The Power of Testimony

The Crime
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The intruder and I were perched on the bed, one of his arms squeezing
around me like a vise, the other training a gun on my friends.
“Get your money,” he told me. “But no funny business, or one
of them gets it.”
My whole body was trembling. I pulled away from him and
went to get my purse from the spot where I always kept it: hanging
by its strap from the back of my desk chair. But it wasn’t there.
Then it hit me: I must have left it in my sister’s car after church.
My heart skipped a beat.
“I don’t have my purse,” I told him. “I misplaced it.”
“ F— what!”
“I always hang it right here, on this chair. But it’s not here.”
Through the eyeholes of the ski mask, the whites of his eyes followed
me. “There wasn’t much money in it anyway,” I said. “A couple of
dollars. I think three dollars.”
He swore again, which frightened me. I wished I had a lot of
money just lying there so he would take it and leave.
His voice rose into a command. “Get your jewelry. And get the
f— back here.”
The miniature cedar chest where I kept my jewelry was on my
desk. I grabbed it and brought it to him. With his free hand, he
dumped the contents onto the floor, in a patch of street light. He
kept the gun trained on the huddled figures in the dining room as
he pawed through the little pile of necklaces and earrings. None of
it had any value.
I realized that he was distracted. Maybe I could get past him.
How many steps is it to the back door? Does the dead bolt turn left
or right?
He finished rifling and said, “Get your pot.”
“What?”
“Get your pot!” This was clearly a command.
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