THAT DO POISON NEED
"What's past is prologue." - The Tempest, Act II, Scene 1, line 257.
Special to the Times - Former San Francisco socialite, Laura Rimer was arrested Thursday for the alleged murder of her employer, William Savarin, Chairman of Savarin Industries, a Baltimore-based pharmaceutical company, and one of that City's leading citizens. Mr. Savarin was found dead of an apparent heart attack ten days ago, which Police sources now claim was induced by poison administered by Dr. Rimer, who is a senior research scientist for the company. Police have declined to state the motive for the murder but Savarin Industries has reportedly been plagued by a steady leak of confidential information for the past year and a half. Dr. Rimer will be arraigned on Friday and trial is expected to follow soon thereafter. If convicted, Dr. Rimer could be sentenced to death under Maryland law.
1. TURN OF THE KEY
BALTIMORE
The room was small, grey and dank, smelling of various chemicals, not all of which could be found in nature. The room’s sole window was high on the wall and barred--as was the only door to the room. In addition to a metal bunk-bed bolted to one wall, there were an old, rusty toilet and a sink (only slightly newer) attached to the adjoining wall, within plain view of the door.
Jails, of course, were not intended to be comfortable, she realized; however, if she thought of them at all, Laura had never imagined they could be as bad as this. Her fitful attempts at sleep on a mattress thinner than the bars of her cell had been punctuated by the screams of the junkie in the next cell, who was evidently going through withdrawal, and the death rattle of the building's ancient water pipes. At least she had not been given a cell-mate; one of the rewards of fame.
The walls were covered with graffiti; mostly vulgar and unimaginative, but occasional wit escaped from the scrawled lines. The one she was reading now read:
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;'
We're just here for poesy's sake
Bound by the printed page.
Laura wondered how it had all been written. The Police had been very careful to remove all of her belongings, along with her belt and scarf. She had been on the verge of suggesting that she could still hang herself with her bra but was afraid that they might take her seriously.
One of the guards came to the door of her cell. "Your lawyer's here," he said.
She greeted this news with mixed emotions. She was glad of the chance to get out of her cell and into the comparative comfort of the client interview room. On the other hand, she didn't like her attorney--Stanley Nolan was a short, balding man with beady eyes, a vaguely sinister smile, and a head which hung off his neck like a test tube of a particularly noxious substance held in a pair of tongs. He invariably dressed in ill-fitting dark suits and the overall effect reminded her of a vulture. What angered her, though, was his insistence on continually repeating to her how much he enjoyed his work, which he saw not as defending the innocent but as "beating the system" by getting the guilty off. Indeed, he had told her that he only took her on as a client because he thought the prosecution had such a good case.
She did not appreciate being thought of as a challenge and resented his implication that she was, in fact, guilty. Laura would have gotten rid of him but Dan had seemed very relieved after he had hired him to defend her. Dan had told her with great assurance that he was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Maryland. Personally, she was skeptical of this but, not having any better suggestions, acquiesced. Well, she thought to herself, nobody said I have to be pleasant with him.
Laura entered the client interview room with both her jaw and her mind firmly set. The room was only slightly larger than the conference table which occupied its center but the walls had colored acoustical tiles on them and the table had several padded leather swivel seats around it. Her lawyer was seated at the far end of the table with his chair swiveled around so that she faced his back as she entered. Terrific, she thought, now he's playing power games with me.
"Okay, Stanley, I'm here." She refused to call him by his last name, imagining that it caused him some annoyance.
The lawyer turned his chair back to her and she gasped.
"Dr. Livingstone, I presume," he said. He was not Stanley. This attorney was tall and fair-haired, well-dressed and just shy of being truly handsome. His voice was polished, suggesting years of practice without appearing to be phony.
Laura regained her composure. "Frank, how nice to see you again. When did you get into town?"
He smiled. "Excellent recovery, Laura, 'though a little too theatrical."
She gave a mock bow. "Thank you, I learned from a master."
He winced slightly at this and she took the opportunity to sit down in a chair at the far end of the table from him.
"Have you come to gloat, or are you just here to help me change my evil ways?"
