Guy really slugged 'er; not like
slapped 'er around; I mean beat 'er up, real nasty.
She fought back, though.
That's what ticked 'im off.
Initially, he just grabbed 'er.
You mean 'cuffed' 'er.
Used handcuffs. I'd've yelled, except
for that. I figured: plainclothes makin' a bust.
Uh, uh; no handcuffs. He wore a
wristwatch; she wore a bracelet.
Bracelet? Where the hell were you?
I's sittin' right up there, not thirty feet away. Don't
tell me what I seen. He put them cuffs on; she went
straight for 'is face. Got a real good swipe at it, too.
But he come back with a punch must've hurt somethin'
awful; smack dab on 'er titty.
She got into the cab voluntarily?
What are you, nuts?
They sort of carried her.
The cab driver; he came to help.
Poor thing; by then, he'd knocked 'er
I didn't see the actual attack; I saw
the aftermath—them on the bench, her sort of slumped,
him trying to hold her up—from my office. I work
across the street. She looked sort of drugged, I
thought. I wasn't going to bother. But something wasn't
right. Then when the cab pulled up, the husband buried
his fist in his wife's ribs or stomach; cabby didn't
see. So I called you, then ran outside to catch the
I called sooner.
I called HOURS ago. Took your own
sweet time. Listen up; I seen 'em good. The man is short
and squat and built like a fireplug—looked to be I-talian—in
his thirties, bearded, dark blue suit, no tie on. She's
in jeans; you know, the kind the kids all wear these
days with holes in 'em, tights underneath? Hair's raven
black and long. Body's sturdy. Got some meat on 'er
bones. Not skinny. Itsy-bitsy waist, though; I seen that
when they lugged 'er to the cab.
And she was handcuffed?
No. Yes. No, not then.
Musta took 'em off. What's the
difference? I just gave you a full description. Go an'
do your job.