Am I the only one who thinks this way?

This post is completely self-indulgent. Ready? Ok.

I have been realizing lately that I am sympathetic, pretty much to a fault. I would make a terrible, terrible police interrogator.

I would start asking the person questions, get down to the meaty stuff, notice that they are looking uncomfortable, and reflexively inquire if they would like anything to eat.

The whole time I would wonder if maybe, possibly, this man--the person the beat cop found in the act of mugging a man to death--really was out of his mind, and didn't mean to do it. The poor guy. I mean, right? Maybe his wife is dying of cancer and his children are starving and they are all about to get evicted, which would be too bad because they don't even have a car to live in anymore, since he sold it to the woman down the street for far below bluebook value, but it didn't matter because he needed the money to get his children food after watching them starve for three days, so he sold it to her anyway, and now the money has run out, and he just became desperate.

AND the guy he chose to mug pulled a knife on him, and the mugger didn't know what to do, so he tried to grab it, and an all-out knife fight began, but since the mugger was so desperate, his adrenaline kicked in--because his family would certainly be gonners without him--and before he knew it, the knife had worked its way somehow into the man's stomach, and as he started backing away in horror, he heard sirens wailing, crying "you're guilty! you're guilty! you're guilty!" like some sort of ambulatory conscience, and then, he tried to run but stumbled because he was also wounded, and the police caught up with him. . .and suddenly he didn't even know himself anymore.

[Whew.]


But then I'd take a look at the hardened, deadened glint in the mugger's eye, and I'd tell myself that certainly that story--the story that my mind completely fabricated--couldn't be true and he must have meant every inch of that knife fight.

But it would be too late. The doubt would have already fogged my judgement.



You know how at the end of those crime shows, the guilty person is finally apprehended by the police, and at first they start to deny everything, but then they realize that they are caught and there's no way out? And you know how at that moment, they look as though they are watching their life get snuffed out in front of them, and despair sets in, and they begin to look a little frantic?


Well, whenever I watch those shows, this is the point where I feel pangs of pity for the murderer/serial killer/thief/cold-blooded whatever. I can't explain it, but suddenly I feel deeply sorry for that person.

Sure, I feel sorry that they commited the crime, but I also feel sorry because I know that at that moment, they realize there is no more hope and the rest of their life has been completely altered for the worse. There is nothing they can do, they've fallen into the deep, deep hole they created for themselves, and everything they love is all over.

You can bet that if I was the interrogator at that point, I'd quietly excuse myself from the room and ask my superior if we can offer some sort of anemic plea bargain. Because really, this scare might be enough to change them, right, especially if this person was not the sort to ever do this again?

Right?

But deep down, I'd know that the murderer is getting his due consequences, I'd be glad that the person in question is off the street, and I'd only hope that they have the opportunity to repent before they get to the next life.

And then? Then, I'd want to go home, crawl under my covers, and watch a movie about people who are so happy, so perfect, and so loving, daisies sprout involuntarily out of their foreheads.

They'd be singing and frolicking and laughing, and it would be lovely.

Absolutely lovely.