'You touch bag? Make fingerprince?' This is what Mr Abdini asks me. Don't even ask me the rest of his name.
'Fingerprints1? Uh - I guess so.' I'm uneasy enough today, without having to meet folk like this.
Abdini is fat the way an anvil2 is fat, but his face is probably swept back by the velocity3 of his talking. He's my attorney. The judge appointed him. I guess nobody else works Sundays around here. I know you're not allowed to say it anymore, about other places being different and all, but, between you and me, you can tell Abdini is the product of centuries of fast-talking and double-dealing. Ricochet Abdini, 'Bing, ping, ping!' He's dressed in white, like the Cuban Ambassador or something. A jury would convict on his fucken shoes alone, not that his shoes are my biggest problem. They're the least of my fucken problems, know why? Because if you take a bunch of flabby white folk, of the kind that organize bake-sales and such, and put them in a jury, then throw in some fast-talker from God-knows-where, chances are they won't buy a thing he says. They can tell he's slimy, but they're not allowed to officially do anything, on account of everybody has to pretend to get along these days. So they just don't buy what he says. It's a learning I made.
Therefore, Mr Something Fucken Abdini Something stands sweating in my cell, getting ready to say 'Therefore' probably. His eyes bounce across a file in his hand, which is all about me. He grunts6.
'You tell me whappen.'
'Uh - excuse me?'
'Tell me whappen in school.'
'Well, see, I was out of class, and when I came back …'
Abdini holds up a hand. 'You went batroom?'
'Uh - yeah, but that wasn't …'
'Very impotent evidence,' he hisses7, scribbling8 in the file.
'No, see, I was …'
Just then the guard clanks at the door. 'Shh,' goes Abdini, patting my arm. 'I fine out. You don tsetse fly today. We try bail9.'
Barry ain't around this morning; another guard escorts us through the sheriff's back door, and down the alley10 behind Gurie Street. Abdini said there couldn't be any media in court today, on account of me being a juvenile11. Anyway, everybody's at the funerals. 'An option holding limited appeal,' as the now-dumbstruck Mr Asshole Nuckles would say. It's bitterly hot today; unusual this early in summer. And quiet like when you hold your breath, though you can still sense cotton dresses over on Gurie Street, and kids jumping through sprinklers. Typical Sunday things, but with the damp fizz of tears about them. They come with their own wave of sadness.
Three buildings along from the sheriff's office stands Martirio's ole whorehouse, one of the Wild West's most beautiful buildings. The fun gals12 are gone though, now it's next to the courthouse. The only gal13 left is Vaine Gurie, a whole barrel-load of fucken laughs. She waits for us at the back. Her eyebrow14 rides high today. I'm led up some stairs into the mostly empty courtroom, where the guard maneuvers15 me into a small wooden corral, with a fence around it. It's almost possible to be brave in here, if you add up your Nikes, your Calvin Kleins, your youth, and your actual innocence16. What shunts you over the edge is the smell. Court smells like your first-grade classroom; you automatically look around for finger-paintings. I don't know if it's on purpose, like to regress you and freak you out. Truth be told, there's probably an air-freshener for courtrooms and first-grade classrooms, just to keep you in line. 'Guilt-O-Sol' or something, so in school you feel like you're already in court, and when you wind up in court you feel like you're back in school. You're primed for finger-paintings, but what you get is a lady behind one of those sawn-off typewriters. Court, boy. Fuck.
I look around while everybody shuffles17 papers. Mom couldn't make it, which ain't such a bad thing. I learned that the authorized18 world doesn't recognize the knife. Your knife is invisible, that's what makes it so convenient to use. See how things work? It's what drives folk to the blackest crimes, and to sickness, I know it; the thing of everyone turning the knife just by saying hello, or something equally innocent-sounding. The courts of law would shit their pants laughing if you tried to say somebody was turning the knife just with their calendar-dog whimpers. But here's why they'd laugh: not because they couldn't see the knife, but because they knew nobody else would buy it. You could stand before twelve good people, all with some kind of psycho-knife stuck in them that loved-ones could twist on a whim19, and they wouldn't admit it. They'd forget how things really are, and slip into TV-movie mode where everything has to be obvious. I guarantee it.
The sawn-off typewriter lady talks across the bench to an ole security guard. 'Oh my, it's a fact. We had a copy of that same catalog, me and my girls.'
