Chris Dreith

(OPENING SCENE – Introduces the Protagonists, begins Protagonist Sympathy Factors, sets Tone, Foreshadows Primary Conflict, introduces Secondary Antagonist) It wasn’t the bleakness of the room that got to me, the humid cold clinging to the dingy concrete walls, or the sweat-mixed-with-Clorox fragrance that hung in the air at eye level, burning my corneas. It wasn’t even seeing him sitting there, in that too-big, orange jumpsuit with his wrists chained to the metal table; I had been preparing myself for that, even though it still broke my heart. No. It was the silence, the dead silence that closed off the rest of the world, like I was underwater, fighting to break the surface, fighting to hear, but the quietness kept pushing me down. Jails are not known for being quiet. The thick bullet-proof glass, separating the entry from the front desk, distorted my view of the guard sitting behind it. He spent some time looking me over through the wire-imbedded window before hitting the buzzer to let me in. I returned the favor once I was inside. Tall, skinny, a splattering of acne shining through tufts of red hair on his chin, amateur tattoo on his neck, ear tunnels and a nose ring for God’s sake. He looked more like an inmate than a guard at the Adele County Detention Center, but he had the official beige uniform shirt, a badge on the sleeve and a crooked plastic tag boasting his rank and name that I immediately forgot. He seemed to already know who I was there to see. Took my name, purse and jacket and tried to do a physical search when I stopped him with a “Nope.” He shrugged. When he led me to the interview room and opened the door, I thought I was ready to see Uncle Martin, but the sight of him still took my breath away. He sat, cuffed hands clasped near the table-top D-ring, his face, gray like the concrete walls, his blue eyes shooting ice bullets straight at the guard. A couple steps were all I could manage when the punk guard said, “Ya got five minutes. No touching! This ain’t the Consensual Room, ya know.” I could hear his snarky laugh echo as the door clanked shut behind me. I grabbed the back of the only other chair for support, the metal legs scraping and screaming on the concrete floor and slowly sat down. Uncle Martin looked directly at me, forcing his usual, lop-sided grin. He didn’t say a thing. It was so quiet I could hear his breathing. I’m sure he could hear my heartbeat. I leaned forward and whispered, “Where is everyone? Are you the only one in here?” He didn’t move anything but his eyes, dragging my gaze to the small black box high on the wall. Someone was listening, probably watching. This was wrong, all wrong. My uncle had a stellar reputation across the country, his law enforcement career had spanned many different agencies. He had raised me since I was a baby, taught me right from wrong, but somehow, he was sitting across from me in this horrible room, chained to the table that was bolted to the floor. “What the hell?” I wanted to scream, to kick something, to throw myself on the ground and yell. Anger had always been my go-to before I broke into tears. He raised his hands, chains rattling through the D-ring, and quietly said, “Get out, Lynn.” “NO TOUCHING!” a crackled voice screamed from the black box. My uncle slowly dropped his hands on the top of the table, leaned back in his chair. “Get out,” he mouthed. I started to respond, to ask him what was going on, but stopped myself. His eyes never left mine. I knew he was telling me to watch what I said. I gave him a small nod. He smiled. “So, this is going to be straightened out soon, Sweetheart,” he said, his voice sounded loud in that small room, but it really wasn’t. “You should go home and cook up that steak before it goes bad.” I was trying to follow him. He never called me Sweetheart, and he knew I didn’t like steak. I nodded for the camera. “Yeah, that sounds great, Uncle Marty,” I said. He smiled, again. I never called him Marty. “Oh, and you might as well enjoy some of the good stuff with that steak.” That comment threw me until he added, “You know, the scotch whisky?” “Oh…kay.” Where was this going? I don’t remember my uncle having scotch whiskey in the house, except during special holidays. “I forgot to tell you I put the good stuff on the top shelf in the laundry room,” he seemed to be enjoying this little chat. “You know, so the cleaning lady wouldn’t find it.” He laughed. I laughed. We never had a cleaning lady. A sudden squeal of hinges and the drunk-tank-pink painted iron door behind Uncle Martin slammed open. His still face held my attention. I expected him to wink at me, like he always did, but it didn’t happen this time. A guard stood in the open doorway. His Adele County Sheriff Department uniform stretched across his broad chest, hampered by the Kevlar vest underneath, dark stains at each pit. A surprising sharp, acidic smell whiffed into the tight room, hitting me like a punch in the gut. No name tag marred the guard’s regalia. I wondered if he wasn’t a legitimate officer or if he thought he didn’t need a name tag because everyone should already know him. My guess, it could be either. Paw-like hands rested on his polished leather duty belt, a leisurely stretch of flaky lips spread across his wide face, eyes glinted under heavy lids fixating on me. He started with a deliberate head roll, grinding muscles and veins climbed up the side of his thick neck, small ears moved up and down comically when