I'd confronted him with everything, the drugging, the kidnapping, the forced labor.
What was I thinking?
That's what Nicky K wanted to know when he came bursting into the apartment. If I knew everything, Nicky K insisted, I should be smart enough to get the hell out.
But I knew I wasn't the only one who'd been drugged and kidnapped. And I knew Thomas Friedman needed to pay and, while we were telling truths, I knew Nicky K had helped me kidnap me an dhad looked the other way during the months of drugging.
Suddenly Nicky K wasn't so interested in talking to me. Whimpering, he ran out of the apartment, leaving my front door wide open. Walking over to close it, I had the good sense to look around and make sure Thomas Friedman wasn't lurking outside in the halls.
That might have been the last bit of good sense I had.
"23rd and 24th Streets!" Thomas Friedman snapped over the phone. "Ninth and Tenth Avenue! Rooftop! Let's do this!"
Yeah, I knew the London Terrace Gardens in Chelsea. I also knew I should call the police. I was going to confront Thomas Friedman with this evidence, I should have the police there. Or at least on their way.
But I wasn't thinking-thinking. I was half-assed thinking. Focused on the look on his face when, confronted with the cold hard facts, he had to make a decision: Will he apologize and take accountability or will he continue the lie?
Somehow, I didn't believe that even Thomas Friedman would attempt to continue the lie. Like I said, I was half-assed thinking.
Which is how I ended up on the roof of the London Terrace Gardens with Thomas Friedman ripping apart my documentation and denying it. As I reached to grab it out of his hands, just as I was about to note, "Those are only copies," he reached that meaty paw of his out and grabbed my neck.
Choking me, he advanced and advanced.
Until finally, he let go of me and shoved . . .
sending me hurtling ten stories down . . .
to my death.
"Iraq snapshot" (The Common Ills):