A/N: Remember, the line counts are for exposition, actual story, and follow-up to the story
A/N 2: Sara will NOT disappear from this show if I have anything to say about it! Save George and Jorja!
"Now write those numbers down," Grace continues after a moment, "because we'll be using them later."
Later, eh? I bet I'm right about the counts indicating deception!
"What we're going to do now is swap papers and rate each others' stories."
Sara's eyes widen and she tenses up as she hears Grace go on to say, "I want you all to switch papers with one of the people sitting at your table. If you have an odd number, you can switch with someone at the next table instead."
Our table has only Sara and myself. I guess this means I'm going to get to read what she wrote, after all; I do my best not to smile too widely when I realize this. Wouldn't want to scare her away.
The instructor drones on and I listen to her with only half an ear as I contemplate what Sara may have written. "Read the other person's statements," I half-hear, "one at a time. Make notes of anything in the text that you think hints at whether they're lying or telling the truth, and when you finish reading I want you to pick which one you think is which, and represent your confidence in your decision by rating each on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being 'This is just a guess, I'm not at all sure that I picked correctly,' and ten being 'There is absolutely no question in my mind that I am correct.'"
A youngish man in the third row raises his hand. "What sort of things should we be looking for as we read? That will tell us if the writer's lying or not, I mean?"
"Use your instinct," Grace says. "I want to know how accurate your picks are before I go on and teach you the technique. Consider this a pre-test." Groans fill the room at this pronouncement, but not from me and not from Sara. We're the type who like testing ourselves.
I hold out my hand to her. "Hand it over, Sara."
She gives me a dirty look and twitches her papers backwards, away from me. I just leave my hand where it is, knowing that she'll give in within a few seconds.
I'm right, and with a huff she slides it across the table. I quickly pull it out of her reach, then slide my own two sheets toward her.
"Half an hour for this part, ladies and gents," announces Grace as she eases herself into her seat.
I carry a gun, her first story starts. I'm a crime scene investigator, and since we sometimes walk into iffy situations, we're assigned the weapons. Unfortunately, the gun didn't do me any good until I was given it, four years ago. Until then, I was on my own at crime scenes – and they can be dangerous places.
It happened about six years ago. I had recently moved up the ranks in my team, and so I was sent to my first solo case, a home invasion that wasn't supposed to be any trouble. Of course, they always say that.
[I draw a dividing line between this paragraph and the next, deciding that this is the point where the exposition stops and the story begins, and make a note: 7 lines of exposition.]
Things started going wrong from the moment I walked in the front door. I couldn't find any policemen, when the scene normally would have been full of them. I'm not a stupid person, but I had been assured this was a no-danger case, so I entered the house anyway.
So did the burglar. Not that I saw him or knew he was there, at least until he stuck the knife against the back of my neck. "Get out," he ordered. I didn't really pause to think about it then. I was young and . . . ok, yes, I was stupid. All action, no thought. I turned around as fast as I could, and tried to knock the knife out of his hand by hitting his arm with my own. I caught him by surprise, and the knife went flying before he could react. He swung his arm around a second too late to catch it, and instead made contact with my cheek. The knife clattered down about five feet away from us, and neither of us moved for a second while I tried control the pain from my cheek and he tried to control his shock.
[No way. Sara would never be that stupid. She knows better than to challenge an armed man now, and she knew it when she wasn't working for me, too. Besides, I think this sounds too dramatic to be real. I adjust my opinion to strong skepticism, and I read on with suspicion.]
I couldn't believe it when I looked at him. The burglar couldn't have been more than eighteen, if that. He had the lanky figure of a boy who hadn't quite filled out yet, and the panicky/angry expression you could expect from a thwarted teenager was clear on his face. He looked like he was ready to tackle me, and it belatedly hit me that though this guy might weigh less than me, but he was probably a lot stronger. Then it was my turn to panic. I tried to hide it when I locked eyes with him and spoke:
[Well, if anyone were to notice such minute things in an emergency situation, I guess it would be her. My mental scales tip slightly in favor of truth.]
