WE ALL PAY TAXES
Sam Schieren
Well, what’s our angle?
Gotta be the window.
The window, huh?
The window.
Iffy.
Iffy why? It wasn’t down, was barely even cracked. There’s something suspicious about that.
Okay, the window.
It’s glass.
It’s a window.
Right. It’s glass, it’s fragile—might as well not be there at all.
It offers no protection.
Right. So, the window’s barely open, but that doesn’t even matter.
It could be closed for all we care.
Exactly.
Was it tinted?
I’m not sure.
That would play well.
Establishes character.
Dark. Mysterious. No one trusts a tinted window.
No one likes uncertainty.
It’s everyone’s biggest fear.
Uncertainty.
And if there wasn’t tint, maybe there was a glare?
Glare. Right. Maybe.
Where was the sun?
Do you have toxicology?
Where was the sun? They were northbound right?
Nothing in tox?
Nothing.
Huh, clean.
The sun. Focus. Were they northbound?
North. South. East. West.
Was there glare.
I’m thinking about glare.
What if the officer couldn’t see? Sun in his face or shining off the glass or the glass was reflecting his squinting face.
He couldn’t see. Plus, the glass is fragile.
The glass makes it worse in so many ways.
Because it’s fragile.
He can’t grab the guy, can’t protect himself. Glass is thin. All he has is his gun.
And he can’t see.
What else do we have besides glare?
We only have glare if they were northbound.
This bit is weak. Leaves too much to chance.
There’s really nothing in tox?
Nothing at all. He worked with kids.
Never stopped my brother.
How is he?
In Chicago and in AA.
Really?
Well, Wilmette.
Right. Teaching?
He’s an accountant now.
Right. Must be busy?
April showers.
The cruelest month. Okay—the window.
It’s barely open. It’s thin. There might be a glare. There might be tint.
And he’s playing music.
She is.
Right. She’s playing the music. It’s all you can hear from outside.
Loud bass. Air horns. Dropping bombs. Grunting men. The radio.
Then he hears “no” or “gun” or “shoot” or something.
The glare plus the closed window and the rap music.
Did he knock on the window?
Who, the officer?
Yeah.
It’s not in his report.
What about in her statement?
Don’t think so.
The kid’s?
Nope.
That would have looked better. Like he was giving them time to roll down the window, time to obey.
If he knocks and she doesn’t roll it down, then that’s another red flag.
Another?
The window and the music.
Right. Good. So non-compliant plus music plus gun.
Hopefully he’ll say he knocked. If he doesn’t remember, just say he did. See if they object.
Sure.
Okay, so whether or not the window is tinted there’s the glare.
If they were northbound.
Plus, the window was all the way up.
Almost.
He has no angle outside.
He can’t see in. He can’t see hands or eyes.
He’s approaching blind.
Whatever is going on inside the car is hidden. He can’t see eyes or hands or the woman or the kid.
That’s all good for us—technically.
Plenty to work with.
Okay, let’s see, what else?
Did he say, lower the window?
No.
No?
No. He approached, weapon drawn, but was quiet. Didn’t say a thing until he got to the window.
Would you have pulled the trigger?
If I feared for my life.
Did he not say anything to them before he pointed the gun?
Doesn’t seem like it.
Jesus.
He gets to the car with his weapon drawn.
He says the brake light was out.
And then One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven!
Seven?
Seven.
How quick?
Two seconds. Just before that though, he must have said something like, Do you know why I pulled you over?
She says, No Mr. Officer. Why the fuck did you pull us over?
She says, No sir, how come?
Blau! blau! blau! blau! blau! blau! blau!
No, first he asks for license and registration, and an ID from both of them.
He doesn’t see the kid in the back seat.
The Dad says, Yes, sir. Just want to let you know I’m licensed to carry. I have a gun.
He goes to his pocket.
Why’d he tell him that?
I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter.
But—
Really, it doesn’t. Information about a gun is out there, floating between the two men. The officer has guns on his mind. Plus, the loud music.
The officer is already pointing his weapon.
All he has to do is not pull the trigger.
The man goes to his pocket, shifting his whole body to do it.
The officer thinks, He might have a gun.
He does have a gun.
Right.
This man has a gun and he might right now be reaching for that gun to shoot me with, is what the officer’s thinking.
When someone’s bending forward in a car and you can’t see past the glare on their window but you know they own a gun, how can you tell they’re not going to shoot you?
He’s reaching for the gun.
That’s what he saw.
He reaches for the gun. There’s a glare in the window.
The glass is so thin.
Might as well be nothing.
The sun sets in the west.
They’re northbound.
Don’t forget the brake lights.
The brake lights are out. This was a totally lawful stop.
And he fears for his life.
And, so, he shoots across the wife?
Nobody is married.
Right. So, he shoots across the woman.
Unhit.
The kid?
Unhit.
Where was he?
In the back seat.
The officer didn’t see him?
No.
Because of the glare.
Because of the glare.
Where is the kid now?
With the Mom.
So, there’s a glare in the window.
And a gun in the dad’s pocket.
“Stop!” yells the officer. “Don’t move! Stop reaching!”
“I’m not reaching.”
“Stop!” he yells, for the third time.
Why’d he have a gun? Why’d he have to have a gun?
I don’t know. He worked at a school. In the city, I think. A guidance counselor of some kind.
Poor guy.
Poor kid.
Sam Schieren is a writer from Valley Cottage, New York. He received his MFA from the University of California, Davis. His work is published or forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Bellevue Literary Review, and Southern Humanities Review, among other journals. He currently lives in Richmond, Virginia.