11.20 a.m., June 12, 2006…

Two months shy of my eighteenth birthday.

It’s cloudy, but real hot.

You know, Reno, Nevada in June hot.

Luckily my pop’s shop, The Palace Jewelry and Loan Company, has good AC.

But it still doesn’t stop old Mr. Friedman from sweating.

“Jory, I tell you, it’s a great watch!” he croaks, as he lifts the silver Rolex Datejust on his thin, wrinkled wrist up to my face.

Beads of sweat pop up like Whac-A-Moles in a circle around the elegant timepiece.

“So why do you keep pawning it and buying it back?” I ask, teasing him.

Friedman points out the window with his free hand.

“You hear there’s a sniper on the roof down the street?” he asks, as I carefully inspect the watch.

“A sniper, sure, Mr. Friedman. Quit distracting me.”

Right on cue, a siren wails in the distance.

We lock eyes. 

He folds his arms and grins with satisfaction.

Mr. Friedman has been coming to the shop since my grandparents bought it in 1958.

My father Darren grew up in the shop, and so did I.

As a kid I was enthralled by the glass cases filled with sparkling jewelry and watches.

On quiet days my Dad would play treasure hunt with me and let me keep whatever trinket he had hidden away. 

And when I found it, as I always did, he made me recite the shop’s motto…

“Even with a store full of treasures, none are so valued as our customers and employees.”

Dad had always been fun to be around, and he made me feel safe.

“Come on Mr. Friedman. What’s really wrong with it?” I ask.

“Alright Jory, ya got me. It itches. It itches like hell! Especially in this heat!”

“Give it here,” I reply, smiling. He happily obliges.

As I strap it on, he scratches furiously at his wrist.

The office phone on the glass display case rings.

As I study the watch, Friedman picks up and hands me the receiver.

“Palace Jewelry and Loan, this is—”

“Jory, I need you to come home.”

I freeze when I recognize the voice.

“Grandma, what’s up?”

“I’m really sick, Jory sweetheart. Can you come home?” she replies, trying to control the quiver in her voice.

“It’s your grandma? Tell her I’m coming right over for that slice of cake she promised,” yells Friedman, waving as if Grandma can see him through the phone.

I turn my back on him and continue…

“I just saw you an hour ago Grandma, what’s—"

“Sweetheart please,” she cuts in, her voice cracking now.

“Yeah okay, I’ll be right there.”

I hang up and yell to one of my associates to look after the store.

As I run out the door, Friedman yells…

“My watch!”

It’s still on my wrist.

*****

Grandma sits me down.

I gasp for air in the dry desert heat.

I had tried to drive home but the streets were blocked off by police so I ran most of the way.

Maybe Friedman wasn't making up that sniper story after all.

“What’s up, Grandma, are you okay?”

She nods “yes,” then shakes “no.”

“It’s your father,” she says.

“What about him? Is he okay?”.

Again she nods “yes,” then shakes “no.”

“Is Dad okay?” I yell.

Grandma’s bony hands grip my wrists like handcuffs.

“Your father is a suspect in the shooting of a judge. The police are hunting him,” she croaks.

It’s funny what your body does while your brain processes shocking information.

Even though my mind is frozen and I think I’m still sitting down, I find myself across the room dialing Dad’s cell phone several times.

He doesn’t pick up.

The house phone rings.

My Grandma picks up.

I rush to the earpiece in case it’s my Dad.

It’s not.

A deep, official-sounding man's voice barks through the earpiece.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, ma’am. This is Sergeant Trill from the Reno police force. The Special Weapons and Tactics team have surrounded your property. Is anyone else in the house with you?”

“My grandson, Jory,” Grandma manages to reply.

“Please take him out the front door with your hands raised.”

Grandma and I stare at each other.

Has the Reno heat finally fried our brains?

***

I walk out first, hands raised, and there they are.

Two five-man SWAT units spread out in front of two black armored trucks.

Ten rifles at the ready in case this teenage kid and his Grandma give any trouble.

Now I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to know that in a situation like this, you keep your mouth shut and you don’t make any sudden moves.

I try to control every muscle in my body…

So why do I want to shake my left wrist so bad?

Without turning my head, I swivel my eyes to look at it.

Beads of sweat pop up like Whac-A-Moles around Friedman’s Rolex.

It itches something awful.

Even with ten rifles trained on me, I can’t think of anything but that infernal itch in my wrist.

I bite my tongue just to distract myself from it.

Friedman wasn’t lying after all.

He wasn’t lying about the watch.
He wasn’t lying about the sniper.

No.

As me and my Grandma walk towards a line of rifle barrels in the hellish desert heat, the delicate ticking of the expensive watch on my wrist tells me that all of this is just too damn crazy to be anything else but the truth.
But soon, as I’m led in to see my Dad in the sheriff’s jail, I realize that every truth has at least two sides.