2

 

The newspapers had a field day with the story, one headline reading, “Poets Kills the King of Paterson Mob.”

        This was not exactly accurate since I saw myself more as a songwriter than a poet, although the comp who came to my jail cell defined me as a suspect and wanted to know why I did it – sputtering a bit in reaction to my requesting an attorney.

        His thin moustache twitched.

        “This is only a formality,” he said.

        “But what I say can be used against me in court?”

        He sagged, his small hard eyes registering annoyance.

        “Look, Zarra,” he said in a stern tone. “We have three witnesses to the shooting. And unless you can make a case as to why you had to shoot him, I would say you’ll see a long time in prison.”

        “What do you want to know?”

        “How long did you know Fetterland?”

        “Know him?” I said, chuckling. “I’m not sure I ever knew him really. But I met him for the first time when I was 15 or 16.”

        “You knew Puck Fetterland that long?” the detective said, unable to contain his surprise.
        “We spent a lot of time on the street together,” I said. “God knows, I might have ended up just like him if other people hadn’t looked out for me.”

        “You sound like you feel sorry for him.”

        “Maybe I do.”

        “But you still shot him.”

        “Your words, not mine. If I got to go back to jail, I won’t help you put me there.”

        “You went to jail?” the detective said, again taken off guard. “I checked your record. You have no criminal convictions.”

        “I was a juvenile. I spent less than a week in the county jail waiting for my family to post bail.”

        “What was the charge?”

        “You have records. Look it up.”

        The detective stormed out.