My man has heart. We can hear the sirens blasting and all he has to do to save his skin is stay right where he is and tell those bastards exactly what they want to hear. In a city as corrupt as this one, there is always a way to cheat death. But he doesn't, he still has hope. He never loses hope. He grabs my arm and shoves me into the car, climbing in after me and starting the engine. The poor thing has taken quite a beating. Glass shattered everywhere; the only door left is hanging on its last hinges. It's a miracle that he gets it to start. I watch my own eyes in the rear view mirror. A clear, almost white blue color stares back at me and I know we'll never make it. They don't even have to shoot the tires, the car stops on its own accord a few yards from where he'd slammed on the gas with all the poise of an action movie hero. My man has charisma. They slam him up against the car and cuff his hands. Those strong, good, perfect hands that have never done anything to earn the cold hard metal that's now digging into his skin. They push me against the car next to him and I grunt at the force of solid steel hitting my chest. I can't breathe.

I don't know how many hours have passed but we're out of the police car now. Maybe we have been for a while. I can't seem to remember. I reach up and feel the small welt in my neck where they stuck the needle in. That explains why my thoughts are so fuzzy. We're in a room with grey cement walls, and floor. The ceiling is made of wood. We're in a basement. My hands are still bound by the cuffs and there's a cloth shoved in my mouth. I can't talk. I can barely move. Somehow I twist my head around and there's my man. Standing next to where I'm kneeling. My man is strong. Our backs are against a wall. There's no where to run even if I had the strength. But I won't try to get away. In front of us are several wooden chairs and sitting on them are men in black suits and dark sunglasses. Silently I wonder where the police have gone and who exactly these wanna-be men-in-black agents are. I remember soon enough. One of them stands, he's a bald man and there's a scar running from beneath his sunglasses across his nose and right down to his shoulder. He's big and strong and he's wearing gloves with metal knuckles. "Are you going to talk then?" His voice is calm and his grammar astoundingly better than I had expected. Thugs these days just weren't what they used to be. Or maybe I've been watching too many movies? Of course my man does what any hero would do; he spits in the bald man's face and curses. My man is daring.

The bald man doesn't flinch, only pulls out a white lace handkerchief with pink thread embroidery and wipes his face. Somehow I know it was a gift made by his daughter. She goes to a private school where they teach you to be prim, smart, and brainless. He loves her more the life itself. That's somewhat ironic and I laugh despite the cloth in my mouth. He turns to me, his grip on my chin strong as he forces my head upward. "What about you? Will you talk for us, darling?" A few sniggers from the goons seated behind him and the bald man removes my gag. But I don't spit like my man did. I smile. They all pause, waiting for the punch line. Waiting for me to curse, to spit, to try and bite his face off. That's what they would suspect my from my man's girl. That's what my man expects too. My man is about to be betrayed. "Yes, I'll talk." I hear an anguished cry from my man's perfect lips. I don't dare turn to face him; I need all my wits about me to get out of this thing alive. I can't hope to take him with me or make him understand. He never could. My man lives for the moment he does. He's proud but honor does not bind him. He does what is right. That's what makes him better than any of those ancient samurai he loves so much. They die for honor, he dies for goodness.

After I've told them all the lies they wanted I'm still not out of here. We're taken to another room that looks the same except the chairs are nicer. They're padded with red velvet and I'm invited to sit on one. I do. I'm going to need the support. In front of me my man hangs from the ceiling by a rope that's tied about his hands. He's tired, beaten, hurt. He looks at me, his green eyes piercing into my soul and I stop breathing. He's begging me, silently. Asking why. He doesn't hate me. Not yet. He's still hoping, he hasn't given up. He doesn't see that this is the end for him. That I'm about to sit here and watch as I let a crowd of brainless thugs beat him to death. Now that they've got me, they don't need his word. Now they want revenge. Revenge for what he almost got away with. Revenge for almost saving the city, perhaps the country, from the thieves that were slowly taking it over.

I look away and maybe it's my overactive imagination but somehow I can feel my heart break at the same moment as his. It's beautiful. I almost cry. But I won't do that. My man is compassionate. Even though he hates me now, he's raving mad, pulling at his rope, foaming at the mouth, he wants to rip me apart. If he sees me cry, I know he'll feel bad. And I don't want my man going out like that. I want him to go out fighting. Like a tiger.

First they hit him, with everything they have. Their fists, whips, chains, wood. He doesn't scream, only groans, and his blood is red on the floor. Then they bring out the saws and I am sick. No one cleans up the mess I've made on the floor, they hardly notice. Only when I break down and begin to shudder and sob do they pause. His eyes, those beautiful green eyes, are lying at my feet and staring up at me. They'll make sure he doesn't see me cry. Make him think I watched calmly the entire time. I can hear his screams now and I stand to leave. A hand stops me, I look up. It's the bald man only this time he's not wearing his shades. His eyes are bird-like and black. His lips twist into a smile and he shakes his head. I sit. I have to.

Two weeks later, the trial is finally over. They've convicted an innocent dead man as a crook, a murderer, a rapist. I'm standing in front of yet another government building. The sleek, clean architecture make me want to barf. I don't. Instead I walk in calmly and make my way to the room indicated on the crude map I hold in my hand. It's drawn on a lace handkerchief embroidered with pink thread. The lady behind the desk is only too helpful. I have a new social security number at the mention of a name and now I sit on a straight-backed chair and wait as they take my picture for my drivers' license and passport. They're printing out a fake birth certificate in the next room and destroying all the old documents of Cindy Charles. The woman hands me the picture so I an approve it. Staring back at me is a girl, she's young. Only about twenty four. Her thick curls of dark chocolate brown are pulled back behind a head-band. The lips are firm and though they're forced into an almost smile; there is no warmth or happiness there. High cheek bones, deathly pale skin. I need to go to the tanner's. Staring back at me are two eyes, a clear, almost white blue color and I know what I'll say when the lady asks me for my name. "Joe, Joe Riddley."