I heard a commotion in the courtyard on Friday night. The same courtyard that served as (apparently) the most appropriate venue for my downstairs neighbors to engage in a late-night verbal battle.
But this was commotion. You know, that strange disturbance in the force; that split second before an earthquake hits when you can hear the air move and when you feel the atmosphere lunge forward. Commotion.
There was noise and a scuffle and activity that sprung from nothingness. Voices in fluent Russian and broken English trying to call for help. By the time I put my clothes on and opened the door, neighbors had crowded around the victim. A middle-aged Russian man tightly grasped his wrist to stop the blood that gushed and glistened from his hand. He had been mugged and stabbed.
I called the police and discovered that other neighbors already had. The sheriff deputies came and took statements. The chaos and commotion turned to silence and stillness.
I heard the perpetrators tried to rob and mug others that night. They were from Pomona, a city 30 miles away. Police finally pulled them over less than a half an hour later because they were driving a vehicle that a family member had reported as stolen.
Turns out, their own aunt turned them in.