'No kidding,' says the guard, 'that same one, huh?' His tongue pushes some spit around his mouth. That means he's picturing whatever she just said. He shunts some spit around, picturing it for a moment, then he says, 'Don't forget the judge has girls too.'
'That's a fact,' says the typist.
They turn to stare daggers20 at me. The typist's daggers come wrapped in Kleenex, I guess so they don't get shit on them. I just stare at my Nikes. Things have gone beyond a fucken joke. You just know the justice system ain't set up for folk like me. It's set up for more obvious folk, like you see in movies. Nah, if the facts don't arrive today, if everybody doesn't apologize and send me home, I'll jump bail and run over the fucken border. Against All Odds21. I'll vanish into the cool of tonight, see if I fucken don't, hum cross-country with the moths22, with my innocent-headed learnings and my ole panty dreams.
'All-a rise,' says an officer.
A bright-eyed lady with short gray hair and bifocal glasses glides23 behind the tallest desk. Judge Helen E Gurie says the sign. Her swivel chair rattles24 politely when she sits. The Chair of God.
'Vaine,' she says, 'it'd have to be one of your cases, now wouldn't it?'
'Gh-rrr. We have a suspect, Judge.'
Abdini stands. 'We apply pearlymoney herring, your honor.'
The judge squints25 over her glasses. 'A preliminary hearing? Wait one darned minute, I draw both your attentions to the Texas Family Code - this is a juvenile matter. Vaine, I sure hope you observed the provisions for service of process that apply in this instance.'
'Gh-r.'
'And why is no record of interview filed with the complaint?'
Just now the main door creaks open behind me. Sheriff Porkorney scrapes into the room and takes off his hat. Vaine stiffens27 like a bone.
'We hoped a particular piece of evidence would come in first, ma'am,' she says.
'You hoped the evidence would come in? You hoped it would just fly right in? How long has this young man been in custody28?'
'Gh …' Vaine's eye flicks29 back to the sheriff. He just stands by the door, arms folded, real quiet.
'Good Lord!' Judge Gurie snatches a paper from her desktop30. 'You're seeking indictment31?' She removes her glasses, fixing a stare at Vaine. 'And fingerprints is all you have?'
'Let me explain, ma'am, that …'
'Deputy, I doubt you'll cook up a grand jury on one set of prints. Won't even defrost 'em.'
'It's more than one set, your honor.'
'Doesn't matter how many you have, they're all from the same exhibit, the sports bag. I mean - please. Maybe if it was a gun …'
'Ma'am, some new information came into the public domain32 last night, which I thought …'
'The court isn't interested in what you thought, Vaine. When you take the pointed4 end of a stick and wake this whole tangled33 process up with it, we want to hear what you damn well know.'
'Well, the boy also lied, and he ran away from his interview … gh …'
Judge Gurie clasps her hands like a first-grade teacher. 'Vaine Millicent Gurie - I remind you the child is not on trial here. Given the particulars before me, I'm inclined to release your suspect and have a damn long talk with the sheriff about the quality of procedure reaching this bench.'
Her gaze penetrates34 Vaine's every hole, however many that is. At the back of the room, the sheriff's lips tighten35. He puts on his hat and creaks back out through the door. I don't know about where you live, but around here we teach life's hard lessons with our lips.
Abdini stands. 'Objection!'
'Pipe down, Mr Abdini, we have other attorneys on call,' says the judge.
Gurie lifts her eyebrow. 'Your honor, this new information, you know …'
'No, I do not know. What I know ain't a whole lot so far.'
The typist and Gurie exchange a glance. They sigh. The ole court officer immediately turns to frown my way. 'She ain't seen it yet,' the guard behind me says under his breath. Everybody tightens36 their lips.
'What is going on here?' asks the judge. 'Has this court slipped into a parallel universe? Have I been left behind?'
'Ma'am, some new facts came to light - we're following them up right now.'
'Then I'm going to release your suspect until you can show me some particulars. I also expect you to apologize for all this trouble.'
A high-voltage tremor37 cracks through me, of hope, excitement, and ass5-naked fear. You think I'm going to stick around for the so-called justice system to get its shit together? Am I fuck. Buses leave Martirio every two hours for Austin or San Antonio. The automatic teller38 machine with fifty-two dollars in it, from Nana's lawnmowing fund, is a block from the Greyhound station. Which is five blocks from here.
The typist sighs, and tightens her lips some more. Then she leans up to the bench and cups a hand to the judge's ear. Judge Gurie listens, frowning. She puts on her glasses and looks at me. Then at the typist.