"Neither. I am here on a case--"
"And, as long as you were in the neighborhood, you just thought that it would be nice to say 'hi' to an old . . . friend, well. How very kind of you. I'd ask you to stay to dinner but I'm afraid the food here isn't up to your usual standards."
"Actually, I thought we might go out for German food. Is Haussner's any good?" Frank paused and, hunching his shoulders forward said, in a passable Bogart, "We're bustin' out of here sweetheart."
Laura just stared at him.
"Really. I've arranged bail for you; you're free to go."
"Frank, they don’t grant bail in murder cases. Even Stan--my lawyer--told me that.”
"Maybe he just didn’t know who to ask. Of course, the $5,000,000 bond didn’t hurt.”
"$5,000,000! Why . . . Frank, what case are you here on?"
"Yours, Laura; if you want me to be."
"How nice to be given a choice!" She said more snidely than she intended. Then, rather tentatively, "I do have a lawyer already."
"Get rid of him."
Without much conviction she said, "He's supposed to be one of the best criminal defense lawyers in Maryland."
"Maryland is noted for Annapolis and crabs, not criminal lawyers." Frank replied. "Besides, why settle for 'one of the best' when you can have the best."
"Before you wax too, rhapsodic about your virtues, there is the small matter of the field at which you are the best being First Amendment law. What do you know about criminal law, especially Maryland criminal law?"
"I am glad to hear that you have been following my career so closely." He meant it.
Laura shrugged noncommittally, "I read the papers; it's hard not to follow your career."
"In that case, you should remember that I have handled a lot of major criminal cases involving the media. As to the vagaries of Maryland law, well, I am a fast learner."
He smiled at her and she could not help smiling back.
A sudden cloud crossed her mind, hiding her smile. "You haven't asked me whether I did it."
"Did what?" Frank asked innocently.
"Killed Mr. Savarin; the crime of which I am accused, remember!"
"Oh, that," Frank said nonchalantly, as if she was talking about last season's most forgettable play. "I know you didn't."
Remembering Stanley, she asked him "Know or care?"
"Know."
It was that simple. Only for Laura it wasn't. She saw a pack of cigarettes one of the guards had left on the table. Laura had never been much of a smoker and hadn't had a cigarette since her Sophomore year at Berkeley--no, there had been that unfortunate three month lapse a few years later. She fumbled with the pack, removed and lit a cigarette, placed it to her lips, took a quick puff, and awkwardly pulled it away.
"You shouldn't smoke. It doesn't suit you."
She raised her eyebrows, "Oh?"
"You're what they call a nervous smoker."
"Maybe that's because I only smoke when I'm nervous!" She snapped.
"Because of me?"
Laura sighed and shook her head in disbelief. To no one in particular she said, "I'm accused of industrial espionage and murder and he wants to know if he's the reason I'm nervous. Christ!" She angrily stubbed out the cigarette.
Frank waited in the client interview room while Laura gathered her real clothes, changed and exchanged a receipt for her personal effects. They were all there, to Laura's surprise, down to the coins from her purse. She put on her belt and her scarf and smiled triumphantly at the property clerk, who couldn't care less. She was disappointed that she drew so little reaction and briefly debated the merits of taking the belt off again and pretending to hang herself with it. Instead, she removed it and handed it back to the guard.
"Keep it as a memento of our time together."
The clerk shook his head and, in all seriousness, said, "We're not allowed to accept gifts from the inmates."
Laura nodded in mock sympathy and, as she reattached the belt, asked the clerk if he could at least give her a dime for the ten pennies she had fished from her purse. This he did without compunction.
When Laura finally came back to the client interview room, Frank was in the midst of the New York Times' crossword puzzle.
"I could come back later, if you would like to finish the puzzle." Laura said.
Frank looked up from the puzzle. "What kept you?"
"I had to say goodbye and exchange addresses with all of the nice new friends I made here. Now, can we leave before they change their minds?"
