John had finally found the story of his life. His boss will give him a desk in the newsroom when he’ll read it. No doubt. He only have to get in time to the deadline at 8 pm.
That morning he had been wandering thru the corridors of the courthouse and meet a friend: a young lawyer who affected that she didn’t know him but whispered a few words passing by:
-Eyes wide open on courtroom number 5
He went to that court and find that it was a hearing about a disputed will concerning to an unknown family named the McEvans. It seems the late Gordon McEvans had left everything, including his farm, to his grandson and his children were angry.
Nothing exciting here, thought John. But he entered the courtroom to see what would happen.
At the door he was surprised to stumbled upon the Governor Harper.
This seems more than a family dispute, he thought.
When the oldest son of the deceased saw the governor, everything exploded. Gordon Mcevans Jr. pounced on him and without saying a word stabbed him to death.
The police officers and the security of the court reduced Gordon who said: de debt has been paid.
-What debt?
-Why the governor?
John just had witnessed the murder of the highest authority of the state, but he needed answers. Quikly, before the police took him to the police station to take his statement, he tried to investigate, talking to the family members who were in shock.
Writing
When the police released him he went home and began to write the story: “Governor Harper murdered for revenge”
John had found out that Harper had ordered the killing of the old McEvans after forcing him to change his will so he could manipulate the young grandson who was working for him, and use the farm’s property to expand an expensive and lucrative housing project.
John was typing without thinking on anything more than his story, when he felt that the room was warm and full of light.
Then he realized that it was 8 am. He had missed the deadline. His story would never be published in the paper. He stopped typing petrified and looked at his papers helplessly. He had loose too much time with the police. he was the main witness. He was part of the story. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to win a desk in the newsroom and his opportunity had gone with the night. And so was he.
Finished.
Forever.
I was hoping he’d get his story in in just the nick of time. Oh well.
me too, but then, what would I do with the skeleton of the picture? In fact this is the nightmare of a journalist working with a daily deadline like it happened to me for so many years. Nevertheless, I somehow miss the adrenaline of that late hours writing against the clock.