'When's the next report? Lunch time?'
The typist nods; one righteous eye darts39 to Vaine. The judge reaches for her hammer. 'Court is adjourned40 until two o'clock.'
'Bam.'
'All-a rise,' says the guard.
Men hardened by the friction41 of learning, steel men of savvy42 quietly applied43, crusty ole boys of rough-hewn glory, probably smoke a lonely cigarette in their cells during lunch breaks from court. They probably don't have to talk to their moms.
'Well Vernon, what I mean is, do you have your own room, or did they put you with other - you know, other men …?'
Barry stands leering by the phone, eyes puckered44 into goats' cunts. It seems Eileena's eyebrows45 perch46 high this lunchtime too, as far as her wooden hair allows. I don't know about where you live, but around here we take the moral high ground with our eyebrows.
'Well you know,' says Mom, 'you hear about the nice boys, the clean boys, always getting - you know, you hear about bigger men, hardened criminals, always getting the nice boys and …'
After God-knows-how-many years of life in this free country she doesn't have the tools to just say, 'Have you been taken up the ass yet by some lifer?' That's how pathetic things are. Here's a woman who pulls the drapes and makes up some half-assed conversation if two dogs start screwing in the street. Yet, for all I know she probably takes a fucken fire-hydrant up the ass every night, just for kicks. Boy, I tell you.
Her voice wipes away my fledgling hardness like it's goddam bedroom lint47. What kind of fucken life is this? Light through the window calls me, sings of melted ice-cream on the sidewalk outside, the ghost of little tears nearby. Summer dresses full of fresh air, Mexico down the way. But not for me. I'm condemned48 to watch Eileena wipe down the sheriff's saddle for the second time since I came up.
I find myself wondering if the sheriff's saddle usually gets so much attention, and if it does, why it ain't worn away to nothing. Then I see the room has a TV. Eileena's eye snaps to it.
It's the lunchtime news. You hear the fanfare49 of trumpets50 and drums, then the face of an asshole appears in the far distance, staring through the back window of a departing Smith County Sheriff's truck.
'Vernon, I have some bones to pick with you,' says Mom.
'I have to go now.'
'Well Vernon …'
'Click.'
My eyes latch51 onto the screen. A breeze rustles52 cellophane on the Lechugas' teddy farm, then snags a wire of Lally's hair and floats it off his head. The pumpjack squeaks53 rhythmically54 under his voice. 'This proud community takes a decisive step from the shadow of Tuesday's devastation55, with the arrest of a new player in the deadly web of cause and effect that has brought the once-peaceful town to its knees.'
'Ain't see me on my fuckin knees,' says Barry, straddling a chair.
'To his neighbors, Vernon Gregory Little seemed a normal, if somewhat awkward teenager, a boy who wouldn't attract attention walking any downtown street. That is - until today.'
Lush pictures fill the screen, of crime-scene tape dancing under a blackened sky, body-bags punctuating56 drag-marks of blood, moist ladies howling pizza-cheese bungees of spit. Then a school photo of me, grinning.
'I definitely saw changes in the boy,' says George Porkorney. You can see her cigarettes hidden behind the fruit-salad plant on the breakfast bar at home. 'His shoes got more aggressive, he insisted on one of those skinhead haircuts …'
'I know,' says Betty in back.
Cut to Leona Dunt. Her handbag needs to be a yard taller for how big the word Gucci is written on it. 'Wow, but he seemed like such a regular kid.'
Black, disordered xylophone music joins the soundtrack as the camera bumps up the hallway to my room. Lally stops by my bed to face the camera. 'Vernon Little was described to me as something of a loner; a boy with few close friends, given more to playing on his computer - and reading.' The camera takes a vicious dive into the laundry pile by the bed. Out comes the lingerie catalog. 'But we find no Steinbeck, no Hemingway in Vernon Little's private library - in fact, his literary tastes run only to this …' Pages flap across the screen, sassy torsos cut me that once tugged57 chains of shameful58 sap through my veins59. Then we hit page 67. Flapping stops. 'An innocent prop,' asks Lally, 'or a chilling link to the confused sexuality implied by Tuesday's crimes?' Twisted violins join the xylophone. The shot pans over my computer screen to the file marked 'Homework'. 'Click.' Cue the amputee sex pictures I saved for ole Silas Benn.
'Well golly,' says Mom. 'I had no idea.'
Lally sits beside her on my bed, cranking his brow into a sympathetic A-frame. 'As Vernon's mother, would it now be fair to number you among the victims of this tragedy?'
