Who are We to Judge

A first draft short story about a man on his way home getting caught in the middle of a bank robbery. He faces life, death, and a look into the very nature of evil.

The breeze swiftly erupted as I walked out of the swinging class door of my firm’s building.  Quickly I grasped my hat, trying to keep it situated on top of my head.  It caught me off guard only for a second though, as a I quickly rebounded and began making my way down the sidewalk.  This was my last day in the office, and a long Memorial Day weekend with my kids was now underway.  It would be nice finally being able to spend a holiday with them.  The holidays had become so lonely these past two years.  This weekend would be different though I thought to myself.  There was a bit of strut in my stride walking away.  The noise of the cabs honking did not faze more, nor did the man wringing his coffee mug from the ground.  I only noticed these minor disturbances from the peripherals and kept walking.  I had one stop to make and that was at the bank, two blocks down.  I would deposit the lovely pay check I received today and that would be that. 

       The walk there was uneventful.  No faces to remember, only nameless strangers passing by.  When I arrived at the bank though,  I stopped to hold the door open for an older gentlemen.  Being in the good spirits I was it only seemed right.  He slowly made his way in and stood in the bank line, waiting for a teller.  Looking at the nearly dozen people in line my temperament was slightly dampered.  Looking down at my watch, I sighed at the time.  Five fourty three.  I told the kids before I left we would leave by six.  That promise would have to be broken.  There would be no stopping it.  Still, I couldn’t help but get anxious.  After five minutes the line had to yet to move forward, and  I began to tap my foot in frustration.  How long would it be until they saw me?  Fifteen, twenty minutes?  My apartment was a solid half an hour away by subway.  The children would be so disappointed.  Finally in the midst of my fit, the middle aged lady at the far left booth had finished her business and was walking out.  I was finally able to take a step further, the pep back in my step. 

       The man replacing her was a middle aged man, balding slightly and of a rough build.  He reminded me slightly of George Reeves.    When the young teller asked how my she help him he leaned his head slightly to the right, and the blood drained from her face.  She glanced to the area he had directed her towards, and then quickly looked up.  It was as if all the life had faded from her.  Without a word I knew what would come next.  He pulled out a gun and with it clenched in his fist sat in on the counter.  The emotions that came next were hard to tell.  Fear, excitement , anguish.  You always think that your first reaction is to be the hero, but mine was simply nothing.  It took thirty seconds of him talking that I realized I hadn’t heard a word he said.  I hadn’t even breathed.  My hands clenched tight I was frozen.  Trying to piece myself together I heard what he had to say next

       “Get on the ground now”.  The gun was pointed right at my chest.  I immediately dropped to the ground, a completely involuntary movement.

       We must have laid on the ground for an eternity, though my watch disagreed.  According to it only four minutes passed by while the man tied up the bank employees and had one open the safe for him.  As the vault opened you could tell he was a bit disappointed.  He took the manager and flung him against the wall, demanding where the rest of the money was.  It was hard to distinguish the man’s babbled words with my hands over my head.  Judging from the sound of debris being thrown against the wall I would have to say it wasn’t in the vault.  Still, the gunman ordered him to get him the rest of the money and put it in him bag. 

       A curious thought ran through my mind.  Here was a bank robber, trying to discreetly steal this money, yet he had no mask.  Didn’t all bank robbers wear masks?  It seemed the logical thing to do with the cameras and all.  Yet here was this man, balding as he was, wearing no mask.  We all had seen his face and could easily pick him out.  I chuckled at his incompetence at his profession, but then another thought crossed my mind.  Had he realized his mistake?  If so how would he fix it?  Were we allowed to leave?  I began to sob uncontrollably at the thought of never seeing my children again.  If only I had went straight home.  There were other banks on the way to the lake.  I could have stopped at any of them.  Why here and why now?  Was this how I would meet my end? 

       The sobbing seemed to alert the man from the vault though.  His boots began to clap against the tile in my direction.  “Shut up you hear.  I don’t want to have to kill you, but  I will if I need to make a point.  Keep your hands over your head and don’t let me hear you say another word.” 