BERKELEY, HALF A LIFETIME EARLIER
Cold and hard as logic, the rain swept down across the Bay and over the campus. Laura welcomed the relief it provided as she hurried back to her dorm from the desperate embrace of the ethical nihilists. It was long past dinner and, though she had a presentation due the next day, she longed for the warmth of her room, a cup of tea, and La Bohème. The silence of the library had echoed the utter desolation of spirit of the writers of Laura's books and it had become difficult to breathe; but out here the wind and the rain ran across her face with promise, a messenger sent ahead of the victorious army.
This, of course, was an illusion. By the time she reached her dormitory it was clear that it was the other side which had won. Lightning split the sky and heavy-handed winds pawed at her clothes; Laura was drenched, body and soul, by the time she stepped into the lobby. She waded her way to her room, threw her clothes on a chair and toweled herself off vigorously. After changing into her nightgown, she set about the ritual of preparing a proper cup of tea: opening her closet, she selected a tin of Earl Grey and spooned some of the fragrant leaves into a tea egg; then she poured boiling water into a small, blue china teapot while she heated fresh water in a kettle on her (illegal) hot plate. The kettle whistled in satisfaction when the water began to boil, and Laura emptied the china teapot before placing the egg inside and pouring the contents of the kettle over it. While the tea was brewing, she selected a favorite recording of La Bohème from her collection and put it on her stereo. She had popped a pair of scones into her (illegal) toaster-oven while the kettle was boiling and now took them out to savor with her tea.
She was annoyed to discover that her roommate had used the last of the butter Laura kept in her (perfectly legal) refrigerette.
Laura sighed, put on her robe and slippers, and went to her across-the-hall neighbors to borrow some. They were not in, nor were her other neighbors. She resigned herself to the prospect of dry scones and returned to her room. The door had locked behind her. The first aria could be heard coming to an end, coming through her door.
The resident advisors had been introduced during orientation a few weeks prior, but Laura had scant interest in availing herself of their guidance. She had transferred to Berkeley ("Cal,” as all the students were encouraged to call it in derogation of the existence of the other "U.C." campuses) after a year at Mount Holyoke, her mother's alma mater, and, like so many other transferees, felt smugly superior to the incoming freshmen because of her experience. She vaguely recalled, though, that the R.A.s had spare keys to the dorm rooms so she made her way down to the end of the hall to her R.A.'s room. The door to the room bore two signs: one, about eye-level, read: "F. Petrovsky--Resident Advisor" in block letters; the other, a little higher up, was in Latin and done in beautiful calligraphy. "Lex est amor qui ligat et obligat" it said. Laura's high school Latin translated this as "law is love which links and requires,” thus missing the poetry of the thought.
She knocked lightly and, almost as if she were expected, a voice rang out, calling her in. The room was half again as large as hers, and had a complete kitchenette tucked into one corner. Straight ahead of her was a living room furnished with a couch, an easy chair, and, near the window, a round table with four chairs. There was no one there but, through the half-open bedroom door she heard unfamiliar music. She stepped into the bedroom and saw that, like the rest of the apartment, it was uncannily neat--unlike her own. In the corner, perpendicular to the window, was a desk with a swivel chair; the young man in the chair swivelled around to face her. In one hand he held an open book, in the other a glass of dark liquid--Laura noticed an open bottle of Fonseca port on a shelf above the desk, next to a clock-radio.
The young man smiled shyly and said, "Delibes."
"I beg your pardon?" Laura said, confused.
"The composer. We're listening to his ballet Copelia."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry, I thought you were wondering about it when you came in."
"I was, but I'm not fond of ballet."
"Pity," the young man said softly, then, in a businesslike tone, added, "I'm Frank Petrovsky. What can I do for you?"
"I feel sort of silly but I accidentally locked myself out of my room when I went to borrow some butter from my neighbors. I'm sorry to bother you so late at night but I'm not really dressed for roaming the halls."
"It happens all the time; don't worry about it." Frank put the book down and took a little tin box out of a desk drawer. "Have a seat," he said, indicating a chair next to the desk.
Laura sat down, glancing at the book he had set aside as she did. It was entitled Contractarian Moral Theory and Criticism; she imagined it had something to do with Locke and was about to pick it up when Frank spoke again.
