by R. A. McGee
Fingers can move. Arm can bend. Grip is good. Must not be that bad. Get your ass in gear.
He shouldered the rifle and moved the selector switch to semi. Every time he pulled the trigger, a round would come out, and Porter could pull a trigger like a track star on speed.
Pointing his rifle towards the bathroom, he placed the red dot of his optic in the doorway and waited. He heard the distinct sound of a shotgun shell being chambered, then the deadbolt of his bathroom door was blown off and the door swung wide open. There was a brief lull. Porter got to his feet. Through the mirror, he could see the first assailant enter his bathroom, armed with a shotgun. The next guy in was Tattoo, and the third was someone he hadn’t seen before. The fourth was Dreadlocks.
Four killers in my bathroom. Wish I had a grenade.
Porter didn’t have a grenade. What he had would have to be enough. He waited until all the guys were further into the bathroom, just before they would clear the doorway to his bedroom. He needed to be sure they were all in the bathroom at the same time.
Then he attacked.
Porter took a slight step to the right; just the smallest bit of his barrel was visible to the bathroom. Anyone who was observant enough would have seen part of the rifle’s barrel and the red lens of the red dot optic, but nothing else. Porter used the bathroom wall for as much concealment as he could. He put the red dot on the first guy’s chest and pulled the trigger several times.
The first guy in line realized he was being shot about the time the fifth round found his torso. He staggered and lost his footing, falling into the bathtub. He must have made a noise, but Porter couldn’t hear it. Between the ‘silenced’ shots ringing in the bedroom and the blood pumping in his own ears, Porter couldn’t hear anything.
Once the first guy went down, Porter took another step so he could shoot deeper into the bathroom. More of him was exposed now—his right leg, right arm, and half his face—but he figured it was a fair trade. Tattoo was next in line and Porter fired. From the looks of it, Tattoo was none too pleased about being shot. Backing up, Tattoo ran into the third guy as he tried to escape the fatal funnel of the bathroom. Running into the guy behind him held Tattoo up and gave Porter a stationary target. Porter continued firing.
Tattoo went down. Porter figured it was because the guy behind him had moved backward, no longer keeping him upright. When Porter stepped a little further to the right to see more of the bathroom, there were two shadowy figures running through the doorway into the backyard, beating a hasty retreat.
His first instinct was to follow, but he stifled that.
I’m not running into an ambush.
Porter stepped back into his corner and grabbed the extra thirty-round magazine from his back pocket. Dropping the magazine already in the rifle, he inserted the fresh one. He had no idea how many rounds he’d fired, but a full magazine always beat a not-full magazine.
Porter dropped to one knee and waited.
The air smelled like gunpowder, and there was a cloud hanging in his room.
Probably getting cancer right now.
It beat the alternative. He counted to sixty. Porter figured the Acres boys were long gone by now, but if they weren’t, he wanted to give them time to make the mistake of coming back. No one did.
Porter moved the selector of his rifle to safe, reached into his top pocket, and grabbed his phone.
“911, what’s the nature of your emergency?”
“I live at 18131 Peacock Road. People broke into my house and they had guns.”
“Sir, are you safe right now?”
“I’m so scared, I thought I was gonna die. Please, I need help.” Porter was not in fear for his life—not much, anyway. As someone who had spent plenty of time both with lawyers and in courtrooms, he understood what he needed to say to the operator to cover his ass. A recording that would get played in court. Being in fear for your life was one of the first elements of building a case for self-defense.
“We are dispatching units to your location. Can you tell me what you look like, so the officers will be able to identify you?”
“I’m a big guy with a beard. Tell them I’m armed, please—I don’t want any trouble.”
“I’ll tell them. Secure the weapon when they arrive on the scene.”
“I will; just tell them to hurry.” Porter didn’t want to get shot by some dumbass cop who thought he was the bad guy.
“They’re on the way. Do we need to send medical attention?”
“Definitely.”
Twenty-Six
Porter hung up with 911, then went through his contacts list and pressed the talk button. A groggy voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Steven? It’s Porter.”
“Porter? What time is it?”
“It’s time for you to earn some of that retainer money I have socked away with you.”
“What did you do this time?”
“Some guys broke into my house. Some of their bodies are still in my house.”
“Understood. I’ll get on the horn. Don’t say anything to the cops.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Porter thumbed the phone off.
Porter walked over to his front door and opened it wide. He stood inside the doorway and peeked his head outside. He wanted to be sure there were no surprises waiting for him before he stepped out.
Porter saw nothing, so he stepped out into his front yard, and looked across the front of the yard. There was no one waiting, and the Hyundai was gone.
He activated the light on his rifle, swept it along the grass, and saw several splashes of blood.
Maybe I hit one of the other two guys?
Sirens blared in the distance and Porter waited in his driveway.
Two minutes later, patrol cars turned the corner of his street. If the shotguns blasts hadn’t woken the neighbors up already, this certainly would.
Porter set his rifle on the ground, pulled his pistol from his waistband, and placed it next to the rifle. He walked out to the middle of the street and knelt down with his hands up in the air. Despite having just been in a gunfight, what Porter felt the most uneasy about was the upcoming interaction with the cops.
