David’s Dilemma

David glared at his inquisitor. His ordeal was in its third month, and David had welcomed the opportunity to clear up any misunderstandings. Now he wondered if appearing before the panel was a mistake.

“Well, are you going to answer the question?” the man asked.

David had done his research on Jason Marks—priggish, local attorney and patron of the arts—and learned he was renowned for his expensive suits, silk ties and pomaded black hair. David straightened his back, buttoned the jacket of his suit coat to cover the ketchup stain on his blue tie and shrugged his shoulders in three small circles.

The first few questions had been routine, but this last one had David worried. He crossed his legs and looked at his brother, Matt, who shrugged in response. Wimp. David then looked at his wife, Sara. She sat dutifully in the front row. Her wide eyes and perpetual smile provided no help.

“I plead the Fifth.” David took a deep breath. He couldn't believe it had come to this. He'd done what was asked of him. Outwardly, it was a simple task. Bile crept into his throat.

“The Fifth?” Marks replied. “How are your peers to decide your fate if you can't answer this one, simple question?” Marks waved a handful of freshly-manicured fingers across the panel as if to bless them for accepting this responsibility.

David looked at the four women and two men to his right arranged in two rows of three. They sat, as they had throughout, eager to hear any comments that would assist them in making their decision. Most had their pens poised to take notes.

“It's not an easy answer.”

David pulled at his sweat-soaked collar. He looked around and wondered why none of the others seemed bothered by the temperature in the room.

“It's a straight-forward question,” Marks said as he leaned on the front of the desk where David sat. the scent of Old Spice attacked David’s sensitive nostrils. “I don't understand the problem.”

David took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. If he'd followed his first instinct and given up on the idea, or listened to the advice of his critics, he might not be in this predicament.

“Others were involved. My brother provided comments.” David looked at Matt, who reminded him of a bobble head. “And Eleanor George and her group offered advise.” A stout brunette with short hair wearing a sky blue pants suit shifted nervously in her chair. The ladies and gentleman sitting with her looked at David as if he’d insulted the Queen.

“Isn't it true that it was your idea?”

“Well...yes.”

“And it was you who had the final say, not Ms. George or her group. Isn't that true?”

“Sure. But—”

“Do you realize that if you do not answer the question the panel must reject your story?”

David paused before answering and looked at his brother and wife one last time. What would they think of him if he lost yet again? Would this be the proof he needed to give up? Were his doubters correct? He looked at his shoes and whispered his response. “Yes.”

“And further, according to the rules of the contest every entry was to include the author’s name.”

David nodded, afraid to say more.

“Then I don't understand why you can't answer the question,” Marks said emphasizing his point by slamming his hand on the desk. “Did you, or did you not, write this story?”

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