"Go," I told him. "I'll pretend you weren't here." An astonished half-smile appeared on his face before I dodged closer to the forgotten weapon and added, "And leave the knife here." The smile dropped off. "Get the FUCK out of here," I growled, my panic coming out as a sort of loud bravado, "before the cops come back from searching the backyard and you're screwed." A bluff, but an effective one.
[It may be a small thing to notice, but Sara doesn't use the f-word. She must have just put it in here for effect.]
That did it. The fear was back on his face, and I felt sure he was imagining what his parents would say when he called them from jail, charged with a felony. His eyes narrowed for a second as he considered, and then finally:
"You BETTER pretend you didn't see me, lady," he said, and thrust his chest out and his arms back in a you-want-some-of-this gesture. "Or I'll come back for you." The intended effect of those last words was weakened, though, since he said them while hightailing it out of the house.
[Typical. She gets herself into hot water, then gets distracted by feeling bad for the victim. I have a hard time believing that a man – or boy – who walked into a house ready to stick a knife into someone's neck would throw it away on command and flee. I almost don't think this could be her true story.]
[I draw another line here after reading the first sentence of the next paragraph. End of story, beginning of follow-up. Note: 31 lines of story.]
I don't know who was more scared by that night, him or me. I definitely came out of it better off, with a minor fracture in my cheekbone, than he did, after being thrown in jail anyway because of the fingerprints he left on the knife.
[I'd know if someone had ever broken one of her bones. And if I didn't know for some reason, either Nick or Catherine would. Impossible for her to hide something like that.]
I tried to shake the memory after that, knowing that I couldn't go back to work the next night if I was afraid of it happening again. And for the most part, I did shake the memory. Sometimes I still have nightmares about what could have happened, but I handle them. I don't need anyone to tell me how bad it could have been, though I can think of at least one friend who could probably lecture me for three straight days about it.
[Me? A pointed barb? But she called me a friend! Er . . . did she? Who knows . . .]
I'm older and somewhat wiser now. I don't walk into empty scenes, and I always make sure I'm armed and backed up by police. And I guess I have a skinny, violent kid to thank for that. How…weird.
[Note: 11 lines of follow-up.]
I look again at this story. I don't think it's the truth. At least, I don't think I think that. I'm just worried that I'm judging based on what I know about her, and not by what she wrote.
Maybe I'll just reserve judgment until I read her second statement. I flip over the statement I just finished, put my notes aside, and turn my attention to statement #2:
One night after work I realized that I needed to do some grocery shopping. The nearest store is almost half an hour from my apartment (that tends to happen once you get outside the city limits), so I headed straight there.
The parking lot seemed dark – I found out later that almost half of the lights were burned out – so I hurried into the Kroger's. The darkness of the night and the parking lot were making me think of the scum that I know from personal experience stalks places like that.
[Oh god, I'll never forget that night. I was terrified for her. It makes sense that she'd have learned from that experience, and be wary in similar situations. My first guess for this statement is that this is the truth.]
I got milk, bread, cereal, and some other staples, all the while keeping a mostly unconscious eye on the space around me, watching for anyone following me. In the cereal aisle, I thought I spotted someone, and by the time I hit the ice cream aisle I was sure: someone was stalking me. I quickly finished up my shopping and made for the checkout counter. After paying I was handed two paper bags containing my items. It made me extremely uneasy to not have at least one of my hands free, so as I walked into the parking lot I was juggling the bags, trying to get my right hand into my pocket to get my keys, and trying to keep an eye on my surroundings, all at once.
[Typical Sara, aware of the danger but not concerned enough to ask someone to escort her out.]
[Note: 15 lines of exposition]
Suddenly I was shoved up against my car, face-first. I couldn't see who had pushed me, but I assumed it was the man I had seen in the store. His purpose became perfectly clear when a hand swatted the bags out of my hands, scattering my food all over the ground, and an obviously male body pressed against me, pinning me firmly to the car.
