I hope he is a good boy to his mother for a while.
I don’t think Donna Middleton wants to be alone like she is. How could she, having been with the Mikes and Troys and Donalds that she has been with? I think it must be very difficult and sad to want something and to not get it, no matter how hard you try. She lived with Mike, and he tried to choke her.
I feel bad for Donna Middleton. But I do not feel sorry for her. This is a fine distinction, I think, but it feels right to me. I do not think Donna Middleton would appreciate my feeling sorry for her. I don’t know her heart, but I feel confident about that. That confidence will have to do until the facts come in.
– • –
At 4:38 a.m. on the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I’m munching on corn flakes and sitting in front of the computer, logging on to Montana Personal Connect.
Inbox (1).
I click the link.
Hi Edward!
Thanks SOOOOO much for answering my questions.
Yours’ are great. Here are my answers:
1. I’m not sure of the number. A bunch. Online dating is hard. But what are you going to do. Its not like Im going to meet someone in Broadview. Ha ha.
2. I like summer. Go to the lake, ride in a boat, get a tan. LOL. Do you like the lake?
3. What is
Dragnet
?
4. Any kind pretty much. I like classic rock and country. I LOVE Garth Brooks.
5. I don’t go on many vacations. The last one I took was to Colorado for mountain biking. What about you?
Edward do you think maybe you would like to meet? Let me know.
Bye!
Joy
There is so much wrong with this note I almost do not know where to begin. But then there is that question. Do I want to meet? I am shocked to realize that, until this very moment, 4:44 a.m. on October 19, the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I never suspected that participating in an online dating website might actually result in an online date.
Also, I have an idea.
– • –
I’m in the basement, and I’m taking inventory.
The front wheel and the pedals on my eighteen-speed bicycle will work. It’s not like the bike is getting much use from me. My parents gave it to me for Christmas in 2002. I took it out once and nearly got run over by a car on Lewis Avenue. It has been down in the basement since.
I know the big back wheels on my mulching mower, which is out in the garage, will work. Taking them will render the mower useless, but I won’t need to worry about that until next spring.
I’m going to need some lumber and some hardware—bolts and nuts and such—and some paint and some lacquer and some other things, too. I need to write my inventory down and take some measurements. Home Depot will be open in two hours and forty-three minutes.
– • –
My idea—for now, I am going to call it “The Big Project”—is one of the best that I have had in a while. I used to have a lot of big ideas, and I have never made any secret of the fact that I enjoy new projects, but many of them never came to fruition. (I love the word “fruition.”) It’s not that I couldn’t do them; it’s that they often collided with my other, more established projects, like watching
Dragnet
every night.
I am confident, however, that The Big Project can get finished. It will require close attention not only to the fundamentals of the project itself but also to the clock.
My idea has come on the day that the Dallas Cowboys play football.
– • –
Today’s trip to the Home Depot store in the West End of Billings goes so much better than the one Tuesday I can hardly believe it. But it’s a fact, and I trust facts.
This has happened for a couple of reasons. First, I know exactly what I need and exactly where to get it, so there is no need to seek out potentially unhelpful store employees. Second, there are no choices involved—even with the spray paint. I can see in
my mind exactly what color The Big Project will be, and so I simply grab the appropriate cans and put them in the cart.