It says here you threatened your husband with a knife.

I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t even there.

A MATTER OF JUSTICE BY BARRY FIELDS 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 119

John had lost his job. He was on a tequila binge, the TV blaring. Grinning stupidly, he grabbed for Liz. She knocked his hand away and took a few steps back. Her heart raced, she gasped for air. She ran down the hall and banged on Nancy’s door with the palm of her hand.

Nancy lay Liz down on the sofa. “It’s a panic attack. It’s going to pass. Steady, steady. Just take it easy. It’s going to pass, 20 minutes tops.”

“John’s drunk, been drunk for days,” Liz said. “He’s just impossible. Life with him, it isn’t any life at all.”

“Did he hit you again?”

Liz shook her head. “He grabbed at me. I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I hate him when he’s like this. I wish I could leave him.”

“If I had a nickel for every time you told me that. You can always stay with your sister.”

“Well, John needs me. Can’t do squat for himself. He’d set the kitchen on fire if he tried to cook an egg.”

John felt sick to his stomach, his throat was scorched. Queasy and shaky, he called 911.

“What’s your emergency?” a woman asked.

“I need help.”

“What kind of help? What’s the problem?”

“I’m not gonna make it. It’s gonna kill me.”

Jimmy Ramirez hated domestics, especially in low-rent complexes, husbands and wives battering the crap out of each other who then teamed up against him. Or worse, a man with a gun.

Someone had taped an “out of order” sign on the elevator door. Ramirez and his offsider Lindsey took the urine-stinking stairs.

They found a disheveled man in his 40s sprawled on a shabby sofa, empty beer bottles and a mostly empty fifth of tequila on a beat-up coffee table.

“We got a call of a disturbance at this address. You’re John Miller?”

“I’m sick. I need a ride to the detox center.”

“We’re not a taxi service, Mr Miller. You can’t call 911 just because you want to sober up.”

“Jimmy,” Lindsey said. “Let’s just give him a ride. It’s not far.”

“I’ve had it with these drunks who think we’re some kind of no-cost Uber.”

Ramirez turned to John, “What’s your emergency? If you don’t have an emergency, I’m going to cite you for calling in a false alarm. You’re going to spend the night in jail.”

John sat up, suddenly alarmed. “It’s an emergency. It was my wife.”

“What about her?”

“She threatened me. She said she was going to hurt me.”

“With what?”

John looked around wildly and grabbed a butter knife with a glob of peanut butter on it. “With this.”

“Are you kidding?” Lindsey said.

“She threatened me. With this. I was scared. It was an emergency.”

“Okay, Mr Miller,” Ramirez said. “If that’s what happened, I’m citing her with assault.”

“Give me a fucking break,” Lindsey muttered. “His wife isn’t even here. We should get her side of the story.”