Chapter 5 - THE FOOTAGE
Detective Lena Ortiz watched the recording before I did.
She came to my house the next morning with an evidence technician and asked whether I wanted to see it.
“No.”
Then:
“Yes.”
Then:
“No.”
She waited.
“I need to know what you need from me.”
“Your statement first.”
Good.
Memory before video.
I described:
Cynthia.
Chicken.
Ivan grabbing me.
Palm on grill.
My escape.
Smashing controls.
Panic fob.
“Did you intend to hit Ivan with the spoon?”
“No.”
“Did you swing toward him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think?”
“I was in pain.”
She wrote.
“Did you intentionally knock the grill over?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted it off and away from me.”
“Did Ivan approach you at that moment?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe he would touch you again?”
“Yes.”
Then she showed the video.
Wide angle.
No cinematic close-ups.
Just an ugly backyard.
I saw myself at the grill.
Cynthia beside me.
Ivan approaching.
I watched him grab my wrist.
Saw my body pull backward.
Then his hand forcing mine down.
The contact lasted 1.8 seconds according to timestamp analysis.
Short.
Enough.
My scream came through the camera microphone.
I wanted to stop.
Lena paused.
“Continue?”
“Yes.”
I watched myself destroy the grill.
Not graceful.
Not heroic.
Wild.
Understandable.
Potentially dangerous.
I felt embarrassed.
Lena said nothing.
Then Ivan looked toward the camera.
I reached into my apron.
The fob disappeared in my hand.
Ivan shouted:
“Turn it off!”
Then something I had not heard clearly in the moment.
Cynthia.
Quiet.
Near Ivan.
“Get the recorder before she saves it.”
I turned toward Lena.
“What?”
She rewound.
Cynthia said it again.
Get the recorder before she saves it.
Not:
What recorder?
Not:
What happened?
May you like
She knew I might be recording.
How?
