"Stop!" a policeman yells. "Stop!"
Chris keeps running as fast as he can. Does he really expect me to stop? he thinks. He jumps over a trash can and pushes himself to run faster.
"I said stop!"
"I heard you!" He turns left into a dark alley. He is more than happy to have finally found an escape when he approaches a tall gate that cuts the alley in half, blocking Chris from freedom. He looks back.
The police are catching up too quickly, slamming trash cans out of the way and into the walls.
"Shit," he says, trying not to panic. He jumps onto a dumpster and grips the gate wires. He starts making his way to the top.
The police come up to the fence. Five policemen begin climbing up after him while the other four run in the opposite direction, probably to catch him on the other side.
"Son of a bitch." He swings his legs over to the other side one by one. He jumps down from there and screams as he feels excruciating pain in his right ankle. "Fuck!" He forces himself to keep going. He pushes himself up off the ground and hurriedly limps to his only exit.
He hears a cop laugh behind him, and he's instantly angry.
"You can't be serious!" the laughing cop says.
Chris pulls his gun out of his back pocket, holds it out behind him, and takes a blind shot.
No more laughing.
Chris smiles and limps faster as another cop starts shouting into his radio for a medic.
Just as Chris makes it back into the daylight, he hears more yelling from down the sidewalk. Before he can make it to the street, something, or someone, slams into him, taking him down to the ground.
"We finally got you, Hemsworth," someone says.
"That's great," he groans. The policeman turns him over, squishing his face into the ground and cuffing his wrists behind his back. "Agh. You want a fucking cookie?"
"We searched the entire east coast for you after the incident in Maine. I wouldn't mind a cookie."
After reading him his rights, they throw him into the backseat of the cruiser, start the car, and drive off.
Chris struggles against the handcuffs, trying to take them off. Unfortunately, they are much stronger than the ones he broke off in Australia.
In the next two weeks, Chris is going from trial to trial. It all goes by so quickly, he doesn't even remember it happening. He's loaded with charges, some more recent than others. He but he's hired a kick-ass lawyer with money no one knows he robbed from a bank in Massachusetts. This lawyer has many more wins than losses; he's the best in New York City. Chris has no doubt he's going to win.
Chris sits in the courtroom, wearing a white t-shirt, a red button-down shirt hanging open, and blue jeans. He wears the black Nike sneakers he had on when he had gotten arrested. He is handcuffed to the bench he sits on, being "ill-tempered and dangerous", according to the state police. He shakes his leg anxiously; he can't wait to get the handcuffs off.
The judge and lawyers are constantly going back and forth with their cases, but Chris isn't even paying attention. He just stares blankly at the floor, running through his mind the list of crimes he's ever committed. Robberies, shop-lifting, pick-pocketing, car-jacking, and two murders. Yet he can't help but think of that front door and how good he'll look walking out of it after winning this case.
The trial goes on for an hour and a half, and Chris is growing more and more impatient. Now, the whole courtroom is just waiting for it to end. Chris smiles, ready to win this case and go home. He has faith in his lawyer.
"Guilty" was the one word that sent Chris over the edge.
Chris looks up, not believing what he just heard. He glares at the lawyer. What the hell did he just say?
The lawyer cannot look anymore scared as the judge tells Chris his punishment.
Chris agrees to it, not taking his eyes off the man he trusted to get him out of this.
"We're done here. Get him out of my courtroom." The sound of the mallet, and the trial is over.
The lawyer slowly turns his attention to Chris, trying to keep calm. He folds his hands. "I-I'm sure you want to kill me."
"Hell yeah, I do." Chris is boiling with rage. "But I'm not gonna."
His fear disappears. "Really?" he says.
"You said you have two daughters, right?"
He nods. "Samantha and Leah, my two little girls."
Chris takes a deep breath. If I lose it now, he thinks, it will only make things worse for me. "I'm keeping you alive for them. My father is a good man, and I would hate to lose him. I wouldn't want that to happen to your children."
He lets out a shaky breath. He looks like he's about to cry. "Thank you."
Chris feels his handcuffs being undone. "Wait," he says to the security guard.
The guard doesn't listen to Chris, the ill-tempered man.
"Let me finish here." He resists the guard. "I told you to fucking wait!" He elbows the guard's gut violently.
He goes down to the ground, calling for back-up.
Chris grabs a pen and a random piece of paper and scribbles something down. He pushes it to the lawyer.
"What is this for?" the lawyer asks.
Chris looks back, eyes widening as more security guards pour into the courtroom. "Call my mother." He taps on the piece of paper. "Call her, and, and tell her--" He's cut off as his arms are yanked back and cuffed. He fights against them. "Tell her I'm sorry. That Chris is sorry." He yanks his arm out of the guard's grip. "Get the hell off of me. Tell her I love her, and I'm sorry for disappointing her. Let me go!"
"Alright," the lawyer says. "Alright, I'll do that. I promise."
"Let me go!" he yells. "I'll go along! Just stop with the grabbing!"...
Newswoman: "After three years of searching, Christopher Hemsworth, age twenty-one, was arrested Monday morning after a failed robbery and was put behind bars this morning. I spoke with his lawyer, Edward Price, for information on the subject, and he said Christopher was rejected by every prison in the state of New York. Now he must serve his years in the Bridgeport Correctional Facility in Bridgeport, Connecticut. We don't think he will be harming anyone anytime soon."