he tightened his jaw. His hypertrophy demonstration climaxed with the flexing of distended biceps, the edges of rolled up short uniform sleeves cut into the guns he appeared to be so proud of. One invitational eyebrow arched up his prominent brow ridge. It was like watching a car wreck. I couldn’t look away. I felt my upper lip lifting and tried to restrain the sneer but was only able to control my disgust when a snicker from Uncle Martin put a damper on the guard’s performance. “Time’s up, old man.” He growled and dropped his hands heavily on my uncle’s shoulders. Sausage fingers clamped tightly, the orange material of the jailhouse jumpsuit bunched around the guard’s grip, but Uncle Martin didn’t flinch. His blue eyes turned steely gray. I knew then whatever was going on, they weren’t going to be able to break him. If he could remain strong, I could, too. At least I would try, I owed him so much. The guard finally released his hold and awkwardly worked unlocking the chains connected to my uncle’s cuffs. Uncle Martin’s glance dropped to the guard’s muscular forearm and then back at me, guiding my eyes to the guard’s rough tattoo. Six-zero-nine. Or maybe it was nine-zero-six, depending on which way you viewed it. I had seen some artistic tattoos and some jailhouse tattoos. This one rated at the far end of poor amateurish jailhouse quality. Maybe this guard and the skinny punk guard enjoyed the same tat artist. I raised one questioning eyebrow, but Uncle Martin kept his relaxed, devil-may-care expression while the steroidal guard was grunting and fumbling with the chains. “You need to get out more, Sweetheart,” Uncle Martin seemed to stress the word out. His comment was so peculiar, I knew he was still trying to tell me something, but I didn’t know what it was. He almost grinned when the guard stopped dragging the noisy chain to listen. “Remember to enjoy the good stuff.” “I’m looking forward to it,” I said, putting on my best fearless face while feeling my heartbeat skip. The guard pulled him up, pushing him toward the open door. Uncle Martin looked over his shoulder. “See you later, Uncle Marty,” I said, with a wave, trying to remain calm. He shook his head slightly and mouthed silently “Get out”. My breathing stopped. He gave me a quick sad smile. I wanted to cry but swallowed hard and gave him a nod. The guard stopped at the doorway, turned back to me. An ugly leer spread across his wide face. “Maybe I’ll come by and enjoy the good stuff,” he said. “And I don’t mean scotch.” My stomach twisted. I swallowed the bile in my throat. “In your dreams, asshole,” I said quietly as the door closed. The silence echoed in my head.

THE ACT OF STORY STATEMENT FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. Police Academy cadet, Lynn Frasier is proud of her family’s law enforcement heritage but begins to question the future of her chosen field when she visits a California bay-area county detention center, where the only detainee is a renowned detective, the uncle who raised her after her parents were killed in a car crash. During their brief private discussion, her uncle indicates it’s dangerous for her and to GET OUT. She doesn’t know who to trust. As she struggles to find the reason for her uncle’s arrest, she escapes to a small town in Northern California to find an attorney friend of her uncle, who might have answers, and safety. Lynn discovers both her uncle and his friend had past relationships with the U.S. Marshal’s office and that her parents had been in the Witness Protection Program due to their effort to uncover a corrupt police gang twenty years ago. The leader of this gang, hiding in Mexico, still runs things from afar, including getting his sister elected as the District Attorney of the county with the almost empty detention center. THE ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE POINT SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. Noreen Moreno Hillder, the newly elected District Attorney of Adele County, has plans to rebuild her brother’s gang with corrupt cops and politicians who have helped her get elected. By placing her nephew as the acting sheriff, they make deals with criminals (no arrests if the criminal works for her) but when Lynn’s uncle recognizes Noreen as part of the Moreno Gang from twenty years ago, he starts his own investigation with an undercover FBI agent. Noreen finds out and strives to wipe out the Frasier family, as she feels they did to her family. She has Lynn’s uncle killed in jail and is after the only remaining Frasier (Lynn). Her team includes police academy instructors and even some of the cadets who think the bad guys are cool. Lynn also runs into a mercenary real estate developer and a greedy bank loan officer who try to force Lynn’s new friends in the small town to sell their commercial downtown building, to the point of setting it on fire and killing a homeless man who tried to stop them. CONJURING YOUR BREAKOUT TITLE THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). 