"It would help if you told me your name."
"Right," she smiled, "Laura Rimer."
Frank took a sip of port and rifled through the cards in the box. He paused to take another sip.
"Do you always drink alone?" Laura asked.
Frank looked embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry, that was very rude of me. Would you care for some port?"
"No thank you."
"Then don't criticize," he said, arching his eyebrows. He pulled a card from out of the box. "What is your middle name?"
"Anne."
"Spelled how?"
"A-N-N-E."
"Your birthday?"
"April 4th."
"Your present age?"
"Are all these questions necessary?"
"Why else would I ask them? How old are you?"
"19."
"Your parents' names?"
"Paul and Carol."
"Your home address?"
"There must be an easier way to get a spare room key."
"Sure, show me your student I.D."
Laura looked down at her pocketless bathrobe. "Wonderful."
There was a knock at the door and Frank called for the person to come in.
"You the R.A.?" A thin, unshaven, nervous looking guy in ratty clothing asked.
"So they tell me. What can I do for you?" Frank responded.
"I lost my damn room key again."
"Do you have any I.D.?"
"Nah, it’s in the room."
"Hmmm. What's your name?"
"Uh, Smith. That's it, John Smith. Room 312."
Frank looked through the index cards briefly. "Close enough." He tossed the guy a key.
"Thanks--you'll get 15% of the take." With that, the guy left.
Laura was furious. "How can you make me go through this third degree interrogation and then just casually hand over a room key to a derelict like that?"
"It's really very simple, a matter of trust. Sure he looks like a criminal and sounds like a criminal but you can't always go by first impressions. For example, you look like a perfectly nice person but for all I know you could be quite dangerous. For all I know, you might be here to murder someone."
"In my bathrobe?"
"A clever disguise. Besides, he was my roommate Sophomore year."
Laura suppressed a desire to scream. "Can we hurry things along? I'm missing my La Bohème."
"Oh, opera," Frank mimicked.
"Don't you like opera?"
"I haven't had much exposure to it--I'm from L.A.--but it mostly seems very silly."
"This from someone who likes something as artificial as ballet."
"Artificial! If you'll forgive the cliché, ballet is poetry in motion. Unlike the stilted staging which pervades opera--not to mention the contrived story lines."
"Look, Mr. Petrovsky, I don't intend to get into an argument over relative artistic merits with you; just give me my key and I'll leave."
Frank looked embarrassed again. "There is a slight problem; your roommate checked it out this afternoon and hasn't returned it yet."
"So you've been wasting my time then?" Laura rose from the chair and glared down at him.
"Well, yes."
The wind outside had risen and supplied sufficient sound effects for how she felt.
"Look at it this way," Frank continued, "at least you're not wandering the halls in your nightclothes, and you can use my phone to check and see if your roommate has returned. Would you like that glass of port now?"
"No!...Thank you. Isn't there a master key for emergencies?"
He looked uncomfortable. "Well, yes, but I can't let the other students borrow it. It’s a Housing Office rule."
"Mr. Petrovsky . . . Frank, I've had a very long, hard day and evening. I have a presentation in class tomorrow, I am tired and I haven't eaten, and all I want to do is to crawl under the covers with a hot cup of tea and my La Bohème. You can even hang onto the key and open the door for me. I don't care so long as I get in."
There was a large burst of lightning.
"I'm sorry; I can't--oh, damn," he said softly. He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a key. "Please bring it back as soon as possible; otherwise, I could lose my job." He tossed the key to her.
Just then, the lights went out, causing Laura to miss the key. She heard it land on the floor and went down on her hands and knees to look for it. She felt around for a few moments and found her hand on top of Frank's. The lights came back on and she looked into his very blue eyes.
"Mi chiamano Mimi," she said.
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 45
Her fitful attempts at sleep on a mattress thinner than the bars of her cell had been punctuated by the screams of the junkie in the next cell, who was evidently going through withdrawal, and the death rattle of the building's ancient water pipes.
