Good Woman Murdered

 

They were wedged into the corner booth at Wendy’s, the unofficial break sanctuary, vinyl cracked and sticky with years of spilled Frosty, when the conversation circled back—again—to Rene Good. Everyone had a version of what happened, Maya thought, like a Rorschach blot soaked in blood. The footage had gone beyond viral; it had crossed into something permanent, something etched. You watched it and were told not to trust your eyes, Orwellian double-think. 

“This shit freaks me out,” Maya said, tapping the table her manicured nail that had survived three double shifts in a week after asking for time off, but none of that had to do with the topic of their obsession, always looking for updates on the case of Rene Good. 

“We all saw it," Maya said, "Rene was panicked, trying to leave, car swerves and bumps the guy who shoots her in the face, I mean... Everyone has seen it, but thebshit I hear?"

Tasha leaned back, hoodie half-zipped, moonstone necklace glinting under fluorescent lights. “It’s the spin. That’s the part that feels unreal. Like the murder is flexible, but the explanation is rigid. Felt his life was in danger, case closed. Seriously?”

Gary slid into the booth sideways, all elbows and purpose, wrists thin but strong from years of hauling fry baskets and yanking open freezer doors. With a back flick of his wrist, a long fingered hand of Gary shoo'd two customers who looked at their table with smiling question marks.

“Nope. Break,” Gary said. “Go commune with the counter, but thank you for choosing Wendys!"

The customers retreated. Gary settled in, grabbed a stray fry, and said, “Okay. Continue radicalizing.”

“Trump said he hopes the ICE officer recovers,” Tasha said quietly.

Maya barked a laugh. “From what? The emotional burden of consequences?”

Gary shook his head. “Orwell would be furious. Or impressed. Hard to say.”

“It’s full Ministry of Truth now,” Tasha said. “No prosecution. Everyone saw the video. Rene hits the gas, the car bumps the officer, and suddenly she’s ‘that bitch.’ Head shot. Two more. End of story—but the story keeps going.”

“And the platform’s called Truth Social,” Maya said. “Like satire just gave up.”

“I asked ChatGPT what it takes to be an ICE officer,” Maya went on. “Bachelor’s degree, or ‘equivalent experience.’ Which apparently means: you’ve existed. You’ve had jobs. Congratulations—here’s a badge.”

“Sixty-two grand a year,” Gary said. “Plus a fifty-thousand-dollar signing bonus.”

Tasha stared. “Fifty just to sign up? Can you blame them?"

“We actually have to blame them,” Gary said. “But apparently murder comes with no cost, so if we factor in the percs of a presidential pardon when you shoot someone in the face, I mean, it's just that we don't respect those individuals.”

"Who is we?" Tasha asked, but Gary dismissed her with a wrist-flick.

“And then you’re deployed,” Maya said, “rolling around in tax-funded SUVs, detaining people because paperwork vibes are off. Seventy-two hours in a cold room. No blankets. No need to trust a license. ‘We’ll look into it.’”

Tasha snorted. “Guess stop, ho.”

The fryer beeped somewhere in the distance, capitalism bells of transactional commerce ringing. Gary stood, braced work-worn wrists on the table, and sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “Break’s over. Put your faces back on.”

Maya slid out of the booth. “Smile?”

“With contempt,” Gary said.

They went back to the counter knowing the world was unraveling, the system was lying out loud, and the Frosty machine—miraculously—still worked. Which, for now, seemed to be the only thing holding the timeline together