[His purpose? Does she mean . . . oh no. She can't mean that. I can feel my face get hot and my hands clench as I'm forced to think of Sara as a possible rape victim.]
This was fine. I could deal with this, I was trained in self defense. I was preparing a full assault – which would include throwing my head back into his nose, stomping on his foot, and elbowing him in the diaphragm – when someone else's hands grabbed hold of my forearms. I was trapped!
[Pros: She was preparing to attack. That's perfectly Sara. Cons: I don't think the words "I'm trapped" would ever even occur to her!]
My attackers still hadn't said anything, only growled and heavy-breathed in my ear. Now I was really scared, and I started trying to think of a Plan B, but none was coming to mind. Then I heard footsteps from a third person. I figured it was another of the punks attacking me, but then I heard grunts and thumps that told me that the one of the three was now fighting the other two. There was still the weight of someone's body holding me to the car, so all I could do was wait.
[Sara doesn't know the meaning of the word "wait"! Either she's trying to make herself sound better, or it's a lie.]
It got quiet, but the weight still didn't move. Finally, whoever it was moved to push his body off mine, and I was ready. I twisted around and threw a punch, but to my consternation my fist was stopped inches away from the guy's face. I took a good look at him. This WAS the man I'd seen inside the store! I started struggling, and for the first time since he'd pinned me, the man spoke:
"Relax. I'm the good guy. I'm a cop."
[How pat that sounds! How would she know if he's really a cop or not?]
[Note: 20 lines of story]
I was skeptical, obviously, but he showed me his badge and explained that he'd seen the two men following me in the store, and in turn had followed them. His name was Jim, and ever since that night we've been dating.
[Dating?? No, I'd know if she were seeing someone . . . wouldn't I? Of course I would. Well, unless she didn't want me to know about it . . . which is entirely possible. Oh hell. But a cop?? Surely I'd know!]
[Note: 3 lines of follow-up]
Doesn't the girl know how to write anything but drama?! I glower at this second story. It sounds just as improbable as the first one! Pure melodrama!
…But what if it's true?
Both stories strike me as improbable, in many of the same ways. So I'm left this decision: is it more likely that Sara would go into an unsecured scene, or that she's been dating someone who, incidentally, comes across as a hero?
Oh yeah, and there's also those line counts. I go back and check. The story about the young punk and the unsecured scene has a count of 7-31-11. The story about the heroic cop has a count of 15-20-3.
I decide to approach this logically, taking my own statements as known quantities. My true statement is 6-11-5 and my lie is 10-7-3.
Thus: a known true statement has its bulk within the "story" part, followed by the exposition, and the smallest part of its content is the follow-up; a known false statement has the most exposition, followed by story, followed by follow-up. In both cases, follow-up comes in last place, so I can safely drop that from my calculations because it's equal on both sides of the equation.
I pause to pick my pencil back up, then realize that I lost track of my logic. Let's see . . . oh, right. Based on my admittedly small sample, I project that a true statement will have more story than exposition, while a false statement will have more exposition than story. Now to apply this rule to Sara's statements.
Damn, both of her statements have more story lines than exposition lines. Well, I can wave goodbye to making this decision based on logic!
So . . . what's more likely, based on what I know about Sara? I find this decision process somewhat traumatizing! Ok, I need to try for a modicum of objectivity. What do I know about Sara? She's highly intelligent. She's sharp, in general. She has an active interest in men . . . me in particular, at least in the past. She's one of the few members of our team who hasn't had a suspect get the drop on them at a scene.
Sigh.
So she's got a tendency toward men, and absolutely no evidence to show she might enter a scene unwisely. Does this mean I think Sara has a boyfriend? I'd prefer to not think those words. Confidence level? The evidence is irrefutable; I'm forced to give it an 9.
The end of this exercise cannot come soon enough. Come on, Grace – move it!