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Running Back Disaster
One pleasant July day, in West Palm Beach, Florida, was the perfect day for MURDER. It was the murder of Kathy Ferguson. It all started during the high school football game, between the two rivals, West Palm High School Rebels and The Orlando High School Cheetahs. Many of the players aim was to receive a scholarship to Florida State, particularly Joseph Ferguson.
?Down, set, hut-hut, hike!?, said the QB. While my stomach churned, I thought in my mind, 'I don?t even know the play we are going to use.' The whole time I was distracted as my eyes eagerly searched the crowd-filled bench for a familiar face, my mom. She swore she would be here, but I said to myself, ?I have to focus on this game right now or else I won?t get the scholarship!?
The ball was pitched to me; now I don?t know where to go, but then I see my lane, dodge the defender, and run. I confidently juke one defender, spin out another, then get what I want, an open field in front of me. I receive a standing ovation as I reach the 40, the 30, the 20 yard line. Four defenders tail me from behind, then I cut across the field, and I?m gone...15, 10, 5, TOUCHDOWN! The crowd roared with excitement. I receive an ample amount of praise to please me, then come back to reality.
As I reach the sidelines, with my teammates giving high-fives, my coach calls me. ?JOSEPH!?
?Yeah coach?? I say,
?Good job,? my coach says, ?that is what?s going to help us win this game and get you a scholarship.?
I go back to the bench, I think to myself, my dad would have been so proud of me. I remember his painful boot camps and how much pain I had endured. I reminisced on the way he taught me to be a first-class running back.
?JOSEPH FERGUSON, STOP PLAYING THOSE DUMB VIDEO GAMES AND COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!!!? My dad exclaims
?What do you want dad? I says
?We have to practice your football skills, if you ever want to do something good in life? He says.
?Dad I don?t want to practice, just because you played football doesn?t mean I have to!? I scream.
?HEY,? He shouts, ?don?t ever use that tone of voice with me, get over here and practice.?
?Whatever.? I say, ?just hurry up.?
?OK, lets do scenarios, you have two minutes left in the fourth quarter and you are losing by eight points, you didn?t get to hear the play and you don?t know where to go. When the ball gets handed to you, you look for an open lane, make a move and run.?
?What if it doesn?t work?? I ask.
?If you know your moves, then you're set.? He explains.
?Aigh't pops.? I say
?Joseph! Come eat right now and bring your dad with you!? My mom shouts.
That night my dad went to a bar drank a few too many drinks and then tried to drive home and it wasn?t a good idea. On the highway he ran a red light and at the intersection a truck came and smashed his car. Witnesses said that car flipped four and a half times and landed on its roof. When I got to the hospital they said he wasn?t going to make it, but we could visit him in his last minutes.
I rushed to his room and started to talk to him. He told me that I need to do well and succeed in life. Then that?s when line went fell flat.
I didn?t sleep that night; I didn?t talk to anyone in school. But something I did that I regret was that I didn?t even go to his funeral. I couldn?t go and see his face on a picture; I wanted him to be here with me right now. I wish he could see what I accomplished after he left me. I finally got over it but I still think about him once in a while.
The final score was 42-7 Rebels. I had 174 yards a personal record and almost a school record. After the game I waited for three and a half hours for my mom, she never came. So I walked to the bus stop and hitched a ride home. I had to walk a mile to reach my house. Then, when I walked in my house I scream my mom's name three times. No answer. I knock on her bedroom door. No answer. Then I open the door and she is on her bed with a bullet hole in her head.
I reach into my pockets and withdraw my phone. As fast as I can, I call 911 and an operator picks up. I tell her my mom has been shot in the head and I tell her my address. I mourned the death of my mom until the cops and ambulance came. I told them I just came home from a football game. They said that I would have to be a suspect. As they left the house, they took the neighbors comments. They said they didn't hear anything or see anyone go into the house.
For the next several days I was interrogated at the police station. They showed me pictures of other possible suspects, to see if I recognized anyone. As I flipped through the pictures I noticed a guy that my mom dated about a year ago. I also remembered he kept on sending death notes to my mom after they broke up. They called him too the station and interrogated him for about an hour and a half. They let me watch as they asked him questions. As time went by I asked myself is this the man that killed my mom in a cold blooded murder. He seemed so innocent when the police were in front of him.
The next day the police said, ?We only found one persons fingerprints on the gun, which was under the bed, it was yours.?
?Wha-what I didn't do it, I told I was at a football game, I'm the starting
running back.? I explained while trembling.
?I know, but between the time she was shot and the time you called us, there was no one else in the house. Another thing that I noticed was that if the gunman that shot your mom ran away then why would he just leave the gun under the bed for us to find. So we supposed that you shot your mom, called us to seem like it wasn't you and just simply slid the gun under the bed.? They say.
?Are you guys sure you didn't find any other fingerprints?? I ask.
?The only other fingerprints were of your mom, but that wouldn't be valid. This isn't our final statement but, we have to take you into custody.? They say.
As I walk towards the holding cell I start to think, why do they think I killed my mom? What kind of a person would kill the person that gave them life? Then I thought about the situation and realized that I had been framed. I remembered about a week ago I was thinking about buying a hand gun for protection. Of course I couldn't get it legally so I bought it off the black market at a pawn shop. It was a silver desert eagle. What I thought was strange was he asked for my address, if I didn't pay the money each month. While walking home I figured that I shouldn't keep the gun. Because my fingerprints were all over it, I gave the harmful gun a quick wipe down. I returned the gun and said, ?I don't want it anymore.?
I created a vision of what could have happened that night. The man at the pawn shop knew my fingerprints were on the gun, went to my house, shot my mom with gloves on his hand and simply slid the gun under the bed, as the detective would say. So I told the police man about what I thought. He said if the pawn shop man is proven guilty you'll be released.
So I got to travel in a cop car for about the fiftieth time. As we arrived anticipated the arrest of the fairly old man. We walk into the shop, and the shopkeeper is no where to be found. So we ask the young boy at the desk what happened to the man. He said, ?My dad, died of a heart attack yesterday.?