I pulled this from my "idea pile" of quite some time ago; it's a YA story of a 19 yr. old girl in Brooklyn who was put in a wheelchair at age 6 and the drunk driver who was never caught.
Not able to afford college or law school, after high school graduation she takes a job at NYPD's 84th Precinct as an Administrative Aid because she's obsessed with finding out the truth about the crash that took her parents' lives and her mobility. She hopes her job will someday lead her to this truth but, be
CHAPTER ONE: Nineteen In New York
I once used my trusty Thesaurus to look up the word hypothetical and found it’s meaning to be most intriguing. The thesaurus states it’s an adjective that can mean “assumed, presumptive, theoretical, speculative, conjectural, possible, imaginary, suppositional, contingent, postulated, conditional, uncertain, questionable, and dubious.”
My name is Tasha – last name Atkins, like the diet. I’ve lived my entire life of nineteen years believing that if I only conjecture or imagine something to be true then it’s probably not. But, what if I’d theorize (something that’s a real part of the scientific process), postulate (what lawyers do), or realize that what I’m thinking might be true if it’s either contingent or conditional upon something else? What if I stretched my brain in that direction? Then I’d have to become a science fiction writer, I told myself.
I grabbed my glasses (can’t tell you how glad I am that round, owl-eye frames are back in style), looked in the full-length mirror that Grandma finally caved and bought me last year for my birthday, and tried to pull my unruly mass of hair into a sophisticated ponytail. I’d not dyed my hair in ages; tried blue, purple – my favorite color – even pink, but I liked my natural reddish-gold the best. If I were a shampoo spokesperson, I’d definitely recommend Mane & Tail because it really takes fake color out, fast.
Today I’ve decided on dressy jeans, layered tank top and shirt, all in shades of my favorite color – blue - and a coat Grandma calls a blazer. I’m not sure it should ever have been called that, and yes – don’t judge me - I do live with my Grandma. The look is casual-dressy; I’m satisfied. Long legs, knee-high boots with heels – If I had bigger boobs, I’d look every bit the part of Lead Detective Kate Beckett on Castle.
Right after high school graduation I was hired on at the 84th Precinct here in Brooklyn as an Administrative Aid; there’d suddenly been several ‘support personnel’ openings come available in the short span of a week and the NYPD was scrambling for people to fill those spots. I never did find out why there’d been so many openings so suddenly; but I have been told I’m one of the fastest typists and most analytical thinkers the NYPD has ever had. Captain Morrow insists I was made for the tedious task of taking the notes, questions, and clues their renowned homicide department has and organizing them in such a way that everything just “falls into place” for the detectives I work for. At least once a year, usually during the Precinct’s annual review, the Captain tells me he’s glad he hired me over the other applicants – which there hadn’t been many - because I prove myself every day. Definitely a nice thing to hear from your boss. He also told me once that my way of formatting all the pics and stuff the detectives put on that cork and white board of theirs is what helps them solve so many cases. Again, it’s so like the T.V. show, Castle, and yes, I do know it’s flattery to get me to stay on the job - I’m nineteen, not an idiot - because support personnel seem to vaporize in thin air around here.
When I was sixteen and a junior at Canarsie High School, I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I’ve always had a way of digging out information and researching the heck out of a subject because I wanted to get at the truth. The truth really matters to me. Which is why, more than any other reason, I took this position at the 84th - to work around cops, around detectives, around people who know how to catch bad guys … and because I need to know who, ten years ago, that drunk driver was: the one who killed my parents, put me in this wheelchair for the rest of my life, and was never found – let alone tried and convicted. I want to know how to find him. Because online research only gets you so far.
Don’t get me wrong; my Grandmother’s a cool, old gal who I love dearly. But I still need to know.
I love my job; there isn’t anything about it I don’t like. The challenge is like no other, and the best part is I’ve become a part of the “team”; a team of detectives that hunt down the truth. Two years working as an Administrative Aid for Detective Morrow has taught me many things about the investigative process, but this one thing specifically: always “question”, “theorize”, and “postulate” on what you think is true … because you never know what might be possible.