'Well, I guess I am a victim. I really guess so.'
'Yet you maintain Vernon's innocence?'
'Oh God, a child is always innocent to his mother - well even murderers are loved by their families you know.'
Some fucken powerdime shift. Lally lets it sit there. Even Barry Gurie knows it's all over, he just sighs out of his chair and says, 'Time to go down.' He steadies me to the door, but I turn for the blow I know is coming. Things could've been different if I'd learned to spell earlier, if I'd just been a smarter, more regular kid. But as things turned out, I was almost seven before I could spell The Alamo. So there's no title at all on the finger-painting I gave Mom when I was five. Just a bunch of stick-corpses and a shitload of red.
'Well, you can see he was just a normal little boy, in almost every way.'
'All-a rise.' The court officer detours60 around my computer, and a boxload of other shit that turned up on the courtroom floor. Mom's panty catalog has a table all to itself. Even my ole finger-painting is here, but they don't seem to have bothered with my Nike box. The ozone61 in court has a new, unhealthy crunch62 to it.
'Mr Abdini,' says the judge, 'I trust your client understands he is being arraigned63 - I draw your attention to the various issues of waiver that might apply.'
Abdini cocks his head. 'Your honor?'
'The matter will proceed to indictment, sir. Might be time for you to act.'
'Ma'am,' I say, 'this whole thing can be cleared up with a call to my witnesses, my teacher and all …'
'Shhh,' hisses Abdini.
'Counsel, please inform your client that he's not on trial here. Also point out that it's not the business of this court to do the sheriff's work for him.' She sits back for a moment, then turns to Vaine.
'Deputy - you have checked alibi64 witnesses?'
'I'm afraid the last witness, Miss Lori-Bethlehem Conner, passed away this morning, Judge.'
'I see. What about the boy's teacher?'
'Marion Nuckles didn't mention the suspect's whereabouts at the time of the tragedy.'
'He didn't mention, or you didn't ask?'
'His doctors say he won't be able to talk until the end of March next year. We couldn't get more than a few words, ma'am.'
'Well dammit Vaine. What were those words about?'
'Another firearm.'
'Oh good Lord.'
Vaine nods, tightening65 her lips. She can't fucken stop herself glancing at me as she does it.
'We apply bail your honor,' says Abdini.
'Is that right,' says Gurie. 'Judge, the boy has a history of absconding66, from before he was even in trouble …'
Abdini throws out his arms. 'But little man is part of family home, with plenty things in the house - why he won't stay?'
'It's a single-parent family, Judge. I don't see how a woman on her own can override67 the will of a teenage boy.' She ain't seen the fucken knife in my back.
'It's nothing short of tragic,' says the judge. 'Every child needs a man's hand. Is there no way to contact the father?'
'Gh - he's presumed deceased, Judge.'
'Oh my. And the boy's mother couldn't make it to court today?'
'No, ma'am - her car is under repair.'
'Well,' says Judge Gurie. 'Well, well, well.' She leans back into her throne and makes a church with her fingers. Then she turns to me. 'Vernon Gregory Little, I'm not going to turn down your application for bail at this time. But neither am I going to release you. In light of the facts here presented, and commensurate with my responsibility to this community, I am remanding you in custody pending68 a psychiatric report. With reference to any recommendations in that report, I may consider your application at a later date.'
'Bam,' goes the hammer.
'All-a rise,' says the officer.
Muzak plays near the cells tonight. It fucken lays me out and buries me alongside my friends. It goes: 'I beg your par-den, I never promised you a rose gar-den.' Hot weather always brings these fucked ole tunes69, always in the background, in fucken mono. Fate. Like, notice how whenever something happens in your life, like you fall in love or something, a tune70 gets attached. Fate tunes. Watch out for that shit.
I lay on the bunk71 and imagine this tune playing at a Greyhound terminal. In the TV-movie of my life, I'd be the crusty, mixed-up kid, all rugged72 and lonely, older than my years; dragging long shadows to hop26 a bus out of town, a bus with Mexico written on it. 'Pssschhh,' the crusty ole driver opens the door of his motor-coach, and smiles like he has a secret, that everything turns out fine. The kid's boot steps out of the dirt. His guitar swings low. A cowgirl with blond hair and Levi's sits alone, halfway73 down the aisle74, probably wearing blue cotton panties under. Bikinis, or tangas. Probably bikinis. Nothing crusty about her. See what I mean? It's this kind of strategic vision that separates us from the animals.
