My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Interestingly enough, that wasn't the largest body he's ever had to move." Bonnie chewed on the end of her pencil like her eraser was spearmint gum. "No kidding. How much bigger?" Mister Taffy shrugged. "Rough estimate, fifty pounds heavier, at least. Guy liked potato junk food as much as he liked ripping people off at his casino. Maybe even more than that. He died with his face in a bowl of sour cream and onion crisps." " 'Crisps.' How very English of you." "Love the Brit, hate the Britain," he replied. "Or something similar." He never took his eyes off Bonnie as she finished the document. It was all very succinct and clarified - the name, age, weight, occupation, date of birth, and date of death were bristling graphite on the paper. It was the offense section, of course, that she knew Mister Taffy was nitpickiest about. She made sure to provide extra detail with a few

Everyone saw the footage of the shooting that night. No one cared to bow out of viewing the videos, haphazardly recorded on someone's smartphone. No one spoke the entire time, the audio rattling our skulls as the screams for help never seemed to lose timbre or pitch. Gerald sat the closest to the computer screen, fingers shaking so fast that even his knuckles seemed to blur. He watched the old man pinned down again and again, helpless against the cop's cold gun.