by Patricia Dexheimer

Created on: April 29, 2008   Last Updated: April 08, 2011

NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

CHAPTER 1

January 20, 2009. At 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, a light snow began to fall as the inaugural parade marched down Pennsylvania Avenue towards the capital. Thousands of people lined the streets in support of Barack Obama, who had been elected president and was awaiting his inauguration.

Miles away in a cold and drafty loft of a three-story warehouse in downtown Washington D.C., a gunshot flashed and Samantha Logan's body slammed against the dirty wall. A steady stream of blood ran down her face creating a wide, red puddle on her white parka. Within moments her blue eyes glazed over, and her breathing became shallow as her heartbeat slowed. The afternoon traffic suddenly became muted. A distant siren sounded, and Samantha slumped forward.

A white man inched his way closer to the twenty-one year old girl.

"Is she dead?" Another man's voice broke the silence.

"If she isn't, she will be soon. Let's get out of here."

As the two men raced out the door, and down the staircase, Samantha felt her life slipping away.

Minutes later a pair of hands reached out and touched her face. "Hold on." A man said as he wrapped his blue shirt around her head. "The bullet grazed your temple, but you're not going to die."

That's nice, Samantha thought as her world went totally black.

Nearly thirty hours later Samantha awakened with a throbbing headache, and the bitter taste of sulfur in her mouth. Lying on a small bed in a strange room, she struggled to make sense of what had happened. Her eyes searched the messy green room, but nothing registered. The sudden awareness of loud male voices, coming from another room, alerted her that something was wrong.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened, and a muscular, young man appeared. "Are you feeling better?"

Samantha's eyes were blank. "Where am I?" She asked timidly.

"Don't worry. You're with friends."

"What happened?"

Greg Norman, age twenty-five, looked older because of his recently shaved head. His hazel colored eyes appraised the frightened young woman as he moved closer to the bed. "You were suppose to testify yesterday, and when you didn't show up we came looking for you. Sam, I've got to know. Do you still have the disk?"

"What disk? Who are you?"

For a moment Greg thought Samantha was kidding and then his eyes searched hers.

"I'm Greg," He said softly. "You're safe. We're hiding in my friend's apartment."

"Why? What happened?" Samantha repeated.

"You don't remember anything?"

"No."

"Someone shot you in

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