That's a grammatically correct sentence and the imagery isn't bad. On the other hand, a sentence like that forces the reader to slow down and parse. If you have a story full of sentences like that you'll lose readers, especially in the crime genre.
Here is another example:
On the other hand, she didn't like her attorney--Stanley Nolan was a short, balding man with beady eyes, a vaguely sinister smile, and a head which hung off his neck like a test tube of a particularly noxious substance held in a pair of tongs. He invariably dressed in ill-fitting dark suits and the overall effect reminded her of a vulture. What angered her, though, was his insistence on continually repeating to her how much he enjoyed his work, which he saw not as defending the innocent but as "beating the system" by getting the guilty off.
I do end up with a mental image of Stanley Nolan, but you could get the same image with a less convoluted series of sentences. How about:
"On the other hand she knew that Stanley Nolan, her attorney, would be waiting there, looking like a vulture as always. The short, balding man in his habitual ill-fitting dark suit would look at her through beady eyes set in a face that hung from his skinny neck like a test tube from a pair of tongs. He would smile his usual vaguely sinister smile and anger her once again by telling her how much he enjoyed 'beating the system' by getting the guilty off. "
Does that help? Obviously (a) It's your story, and (b) Neither one of us has published a novel so my advice is definitely in the take what makes sense and leave the rest category.
One other thing I noticed: You use "had been" an awful lot. It's been my experience that overusing that can reduce the impact of a story on your readers. That's something to look into anyway.
In any case, I hope you take this in the spirit it is intended (trying to be helpful), and I wish you well in the contest. Feel free to visit my entry Char. I'm always looking for good solid ideas for improvement. Tens are kind of cool too.
You might also find my list of resources for the contest helpful if you haven't already found it.
This isn't bad, and I like where the plot appears to be going.
So, somehow Laura & Frank have to work together to find out who is framing her for murder? This is a fine premise for a murder mystery, but again, not as engaging as others. The relationship between the characters seems to be more important than the murder at this point.
More Deaths Than One
Good start - there's a good story building in here.
I have some constructive things, but feel free to toss 'em out if they don't seem wise or helpful to you.
Writing-wise, I'd leave your dialogue a little more naked. That is, perhaps trim the adverbs (he said wisely). I'm no Hemingway apologist, but the better lines don't need description - in fact, it starts to obfuscate. Example: "Did what?" Frank said innocently. -- I think we can figure this out from the banter, and with less...writerly intervention. That's not very artistic. But so it goes...Once in a while, sure, but I felt like it happened a bit too often.
In general, I like the banter, but it's a tad too much for me, and I wonder if a publisher wouldn't want more to happen in that first chapter. There's a sweeping history here, but perhaps some of it could be executed at higher speed.
Again, these are just some thoughts. I hope they're taken in the spirit in which they're intended. Best of luck.
Ricky
The Well Trained Moose
You've got a good effort here. I saw a few minor grammatical issues easily corrected.
I am a journalist and saw an error in your excerpt in the news story you begin with.
Mr. Savarin was found dead of an apparent heart attack ten days ago, which Police sources now claim was induced by poison administered by Dr. Rimer, who is a senior research scientist for the company.
You identify Laura Rimer as a "former San Francisco socialite." There is no indication that she is a doctor, medical or otherwise. Later, you use the title Dr. to describe Rimer. A news story generally does not use a title like a Dr. (even for M.D.s). They would simply refer to her as Rimer.
If a journalist thinks the position is significant, the journalist would have written the phrase something like this: "which police sources now claim was induced by poison administered by Rimer, a medical doctor with Savarin Industries."
And most newspapers (with the exception of the NY Times) do not identify subjects as Mr. On the other hand, you indicate the newspaper is the Times so it could well be the NY Times.
On the other hand, she didn't like her attorney--Stanley Nolan was a short, balding man with beady eyes, a vaguely sinister smile, and a head which hung off his neck like a test tube of a particularly noxious substance held in a pair of tongs. He invariably dressed in ill-fitting dark suits and the overall effect reminded her of a vulture.
The description of Nolan is "telling" rather than "showing" You could introduce all these details about the character in action rather than having your omnipotent narrator telling us.