My ole lady calls, but I can't make my imagination deal with her. I have until fucken Wednesday to do a little dreaming. That's when the shrink can see me. I survive two and a half days with Jesus' leaden soul in the shadows, and three rubber nights a-twanging with soundbites of his death. In the end, I pass the time practicing faces for the psychiatrist75. I don't know if it's better to act crazy, or regular, or what. If the shrinks on TV are anything to go by, it'll be fucken hard to find out, because they just repeat every damn thing you say. If you say, 'I'm devastated76,' they go, 'I hear you saying you're devastated.' How do you deal with that? All I know is what I learned last week, that a healthy life should feel spongy, like a burrito. This Tuesday night, the first-week anniversary of the shootings, my life feels like a fucken corn chip.
I hear Barry's keychain swinging up the corridor, clink-a-clink. He stops by the grille of my door, out of sight, just breathing and clinking. He knows I'm waiting for him to say I have a call. But he starts to walk away, then shuffles back again. See?
'Little?' he finally says.
'Yeah, Barry?'
'That's Officer Gurie to you. You ain't porkin the preacher in there are ya? You ain't tossin the ham javelin77 all night long, thinkin of your Meskin boy? Grr-hrr-hrr.'
Fuck him to death. He walks me upstairs to the phone, and I fantasize about ramming78 his baton79 up his goddam ass. Not that he'd probably even feel it.
The weeping sax from the TV weather plays in the office, just to cheer me up. On the phone I hear Leona's careless chuckle80 over a background of fat ladies discussing other people's money. The weather plays at their end too. I get it in fucken stereo. Then comes the skidmark of my ole lady's voice.
'Vernon, are you all right?'
Her sniffling feels like she physically81 has her tongue in my ear, like an anteater or something. Makes me want to puke and bawl82 at the same time, go fucken figure. Here's why she's going for gold, let me tell you: it's because now I'm not only in jail, but I might be fucken crazy as well. What a bonanza83 for her if I'm fucken crazy as well. Then her problem would be that she already spent her best whimpery moves; like, she'd have to shred84 a tit or something, just to keep up with the Unfolding Tragedy of Her Fucken Life. Out of kindness, I absorb the maximum number of sniffles before speaking.
'How could you do that to me, Ma?'
'Well I only told the truth, Vernon. Anyway young man, how could you do all this to me?'
'I didn't do anything.'
'Well, famous actors put toothpaste under their eyes to help them cry. Did you know that?'
'Say what?
'I'm just telling you for court, in case you look too impassive. You know how impassive you can look.'
'Ma - just don't talk to Lally anymore, okay?'
'Hold on,' she takes her mouth from the phone, 'it's all right Leona, it's the fridge people.' You hear questioning noises in back, about the time of night, then Mom comes on the line again. 'Well it's ridiculous - I've waited days for you people!'
'Goodnight, Ma.'
'Wait!' She presses her mouth to the phone, whispering. 'Vernon - it's probably best not to mention anything about the, er …'
'Gun?'
'Well yes, probably best to keep it between us, you know?'
My daddy's gun. If only my ole lady had let me keep it at home. But no. The fucken gun gave her the tremors85. I had to stash86 it far from the house, way out in the public domain. Nuckles must know it's there. Jesus must've used it as a wild card, must've mentioned it to stop him following, to make him think there was an arsenal87 stashed88 away. But then Jesus died. Took the information, the context, all our innocent boyhood times with him. Took the truth with him.
Just my gun's left behind, with all the wrong fingerprints on it. Left behind, just waiting.
收听单词发音 |
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fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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maneuvers
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| n.策略，谋略，花招( maneuver的名词复数 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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moths
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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stiffens
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| （使）变硬，（使）强硬( stiffen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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desktop
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| n.桌面管理系统程序；台式 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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42
savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fanfare
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| n.喇叭；号角之声；v.热闹地宣布 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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detours
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| 绕行的路( detour的名词复数 )； 绕道，兜圈子 | |
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ozone
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| n.臭氧，新鲜空气 | |
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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71
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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75
psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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78
ramming
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| n.打结炉底v.夯实（土等）( ram的现在分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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82
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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83
bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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84
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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stash
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| v.藏或贮存于一秘密处所；n.隐藏处 | |
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arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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88
stashed
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| v.贮藏( stash的过去式和过去分词 )；隐藏；藏匿；藏起 | |
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