####
Sitting on the steps and messing with her phone, Vickie wouldn't have looked out of place at the local high school or college. She's a little more noticeable here, where everybody is dressed professionally or accompanied by a guard. She's at least out of the way, sitting in a stairwell only used occasionally. Most people who do come by will probably think she's waiting for a parent to get off work. In a way, they'd be right; Vickie is still waiting for her parents to come home from that car ride. Her brain knows better, but her heart longs for a simpler time.
Hoping to find her, I'd gone for the Goth hippie look. Black velvet skirt and dark colored, tie-dyed shirt match my mood, while the heavy chains and stomping boots can double as weapons. The cut of the clothes are from several decades back. Say what you want about the 'fashions' of hippies, including that they only flattered walking ironing boards, but they were comfortable. Putting my boots on the same step as Vickie's lets me sit next to her. I stare at the blank wall in front of us, the doors to each level at our backs.
She leans away, sensibly not wanting to get close to the stranger who just invaded her space. Retreating isn't an option, because she doesn't think she'll be able to move forward again, once she starts going backward. I don't know if that is a good life philosophy or not, but many people have to live that way.
"We're here to help each other through this thing, whatever it is." She's not going to appreciate any of the ways I could start this conversation, so I just dive in.
Vickie gives me another sideways glance and leans even further away.
"That's a quote from the brother of a famous writer. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. knew how to put words together in interesting ways, yet he makes the point of attributing those words to his brother, Mark."
"Leave me alone."
"I know, you're busy. Trying to decide what your brother will have to say about you."
"What?" She almost growls at me. I've got her attention now, and a healthy dose of that anger she has.
"That’s not what you're thinking about, not to your mind anyway, but that's what it'll come down to in time. Can you imagine, ten, twenty years from now, some true crime novelist gets Tim's number, and asks him about you?" I pause to let that sink in through the anger. "What would you want him to say?"
Vickie glares as if to freeze the marrow in my bones, but her hands are trembling.
"Something like 'she must have been very smart to learn to make bombs without blowing herself up.' Or would you rather Tim thinks 'she helped a great many people.' Who am I kidding; he'd say you helped a lot of people. That phrase is pretty entrenched in the lexicon now."
"What do you want?"
"A good question, but if you think about it, you'll realize that's what I'm asking you." I shrug at her. "Set the bomb off, and you will be caught. You'll get your day in court, but not your say. They'll use it to prove they made the right choice in denying you Tim's guardianship."
"I just wanted that judge to take me seriously." Her voice is soft, as if she's not really talking to a stranger about this.
"Murder, attempted and accomplished, is taken very seriously, even by Judge Perry. They'll try and fry you as an adult, and Tim will be the victim."
"I'm scared for my brother's life, and that judge started laughing at me for crying. I can't get a lawyer to take my case now, not for free, and I'm on record as being a silly little girl who can't tell the difference between dolls and little brothers." There are tears now, from frustration and anger.
Many people cry when faced with confrontations or emotional situations they need to process. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and yet breaking down like this on the stand would have been enough to have her dismissed as being a child. The judge could even say it on record, and nobody would fault him for it.
"Breathe, and let it out; I'm not going to judge you. I won't even force you to do what I want, I just want to give you another option." I turn and stare at the wall some more. It's not that interesting a wall, that cinder-block look with the industrial paint found all over the world. What is that, cream, off-white?
"Revenge was all I could think of." Vickie mutters when she's ready to continue.
"Judge Perry was a legacy to his law school, which means he comes from a long line of lawyers and politicians."
"That figures," Vickie offers with the same disgust most people feel for politicians.
"Whole family is rich, and basically out-of-touch with the rest of the world. The rest of the family will have to destroy their own careers with stupidity, but Judge Perry we can fix. Rich marries rich, but being elected to the state Supreme Court isn’t cheap. He wouldn’t need as much money if he was the victim of a pipe bomb, that'd just be proof that he was tough on crime. Right now, though, he needs a great deal of his wife's money this next election. That money comes from her family's percentage of the legal diamond trade in the state."
"You want me to steal diamonds?" She asks, annoyance clear in her voice.
"No," I wave dismissively, to make sure she knows that wasn't my idea. "My contacts already have people for that."
Her face shifts, and now she's not worried I'm crazy so much as crazy and dangerous.
"I'm trying to convince them that paid workers are better workers, even when they are only editing the engraving on stolen diamonds.” I make it sound easy, like I'm not going to have to threaten and bribe to get her on the payroll. "They just need steady hands and determination. That pipe bomb in your backpack proves you've got that."
Twenty minutes ago she was planning how to get the bomb closest to the judge, and now I'm offering her a job with the mob. I don't really blame Vickie for getting to her feet and pacing up and down the stairs. She did leave the backpack on the stairs, not wanting to jostle the contents with her steps.
This is probably too much for her to take in, a criminal job instead of a criminal record. I can't make this decision for her, or force her around to my way of thinking. All I can do is give her room to think about it, so I stand. I pull a plain yet functional business card from the pocket of my skirt, and hold it out until she takes it.
"Explosion or phone call; let me know what you decide." I give her a shrug, turn, and go up the stairs to the next door. Soon, I'll be out of the building, but what destruction have I left behind?