Until Death

5.

Another depressing South California afternoon, clouds gathering, traffic jams and sensational news.

Every news show of every television station in the city was running footages. Live or not of the murder of a great man of the people by his wife, who had been taken into custody by the police who arrived in the early morning hours to escort her out.

Every station had reporters live on the site of the story of the millennium. No one had much to say but did that stop them? No, not in the history of television journalism. It was about finding the story or making the story. And finding story was outdated.

"We are here, awaiting— live at the house of Antonio Romero, this is [reporter's name here] for channel blah blah news."

Angel watched the TV with the sound muted, reading closed caption for Mrs. Matte-Romero, which appeared again and again on every channel he switched to. Every cop, tech, reporter and neighbors who were happy to have mics shoved down their throats as they rambled on the behavior of the 'woman' and how husband was always good to her. The cops did their best not to say a word save the usual justice will be served bullshit. But there was no shortage of people willing to step into the spotlight and make some comment, or express their rage and sympathy for the Romero's tragedy like it was Romeo and Juliet over again. People ranging from neighbors to messengers, who stood on the other side of the city gave their judgement and settled the case themselves. Antonio's wife should be killed as it was murder, a capital crime punishable by death.

On the upper-right-hand corner of the screen of every channel had a booking photo of her already. By booking, he meant the gorgeous picture of the events she attended with her husband. Feeling, acting and looking gorgeous. He was sure, the media imagined it like an E News scandal than a suspect situation.

When frustration had seeped into his patience long enough to feel the need to punch the reporters in the throat and tell them to shut the fuck up and let the expert handle their fucking jobs. If it was in the constitution, it would've stopped serial killers and rapists who felt the rush of their 'art' being shown on television. Making them stars. Fuck the news industry.

Angel walked away from the plasma-screen TV and went away from his desk to the interrogation room where the woman of the year was sitting in. He tried to close every question out of the mind and walk through the door.

One thing he loved about LA was the rising sense of hope, that every dream shines with the possibility of becoming true than wishing reindeer were better than people. But on one of his many gloomy days, he felt despair. When hours ago, when returning from chasing a con, he whistled and danced his way into sleep.

The detective paused for a minute to take a deep breathe and opened the door to see a woman in the mirror stared right at. Where James was watching if she listened to him and not talk about some Valley girl shit with her mama.

He walked over the opposite of her, the cold table separating them and fished himself a seat.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Romero." he said, getting to see the woman for the first this closer rather than from a distance. She looked better than she had— Jane described her. He brushed of the bareness of her face with the fact she helped herself to the sink or her visitor had a hand.

It hurt his eyes to see the emptiness in her eyes, the paleness of her skin. The dawn of her cheeks. The ruby skinned, strong, bedazzling woman was there. This was some other woman and not the woman who had hit the American lottery for everything in life. This woman lived in fear and loathing, and something that drove her to cross the line that person weaker and stronger than her would. She had committed murder. Brutally murdered her husband. And the world chanted for her death.