1. Hide and Seek 2. DECIDING YOUR GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? My story is a Thiller Mystery. The comparables that I’ve chosen are The Troubling Death of Maddy Benson by Terry Shames and Home Fires by Claire Booth. While both are more police procedurals than mine, I feel my story incorporates the suspense (of Lynn’s flight) as well as the family and community involvements that help her realize her goals. Both Shames’ and Booth’s stories include several characters, their interactions with the protagonist, and the support they exchange with the community. CORE WOUND AND THE PRIMARY CONFLICT FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Police Academy cadet, Lynn Frasier struggles with her faith in law enforcement when her last remaining family member is killed by an unscrupulous District Attorney. She must find a way to get retribution without stooping to the corrupt ways of the DA’s gang of amoral cops. OTHER MATTERS OF CONFLICT: TWO MORE LEVELS SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case. (This is the first scene where Lynn finds herself anxious and confused. She didn’t get an answer to why her famous detective uncle had been arrested and after her brief visit with him in the detention center, she questions the professionalism of the deputies there. The only thing she got out of that meeting was her uncle believed she was in grave danger and wanted her to get out.) My mind and heart were numb as I merged south on San Pablo Avenue. I pounded my palm twice against the steering wheel trying to pull myself out of the brain fog when I realized I was driving 25mph in a 45mph lane. So unlike me. I sped up to match the surrounding traffic. Headlights from the vehicle behind me kept the same pace. A tiny spark of paranoia caused me to slow again and check the rear-view mirror. Instead of changing lanes to pass me, the following car slowed, too. I moved to the left lane. The car behind me moved to the left lane. The training I received during my short four weeks at the Northern California Police Academy seemed to kick in. I tried to study the car in the rear-view mirror. A light-colored sedan appeared as they passed through intermittent illumination from streetlights. Older car. maybe a Crown Vic? An old police car? Am I beginning to be spooked by the police? My experiences with the Tres Amigos and the detention center guard flashed through my thoughts. I hadn’t considered them Bad Cops, had no proof except my gut reaction, but I was disappointed in the way they were representing such an honorable profession. I tried to peer into the car behind me as we passed another streetlight. The windshield reflected the light, and I couldn’t tell who was driving or even how many were in the car. But I saw movement. Shadows bouncing inside the car. Was this what Uncle Martin was trying to warn me about? Was I too late to ‘get out’? I hit the gas for two blocks and made a quick left turn onto a lovely tree-lined residential street, not unlike my own. I pulled over to the curb, stopped, turned off the lights and stared into the rear-view mirror just as the Crown Vic rounded the corner. I grabbed my cell phone, then threw it on the passenger seat. Too late to call anyone. And if it was the police in that car, why should I be anxious? But I was indeed nervous. I realized I’d have to deal with whatever comes by myself. I grasped the door handle, ready to jump out and either fight or run, when the dirty, gray Crown Victoria slowly rolled past. The back seat seemed full of squirmy action, waving arms, and smiling, bouncy faces. The driver, a woman leaning toward the windshield and away from the action from the backseat, her wide eyes briefly met mine, mirroring my exhausted look. I watched as the car pulled to the curb two houses ahead of me. The back door popped open and two eight-year-old girls bounded out, all skinny legs and sparkly backpacks. As they ran up the steps to the house, the car slowly pulled away and continued down the street, delivering little girls safely home from school, or dance class, or whatever, by the harried soccer-mom driver. I let go of the breath I had been holding and consciously let go of the door handle. A near hysterical laugh hiccupped out as I visualized myself jumping from the car to defend myself from a pack of eight-year-old girls. Suddenly the seriousness of what had just happened hit me like an ice storm. I clutched the top of the steering wheel and leaned forward to rest my forehead against the back of my hands and closed my eyes. I had over-reacted, assuming danger from an innocent vehicle full of little girls. Where had this paranoia come from? Was this what it will be like to be a cop? Seeing possible threats everywhere? Once my breathing came back to normal, I straightened my arms, pushed my back against the seat, my head against the head rest. The early summer evening air cooled the spot on my forehead where I had pressed my sweaty hands. I opened my eyes and looked straight ahead at the canopy of trees. Streetlight beams shot through the leaves causing spots on the street to sparkle like the little girl’s backpack. The neighborhood reminded me again of my own. When I was eight years old, I skipped down sidewalks like these. The strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk was where I had learned to ride a bicycle, my uncle running behind to keep it balanced until I could ride on my own. I had jumped up steps to that great porch of the Judge’s House and swung in the creaky porch swing. The Judge was the grandfather I barely remember. Uncle Martin and I have always called it the Judge’s House even after the Judge had passed away and it was just the two of us. As Craftsman style homes were designed to do, the Judge’s House emphasized hard work and rejected mass-production. The solid foundation and wide eaves protected those who were lucky enough to live there. The Judge’s