It wasn’t that he thought cops liked to shoot people. On the contrary, he had done the job and knew better. There were bad eggs and Porter hoped they’d burn in hell, but he knew most cops to be good people. Still, it was dark outside. The officers pulling up to the house knew weapons had been fired. Porter was a large and intimidating guy. It was only natural for the cops to be on edge. They wanted to see their families at the end of their shift.
The patrol cars stopped one house away from Porter’s. They put their spotlights on him, and then one spoke through the PA system in his car.
“Sir, please keep your hands up.”
Porter complied.
“Are you the only one here?”
Porter nodded his head in a slow, exaggerated yes.
“Are you armed?”
Porter shook his head in a slow, exaggerated no.
“Lie on your stomach and put your arms out to your side.”
Porter did, somehow resisting the urge to make an asphalt angel.
“Do not move.”
Three officers had gotten out of the cars and taken up positions behind the various points of cover they could find. They had their weapons drawn, but none of them had aimed at Porter.
Good training, Porter thought.
Two of the officers approached Porter. The one behind him slid a cuff on Porter’s wrist, then pulled his arms together to cuff the other hand. Once Porter was handcuffed, the officers holstered their pistols.
The officers walked Porter back to the sergeant, whose nametag read Orvis.
“Sir, are you the homeowner?” Sgt. Orvis said.
Porter nodded. “If you check my wallet, you’ll find my license and my concealed carry permit.”
Sgt. Orvis reached into Porter’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet
. Flipping through it, he confirmed Porter was telling the truth, then took the handcuffs off.
“Sorry for the precautions, Mr. Porter. That’s for everybody’s safety,” Sgt. Orvis said.
Porter always loved this line; he’d used it many times. In reality, the handcuffing was to make sure you didn’t do anything foolish and get yourself shot.
“I understand. Thanks for coming,” Porter said.
“Your 911 call said assailants broke into your house. Are they still in there?”
“Here’s the thing, sergeant: because of what happened here, I’m gonna need my lawyer present for any questioning.”
Sgt. Orvis smiled. “You can never be too careful. Can you at least tell me if it’s safe to send my men into your house? If not, I’m going to wait on more people to show up and clear the house proper.”
“I think your guys should be okay,” Porter said.
“That’s all I need to know.” Sgt. Orvis gave the other officers the command, and they un-holstered their pistols and headed towards the house.
Better safe than sorry, Porter thought.
Sgt. Orvis keyed something into his walkie-talkie and then spoke to Porter. “Whose rifle on the ground?”
“Mine.”
“Nice. Look better than the crap they issue us.”
“It seems to work for me,” Porter said.
Sgt. Orvis pointed to Porter’s arm. The deep red of the blood had been masked by the darkness of his t-shirt, but was now leaking down Porter’s forearm. “Did you get shot, Mr. Porter?”
For the first time, Porter remembered the bite of the shotgun blast. The rush of adrenaline he’d felt from the subsequent gunfight had dulled his sense of pain. Now it hurt pretty damn bad.
Rolling his left sleeve up, Porter saw three wounds in his biceps. One was directly in the middle of his arm, the other two were closer to the outside. All three looked angry.
“The paramedics should be here any minute. I radioed them and told them the scene was clear. We’ll let them look at that,” Sgt. Orvis said.
The officers Orvis sent to the house returned with their weapons holstered, shaking their heads. A dark-skinned man said, “The house is clear, Sarge, but it ain’t empty. It looks like a slaughterhouse in there.”
Orvis raised his eyebrows at Porter. “Really? What happened in there?”
Porter smiled. “I’m gonna need that lawyer, Sergeant.”
Orvis nodded and got back on his radio. Porter recognized the 10-codes for things like the house is clear, the location they were at, and calling off further officers from coming to the scene. Then Orvis called their dispatch and asked for a crime scene investigations unit to come to the scene. The distinct wail of an ambulance rounded the corner. Orvis walked Porter to the ambulance.
The paramedics looked at Porter’s arm and flushed it out with a saline solution. “Looks like there’s something in there.”
“Probably because I got shot,” Porter said.
The paramedic looked at Porter, then to Orvis. “I’m not going to bother with this here, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“You know what, just leave the buckshot. I’ll take care of it. I could use a dressing so I don’t bleed everywhere, though.”
“Sir, I advise against that. This isn’t going to fix itself. You’re gonna need antibiotics, too.”
“Thanks for the advice, champ, but I got it handled.”
The paramedic just shook his head and produced a clipboard with what appeared to be a waiver. “Okay, buddy, suit yourself. I can’t make you get treatment. If you’d just sign here for me, this is to—”
“Make sure I don’t hold the city liable when I die of gangrene?” Porter said.
The paramedic laughed, and Porter signed the paper on the dotted line. Then the paramedic squirted a brown liquid on Porter’s arm and wrapped gauze around it, taping the end so it would stay put.
Porter thanked him.
When the crime scene investigators arrived, so did the homicide detectives. Porter was glad they were here. Not that he particularly wanted to talk—or in this case remain silent—with them; he just knew he was one step closer to being able to leave.
