6:52 PM

Oh, the frustration.

How it made work difficult.

But at least the commute from Gotham Central in downtown West Harlow to my home in midtown Bonita Hills gave me enough time to decompress and consider some other options. Stuck in the C2D concentration-camp was where I was going to stay if I continued my employment with the GCPD. Perhaps, I could look elsewhere. Perhaps, north towards Newark, west towards Philadelphia, or south towards Metropolis. I could even consider returning to the Corps with a commission. But then I'd be running away from this problem and that's not my modus operandi.

Once you start running from problems, you never stop. And, the more you run, the easier it becomes. I'm just not that kind of girl nor was it the Gordon style.

While I drifted away in thought sitting in gridlock traffic, my phone rang. The ring tone was my favorite cheesy pop song from adolescence and it brought a smile to my face as I reached for my phone and picked up. The caller ID read Brittney Chase, my best girlfriend.

"Hey, Brit. How are you, hun?"

"Oh god, Barbara, I don't know what to do," she dribbled through the receiver.

"Brittney? Honey? Is everything alright?"

Her voice was terror, devastation, and shame. She called to me and pleaded with me to help; asking over-and-over again what she did wrong. Her sobs were the sum of defeat and humiliation.

"What're you talking about, Brit? What's going on? Talk to me."

"I—I don't—I don't know what to do. I don't know."

"Do about what, hun? You're not making any sense."

"I don't know why he did this to me. I didn't do anything to him. I didn't do anything to them."

There was a quake in my chest at the thought of what she could be implying. I feared the worse but desperately hoped that I was wrong. Her sobs, however, confessed that my fears were real.

My blood started to run white hot. I hoped that I was wrongfully jumping to conclusions but I knew better. I had heard this same kind of distress in a girl's voice after she had been attacked in the barracks in Okinawa.

"Who did what to you, Brittney?" Despite my efforts, my voice was hardening. "Where are you?"

There was a long moment of incoherent sobbing before she finally told me: She had gone to a local pool hall frequented by the guy she had recently started dating. He was there drinking with some friends when she had arrived. Their relationship was still in its infancy so she grew uncomfortable with his unsubtle, intoxicated advances and decided that it was best to leave and catch up with him later.

He was apparently embarrassed by her rejection and angered by the berating of his entourage. The mix of embarrassment, anger, and alcohol compelled him to press the situation in spite of her decision to leave. At which point Brittney felt that he had crossed the line and she struck him.

He retaliated aggressively and then forced himself on her. Overpowering her, he pinned her to the pool table and, with the aid of his pack of hyenas, tore off her clothes and raped her—in front of an entire bar that did nothing to help.