House had been my home since I was a baby when my parents had both been killed and I came to stay with my uncle and the Judge. It was where everything was safe, at least it had been until today. I slammed the Defender’s gear into first but had to control myself from jumping on the gas. I wanted to get home as quickly as possible but knew it wouldn’t go well if I got stopped for speeding. Not with my current state of mind. I drove into the Judge’s garage and turned off the ignition. The big motor pinged and tinged as it settled like an old dog before a fireplace. I closed the garage door with the remote switch stuck to the dashboard with double-sided tape. As the door rattled down, I remembered that morning when I met the Academy Commander in his office. His face was gray. He had a difficult time looking me in the eye, when he told me about Uncle Martin’s arrest. “Racketeering,” he had mumbled. “What the hell are you saying?” I demanded. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. “You should go,” he said, so I did. Straight to that quiet detention center to find my uncle presumably the only detainee. I stepped out of the garage and looked at the rear of the house. A chill ran down my spine even though the weather had turned warm. The backyard seemed darker than it ever had been before. Why was I spooked? I concentrated on the shadows, the rustle of leaves, a breeze across my face. I took one slow step, and then another. Four more and I was on the back porch. I reached for the doorknob when suddenly I heard the distinctive clack of an M1 Garand’s bolt slamming forward to chamber a 30.06 round. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. (This scene is the first meeting between Lynn and Nathaniel Carter. She doesn’t know if she can trust him, but his name was included on some papers her uncle had been working on for the U.S. Marshals Service, Witness Protection Program.) I slowly sat in one of the two chairs opposite his large wooden desk. Nathaniel Carter moved stiffly behind the desk to the worn, leather high-back chair, and sighed as he sank into it. Neither of us spoke for a bit. He continued to scrutinize me. It seemed he could read my every thought. I knew I would have to be careful. I waited for him to make the first move. “Where would you like to start?” he finally asked. I hesitated. Could I really trust him? I slowly pulled out one of the typed pages from my backpack and cautiously laid it on the desktop in front of him. This would be the test. Carter glanced at the page and gently placed his palm on it, closed his eyes for a few seconds, then looked back at me. He knew what the pages were. I felt he was the Nathaniel Carter who had worked with my uncle. But could I trust him? I took a deep breath and then a leap of faith. “Uncle Martin was arrested three days ago and was detained in Adele County. He told me to get out when I saw him,” I choked a little, trying to explain. “He told me to get the ‘good stuff’, scotch he said, hidden in the laundry room.” Carter was nodding as I talked. “I found all of this, plus IDs and cash in the empty scotch bottles. Someone was following me yesterday morning, but I don’t think they know where I am now. There was a disturbance with injuries at ACDC, but I don’t know if Uncle Martin was hurt.” Carter continued to study me. “Strange things seem to be happening.” A feeble finish. I just ran out of steam. Carter sat still for a few more beats. “So, you are Linda Franks from North Dakota, in order to hide from whoever might be following you?” It sounded so ridiculous when he put it like that, but I nodded. Would a fake name really hide me? He took a deep breath. “What were the charges?” “The commander at the Northern California Police Academy said it was conspiracy to commit fraud and racketeering,” I told him. Carter tilted his head. “I’m going to the academy,” I explained. His dark eyebrows rose as if to question me, but then he nodded. “Who was he supposed to be conspiring with?” he asked. I shrugged and bit my lower lip. “Had he been working on anything lately?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I was only home for two weeks after I got back from Sac State before I moved into the academy dorm. He seemed his usual self during that time. You know, a bit distracted, but nothing serious.” Carter nodded again when I said ‘distracted’. He sat back in his big leather chair, hands together almost in prayer, eyes staring at the bookshelves behind me, but I knew he wasn’t looking at the books. He was seeing something from the past. He was so quiet I was starting to doubt my decision to trust him. Should I tell him the rest? He suddenly sat up, leaning toward the desk. “What else?” he asked. I took my time. This is it. I’m going to have to tell him everything, including my fears and suspicions. I’m going to have to ask for his help or I’m going to have to stand up and walk out right now. ‘And go where?’ a voice whispered in the back of my mind. A deep breath and I finally accepted that this man’s help was the only chance to make sense of what had happened during the last few days. I bent toward my backpack and retrieved the outline made in the library yesterday. Spreading it on the desk in front of him, I asked, “You worked with him, writing these procedures for the U.S. Marshals Witness Protection Program, didn’t you?” He nodded. “These are my notes. I need your help.” THE INCREDIBLE IMPORTANCE OF SETTING FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. (This story is set in three main locations: The Northern California Police Academy in the East Bay area near San Francisco, Lynn Fraiser’s Berkeley house, and the small northern California town of Freedom where Lynn finds trustworthy friends and is eventually able to determine what she must do to stop the corruption in the Bay Area. The following scene describes Lynn’s introduction to the community of Freedom, CA.) I found myself following Jessie and Cork past the darkened reception room, and through the side door that Shelly had appeared from earlier. Was it even the same day, I wondered? My head was still in a daze. A small hallway held three tall file cabinets, a small refrigerator, a printer, and a massive Keurig coffee maker. One open door on the left revealed a white and black tiled bathroom while another doorway on the right showed a small dark room with what looked like a bed against the farthest wall. Jessie opened a glass door at the end of the hallway and stepped onto an exterior balcony. Cork rushed through the opening and down the metal steps, clicking toenails and banging the balusters with his tail. From the balcony, I could view a large concrete area running from the back of the building to the alley. Tables were crammed together with white tablecloths and sparkling glassware. Folding chairs were being set up, grabbed, moved about, and sat on by dozens of people who were walking in from every direction. An assortment of rusty, faded yard furniture cluttered the asphalt nearest the alley, separating it from the car lanes with pots of flowers and potted palm trees. Strings of holiday lights were hung from wires crossing above the area. One stray Japanese paper lantern dangled in the middle of the spray of lights. At least forty people were lingering, most with drinks in their hands already, some lounging on the wobbly chairs, some seated at the tables. Neighbors were greeting each other, hugging, laughing. I was mesmerized. Jessie stood beside me at the balcony railing. “Cool, huh?” Jessie asked. “Magical,” I whispered. “Come on, then.” I followed her along the balcony that ran the width of the back of the building and down the metal steps. Cork had already claimed a table and people had been patting his head as he waited patiently for Jessie. Apparently, he had done this before. I found myself starting to thaw. Jessie wound her way through the crowd. I followed awkwardly, as Jessie introduced me to everyone on the way to our table. I wouldn’t remember anyone’s name but smiled and nodded anyway. Once settled, with Cork comfortably curled under the table, a young, aproned man brought paper plates and napkins in one hand and poured rich red wine from the bottle in the other. “Wait until you see what we have tonight!” “Thanks, Luis! Can’t wait,” Jessie said. He smiled and hustled into a small door set under the stairs they had just come down. “What is this place?” I was fascinated. This wasn’t like the dying small rural towns that the media loved to show. “Well, it is a bit complicated,” Jessie explained. “During early morning and throughout the day, it is the back entrance to the Humble Pie Bakery. Jack Wilson, the baker, opens at five in the morning and closes at one. Then, Luis takes over the kitchen and runs a cooking school four days a week.” Jessie held up her wine glass and smiled at the color. Swirling it around the glass bowl, she inhaled the smokey, spicey aroma. Finally taking a sip, she sighed. “The building was originally a distillery in the 1800s and we’ve been able to maintain the historic liquor license on this location with lots of legal help from Nate.” She continued explaining and took another sip. “That allows the cooking school to offer local wine, beer and whisky, depending on their menu.” Jessie sat back and gazed lovingly at the old brick façade. “Nate helped my brother, Michael, and me put together a plan to fund the school. Everyone here,” she motioned to the boisterous group around us, “has invested in it and once a month we are treated to the most fabulous dinner made by Luis and his students. And local booze! Can’t beat it. Hope you like Tempranillo. Looks like we’re going to have something savory tonight.” She nodded to my untouched wine glass. “Try it. You’ll like it.” My little experience with alcohol came when Karrie and I had snuck the Tres Amigos tequila into our dorm room and the unfortunate gulp of Monkey’s Shoulder in the laundry room. Even growing up in California, I hadn’t explored the many wines of the region, or to be honest, I didn’t even know how to. So, I copied the actions of my hostess, picked up the glass, checked out the color like I knew what I was looking for, swirled it around in the glass, only sloshing out a bit. Skipping the sniffing, I went directly to the tasting. “Wow! That’s really good!” “Told you,” Jessie smiled, tipped her glass to clink mine and resumed sipping. Suddenly a gong sounded, echoing off the buildings along the alley. The crowd hushed; all heads turned in anticipation toward the little door under the stairs as Luis emerged with a tray held high. Slowly walking toward the center table, he proudly set the tray down to the ooohs and aaahhs of the crowd. “I present to you, my friends, Freedom Culinary School’s Wild Boar Ribs with a root-beer bourbon barbeque sauce and blackberry reduction!” The crowd stood for an ovation and I, caught up in the enthusiasm, stood and cheered, too.