A pair of detectives walked up to Porter and Sgt. Orvis. One was a white man, thin and reedy, and the other was a black female, her natural hair in a large round bun.
“Detectives Jacobs and Arrington, this is Mr. Porter. He’s been very cooperative and he’s waiting for his lawyer to answer any questions.”
Porter liked the way Sgt. Orvis handled himself, and wished all cops were as knowledgeable.
“If that’s everything, me and my guys will take off,” Sgt. Orvis said. “Detectives, I’ll give you my incident report by Tuesday morning. If you need anything further, please let me know.” Sgt. Orvis turned to Porter. “Mr. Porter, I’m sorry we had to meet like this, but it looks like you have things well in hand.”
“I do my best, Sarge.” They shook hands, then Porter turned to the two new obstructions, hoping things would go as smoothly as they had with Orvis.
Twenty-Seven
Detective Arrington spoke first. “What is your complete name, for the record?” She pulled a green notepad out of her pocket.
Porter gave her his name and date of birth.
“Okay, Mr. Porter. Is this your home?”
“Yes, it is.” Basic biographical questions were not covered by Miranda, meaning the cops could ask those questions without reading a person their rights. Porter wanted to be helpful as long as he could.
“Are the guns we see on the ground over there yours? Do you legally own them?” Arrington asked.
Porter shook his head. “Detective Arrington, the sergeant told you. I really need my lawyer.”
“Okay, Mr. Porter, if that’s what you—”
Detective Jacobs waved his hands. His eyes were sunken in and he smelled of smoke. “Seems like an innocent man would answer our questions.” He didn’t seem interested in Porter’s rights.
“Is that right?” Porter said.
“That’s right,” Jacobs said.
Arrington received a call on her cell phone and stepped away to answer.
“Is that how you made detective, with really stupid theories?” Porter said.
Jacobs bristled. “I’m not sure you know who you’re talking to.”
“I know I’m not talking to the brains of the team, that’s for sure. That’s unfortunate, since you’re doing most of the talking.”
“I guess you want to go to jail, don’t you? I can take you to jail right now and leave you there for forty-eight hours. I don’t have to charge you with shit. How about that, smartass?”
“You’re gonna have a hell of a time getting me down to that jail,” Porter said.
“Is that a threat?”
Porter didn’t reply.
Arrington hung up her phone and walked back to the two men. “Jacobs. Can I speak to you over here?”
“Stay right there, sir.” Somehow, Jacobs managed to make ‘sir’ sound like ‘shithead.’
The two detectives stood several feet away and spoke quietly. Porter watched as Jacobs grew more animated as the conversation went on, and he was gesticulating wildly by the end. The detectives walked back to Porter.
“Mr. Porter, I just got off the phone with my captain. We have been instructed to let you go on your way tonight. Your attorney has agreed to make you available for questioning later in the week. We’re finished. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, Detective Arrington. You’ve been a pleasure,” Porter said as he stared Jacobs in the eye. Jacobs stormed away, and Arrington followed.
When Porter was by himself, he took out his phone and hit redial.
“Porter. Did they talk to you?”
“Yeah, Steven, that was fast. I thought I was at least spending a few hours in processing.”
“Not if I have anything to say in the matter,” Steven said.
“I’m glad you do. How’d you pull that off?”
“I called Captain Jones. He was my old field training officer before I moved on to greener pastures.”
“Being a fancy lawyer is a much greener pasture than being a cop,” Porter said.
“Funny guy. Once I told Henry it was a self-defense thing, he agreed there was no reason to bring you in. I promised I’d bring you down for questioning, so don’t make me a liar. Be available sometime this week, got it?”
“I promise.”
“Before I let you go, is there anything you need to tell me? You can give me a full debrief when we meet up, but if there’s anything that may go sideways about this, I’d rather hear it from you.”
Porter could be honest; anything he told Steven Ajo was covered under attorney-client privilege. But in the interest of timeliness, he decided to hold off. He had somewhere to be.
“The basic facts are there. Four gang-bangers broke into my house, and I burned two of them down. The other two got away.”
“Why are you so special to have people breaking into your house?”
“Super long story. I’ll tell you later.”
“Fine, Porter. Just make sure you do. And try not to shoot anyone else. You don’t pay me that much,” Steven said.
“I make no promises,” Porter said as he hung up the phone.
He thought for a moment and headed back into his house. A crime scene technician looked at him funny. Porter ignored her and walked to his bedroom.
Jacobs saw him and moved to block his way. “You can’t be here. This is a crime scene. I don’t care if it is your house, this is off limits.”
“Relax. I just need some clean clothes,” Porter said.
Jacobs shook his head. “Nope, don’t care. It doesn’t matter how good your attorney is, you can’t pollute the crime scene. I’m telling you to leave and if you don’t—”
Arrington stepped in between them. “Where are the clothes you need, Mr. Porter?”
Porter pointed to his dresser.
“You have two minutes, Mr. Porter. Please get your things and let us do our jobs,” Arrington said.
“You’re the boss,” Porter said.
Jacobs stomped off back to the bathroom.