Friday, June 10, 2011

Mark Hill: How it Happened

Kay, so today's post is kinda random so lemme explain. Day in and day out in dictation, we hear bits and pieces of really interesting cases but just get a few facts sprinkled in here and there. One such is Mark Hill who was involved in a robbery. I got a jury charge the other day where part of it went "knew it was an officer arresting him". Mark Hill was just begging to have his story told.

So I did what I do best.

I made something up out of thin air and brain synapse and posted it on Facebook. Here for your reading pleasure: Mark Hill

Ah, Mark Hill. Everyone's favorite intrepid burglar! And since I *do* love stories, here is a (somewhat) plausible summation of what went down...

Mark Hill was not your average young hoodlum. True, he had attended one year of community college and dropped out due to poor attendance and loitered…if he had time. He slunk rather than walked in order to avoid losing his baggy trousers, and it was true that he kept various colors of store-brand spray paint in the back of his '87 Ford clunker pickup "just in case." What made him special, unique even, was that he had a real talent for picking locks. And that his father was Littleton's Chief of Police.

It was hard being the son of a cop. Mark had sold the last of his Christmas presents to pay for his skunk habit, but he needed his next fix. He could feel his fingers twitching with a nervous jitter as he slunk down the street by Mr. Foster's house. Mr. Foster, a friend of his father's, presented a fine picture of what obese, balding men looked like on a riding lawn mower with no shirt on. Mark winced and tried to unsee what had just been seen.

The roar of the mower cut out. "Mark!" the man yelled, and Mark looked up, trying to focus solely on the face.

"Yes, Mr. Foster?"

"I'm taking the lady out of town for a few days; see the sights in Death Valley, the salt flats and so on. I meant to ask you pappy to ask you, but...could you keep an eye out for any packages? I'm waitin' for a box of...well...I'm waiting for a box. Just keep it for me, would you?"

"Sure," he mumbled, continuing towards home. An idea began to percolate. Gone for a couple of days? He craftily matched this information with his lock-picking skills and came up with a plan. A plan to rob someone who practically deserved to be robbed.

The next night, Mark was ready. He'd laid out his night-walking costume consisting of dark blue jeans, his brown hiking boots, and his mother's old black windbreaker when she had been pregnant with his younger brother (now at Harvard). From his spy tower on the second floor, he had seen the Fosters load up into a dangerously swaying motor home and drive off. The house

was decidedly empty.

Mark was pretty sure his parents were asleep, but he tiptoed past the master bedroom and out the back door. As he crossed the road all careful-like, Mark was feeling pretty proud of himself, felt like a real thief. And it was actually kind of thrilling.

The front door lock was a breeze. He sidled into the den and beheld enough equipment to fill Ali Baba’s treasure den. He headed over to the 73 ½ inch plasma screen monstrosity and began to unplug the wiring. Mark didn’t know how he was going to get it out, but he knew he was going to somehow.

Then it hit him. The jitters. It had been 3 full days since his last hit, and only one thing cured the cravings. He just had to hope the Fosters were his kind of people.

The kitchen was spartan, the item of main importance obviously the extra large refrigerator and freezer (no doubt filled with frozen pizzas and other such delicacies). The fridge, how

ever, yielded the desired items: Kraft American cheese singles.


He plopped that package on the island and got down to work. Unwrapping each slice of cheese was kinda annoying, but what’s a guy to do? When he needs his Kraft, he needs it.

Mark was in the throes of his sixth slice of the evening when he heard a step on the stoop. Why would someone be here? He shoved the rest of the package into his voluminous back pocket and made for the back door. His fledgling burglary attempt was about to turn into a fiasco!

In the hall nightlight, he saw the face of the interloper. Curses! He made for the back door, but felt his knees yanked out from under him. The man yelled “On the ground, Mark!”

Mark gave a mighty kick, hoping to score somewhere above the knee and below the abs, but got the gun belt instead. The gun belt of a Littleton Police Officer. Damn! Mark thought he had recognized that face. It was the face of the first baseman on the police baseball team. He wiggled free and ran…but only until the copper wire of the taser snaked out and zapped his brain silly.

The officer suddenly thought he smelled burning cheese.

Ten minutes later, backup arrived…along with Chief Hill who was still in his robe and slippers. “Mark…” he said, “Oh Mark, what am I going to do with you?”

Wow Mark. Sucks to be you.

1 comment:

lifeshighway said...

Your story makes me want to make a grill cheese sandwich. Perhaps without the aid of a taser, or perhaps a taser would toast a nice sandwich.

Ah an experiment is developing.