       I didn’t bother looking into his face.  Before he had even finished his sentence my head was firmly planted in the tile with my hands directly over my head.   I wondered how the other victims were handling this situation.  Were they as afraid as  I was.  I would probably never know.  With that thought though I suddenly heard faint sirens coming down the street.  Over the next few moments they roared louder and louder until I could literally smell the burning tires as they screeched to a halt outside the bank building.  I took the small chance to look up, and saw the same look the bank attendant had, only this time on the robbers face.  His face had gone pale, and it looked like he was shaking. He uttered a few profanities and began screaming orders at people.  We all stood up and followed his orders to stand on the back wall.  Obviously none of us wanted to cross a man in his position.  He had nothing to lose.

       “We know you are in there, and we know there are hostages.  Now lets handle this calmly.  I’m sure there are people you would like to go see again.”

       It didn’t take long, but the robber came to his senses and rushed to the door.  He pulled a chain out and locked the door.  He moved the bank employees he had tied up to our wall, and then tied the rest of us up using zip ties.  Our wrists were tied to the person next to us, and our feet bound on their own.  There was no way we would be able to move.  He then disappeared into the bank room, probably to figure out what his next step would be.

       It was then I noticed who I was tied to.  It was the man I had held the door open for walking into the bank.  He looked at me, with that look of peace, like he had come to terms with his fate.  I wished I had done the same. 

       “I wish I wouldn’t have let you in.”  I told him honestly. “If I had known what would happen I would have slammed the door in your face.”

       He looked at me with something in his eye that I had not seen in a very long time.  Before the divorce if I had to say.  It was a look of compassion.

       “You couldn’t have kept me out of here son.  I’ve been coming to this bank every week for nearly thirty years.  It has been my routine.  Today was meant to happen, it is our destiny.  Everything in our lives has led up to this moment.  Don’t think a simple door slam could have prevented that.  A much more likely scenario would have been me berating you with a few profanities upon walking in here, and then this situation wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant.”

       I couldn’t help but laugh at his honest. I pulled my sleeve up again to check the time.  Six fourty five.  The children were probably beginning to wonder where I was.  I’m sure they are upset that Dad has once again broken his word. 

       “I wish they would hurry up and come kill him so I can go home,” I told the man.  “Why are they waiting out there.” He obviously must share my sentiment, so I had no problem sharing my frustration with this stranger.

       “Do you really wish they would kill him?”  His face showed not sarcasm like one would expect, but genuine concern over my statement.

       “Well, yes,” I explained, “look at what he has done to us here.  Tied up, threatened our lives, and not to mention all the money he has stolen.  I would say he is quite deserving of such an end.”

       The old man paused for a second.  He looked down at his feet, and I was sure he would scratch his head if his hands weren’t tied.  “I’m sure you are correct, he probably does deserve to die.  To tell you the truth I am quite hungry right now, and was on my home for dinner when caught up in this mess.  I still wonder though, why death.  That seems awfully permanent.  Have we never wronged anyone before.”  He paused to see how I reacted to this statement.  “I mean if I had to look back I know I have done some truly terrible things.  I have lied and cheated.  When I was a boy I even stole my neighbors car and took it joy riding.  I stole all sorts of things from people’s yards and filled  their car up before taking it back to the owners house.  They treated me with grace and mercy, thinking I would do better things.  Why not give those things to this man to.  Have you stopped to think why he is doing this right now?  Does he not have a reason to steal?”

       To be honest this question startled me.  I wasn’t ready for such a philosophical breakdown of our situation.  “I would say it is more than likely drugs.  Doesn’t that seem to attract these kinds of people.  Hampered by addiction they will do anything to get their fix?”  I had often heard this from many people.  I was sure this was the kind of man we were dealing with.

       “That could very well me the case, and the world would be better off without him.  Let me pose another situation though.  What if he were a father, and his children were starving? Would he deserve death then?”

       There was a knot in my stomach at this question.  I began to sweat as I was filled with guilt.  I was sure that this was not the case, but it troubled me knowing that I had yet to consider the circumstances behind this man, and that I was so quick in pronouncing his judgment.  “No, I would not.”  It was all the reply that I could get out.

