Death to the Prosecution

It was a big relief on one hand in having finally secured the jurors. But I was quite worried that the defense had a tremendous edge in the fact that the real choice jurors were not approved by them, and we had to compromise on jurors that would historically favor the defense.
The trial was set to start in two days. We had more work to be done in our prosecution team. This was an important trial as it would send a clear message to the mob. For so many years the Mafia clans had a free run of the country. Whatever they wanted to do, they did.
The Mafia killed at will, bodies disappeared with no trace, others were cut into pieces. Law enforcement was the laughingstock of the country in the eyes of the Mafia players. That began to change several years ago. But the Mafia was still a force to reckon with.
The past few weeks were very stressful. The death of my boss, Stanley Soloman, was affecting all of us on the prosecution team. As we were getting closer to opening remarks in a historic trial, it was very sad to be without our leader.
The car radio was playing classical music, a new genre I had been attracted to in my need to stay calm and soothe my frazzled nerves. I also had been driving slower than I used to, maybe because I was preoccupied or just tired of the grind.
As I was heading down the side streets on the way to my block, I noticed in my rearview mirror someone who I felt was following me for some time. As I sped up a little, they did the same. When I turned down a different side street than normal, they followed. So I did something I don’t usually do. I changed direction, headed out to the main road. They were right behind me.
It was then that I realized that this person wasn’t going away anytime soon. So I headed toward and then pulled into the lot of the Seven-Eleven store. The lot was fairly crowded so I parked some twenty spots away from the entrance.
It was then that I saw the Hummer and a middle-aged male driver slowly pass by in the street. As he did, he seemed to glare at me and then sped off.
I went into the store and fixed myself a large Colombian coffee. Just what I needed, I told myself, a little caffeine to set my nerves more on edge. I stayed in the store for around ten minutes as I drank my coffee and looked at the outdated morning newspapers left on the stand.
By the time I went outside again, I looked all around for the black Hummer. I saw nothing. Maybe it was road rage. But I knew I had done nothing that would piss anyone off. Maybe I was driving a tad too slow, but that usually wouldn’t set anyone off—or would it, I wondered.