       “Then we must confess that the punishment not only fits the crime, but the circumstance as well.”  He seemed genuinely pleased with the direction of the conversation.  “At least as far as our judgement is concerned,” he concluded.

       “What do you mean our judgement”.  I was truly baffled.  Tied up, this man had just achieved his purpose in changing my thinking.  What more could he want?

       “What is evil in your eyes?”

       “Something that hurts me of course.”

       He smiled at my answer, like he knew something I did not.  “Ah, of course, but can it be more than that.  Let me ask you, how do you know what is right or wrong?”

       “I don’t know.  I just know.  My conscience I guess.”

       “So you would say that you govern right or wrong by not what you know, but by instinct.”

       I nodded.  “Yes, I would say that.”

       “Well,” the old man continued, “if we do not come up with it, then it must come from somewhere.  Someone came up with this law.  If I were to have to give a definition of evil, it would have be against the creator of the law.”

       I was intrigued by his answer.  It certainly did make sense.  “Who then created this law?  Is it nature, fate, our parents, or society itself.  It must be society.  That would be why he shouldn’t be killed.  He must answer for his sins to society.”  I felt a little bit of that joy I had earlier.  This was why I worked in the firm I did. 

       “That may be true, but doesn’t society have to have a beginning.  If we couldn’t have created this, than someone who came before us must have created it.  I propose that this bank robber should not face such a permanent judgement by you and me, because we are not the one’s he has wronged.  He must face judgement from the creator of the law.  Let him be the judge.”

       Immediately I no longer liked this conversation.  “You speak of God.  I do not believe in such trivial things as God.  That is made up for those to weak minded to see truth.”

       This time I could tell that I was the one who had caught the other by surprise.  I felt a little power come back to the conversation.  The old man paused, and in our pause I heard the robber in the bank room.  He was talking on the phone.  He sounded scared.  His voice kept trembling.  I realized who he was talking to.  It was the police outside. He was crying I realized.   Begging for his life.  Before I knew that I heard the sound of a gun, the crashing of glass, and the sound of a body slumping against the floor.  He had picked a room with a window, and the office took the shoot.  He was dead.  I looked over and the old man next to me was weeping.  Anger welled up inside of me, how could he cry over the man who had threatened our lives.  It was then that I realized that the joy I had expected to feel in my heart was not quite as joyful as one would expect. 

       “What a shame that a life had to end like that.  What would have happened all those years ago if such punishment had been given to me.  Who would have killed me.  We may be evil creatures to our core, deserving of a life inprisoned to ponder our crimes, but who are we to pronounce death when the sin lay not against us, but on the creator himself.

       I began to think of my kids, and for the first time in many months my ex-wife.  What would have happened if I had received the punishment I deserved for what I had done to her.  I remembered the night I told her that I was leaving, that I didn’t love her anymore and wanted out.  The pain in her eyes was as real now as it was that day two years ago.  What if I had received the punishment I deserved, instead of her telling the courts I really was a good father and allowing me custody.  I remembered the anger I had toward that bank robber, and like the old man I now pitied him.  He was gone, no grace was shown, and now he would have to face the real punishment. 

       After several hours of recounting the events of the day with the police I was finally able to go on my way home.  The police assured me they had called my children while I was being checked out.  They were ok and were assured I was on my way home.  I imagined they would be a bit upset when I told them they would have to wait to go on their trip until tomorrow.  For now though I had a phone call to make, one that was long over do.  I searched for the number, pressed call, and waited anxiously for the voice on the other end to pick up.  Too soon I heard the voice as sweet as angels, “hello” it said.

       “It’s me honey,” I spoke into the phone.  “I’m sorry, and I want you to know I love you.”

      

Author's Note

this is my first draft, and I am currently editing and changing. I've never let anyone read my writing, so this is just to get an opinion on this. I'm sure there are many many corrections to be made.

Reviews

[~Nina~]

Amazing short story with great moral. Good work! Keep it up! :)