Laura didn't exactly welcome the diminutive Nolan into her cell.
"Hello, Stanley. How is that wonderful bald spot of yours?"
"Nice. I guess the next thing will be another pithy comment about my beady eyes and sinister smile?"
Laura smiled. "Actually, no. I was going to make a snide remark about your ill-fitting dark suit. The overall effect is vulture-like."
Nolan sat down at the table and screeched the metal chair legs over the concrete cell floor. "Well, this buzzard is going to get your rather attractive ass off."
My rework of your passage was totally silly and the point is moot in this case since Nolan does not even make an appearance in this chapter. But it does show the reader a description of the attorney and reveals something about the characters.
But if Nolan does not appear in the chapter maybe you should rework that entire mention of the beady-eyed lawyer.
As someone stated earlier, this is your story and you can take what you think will work and leave the rest. Hope this helps.
And your comments about THE RANSOM OF RED GOAT did begin with the idea of Ransom of Red Chief but evolved into a something much larger.
Sam Irwin
Thank you for taking the time to read my Chapter and for your insights, which are much appreciated. The newspaper article is, indeed, a New York Times model [note the crossword puzzle Frank is working on later in the Chapter] as I had hoped the "Special to the Times" would make clear--though I note that the Los Angeles Times also runs "Special to the Times" articles as, I presume, do other papers of that name.
The reason I chose to go with "telling" rather than "showing" here (as to Nolan) is that the focus is first intended to be on Laura's state of mind--she dislikes her own attorney, the question is why (as she then counts the ways)--and then on the contrasting surprise when she discovers that it is Frank waiting for her instead. The description of Nolan is thus supposed to be Laura's mental image (hence the reference to a test tube held in tongs; an image that would occur more naturally to a biochemist) rather than that of an omniscient narrator. If need be, that might be something which could be made clearer, e.g. by adding something along the lines of "When she thought of him at all, she conjured up a vile image."
Nolan has his part to play later in the tale but having him appear "in person" this early would change the intended focus of the scene and either spoil the surprise or require that Laura spend a few extra days in jail so both he and Frank could visit.
Thank you again, and good luck in the contest.
Jonathan
Your writing talent shines through. Trust me it does! Karen "Ice Angel"
Thank you for asking me to read your entry...I'll admit the title also intrigued me.
I like how you opened with the newspaper article...it's a good set up to the story...however, showing her reconnection with Frank and then moving into their backstory, imo, doesn't work.
You have wonderful prose, but it feels like you're over doing it (using too much descriptives and exposition--like going through the minute details of her going home, making tea, listening to opera and locking herself out--yawn.) and it also tends to read superior (if that makes sense).
I don't see this story as a crime novel, in as much as a mystery.
My advice?.....get rid of the backstory (it's really not necessary and can probably be fed in throughout the story later) and open the story with the second paragraph (Jails are not meant to be comfortable...) it's stronger than starting with an overwritten decription of the cell.
sorry :-/
Good luck.
Very nicely done indeed. I apologize for all the folks who have NOT come by to read your chapter, which is excellent and deserves advancing to the next round. Have hope in the judges, though.
First I must express the one thing that troubles me deeply about your story--you west coast people always feel the need to come to the east coast when you want to kill someone. Are there not enough Californians deserving homocide? Having spent a fair amount of time in the bay area myself, I would suggest there are.
Now here is what I found excellent about your chapter: highly literate. Outstanding pacing. Clever (for instance the cut-and-dried newspaper article you use as backstory to casually inform us that our main character is subject to execution). Dialogue (even the dumb people have smart lines). Description (from prison cell to dorm room, you nail it). Humor (not pie-in-the-face, but highly intelligent). Mystery (by the time this chapter was over we wondered about their previous relationship, whether or not Laura really killed the guy, whether or not Mr. Smartypants could really defend her and, of course, who is framing her). I like the fact that, being a male, you have the ability to tell this from a POV of the opposite gender. What I liked best of all, though, was the relationship between the two: testy, balanced and fraught with sexy dynamics.
Good luck with this chapter. I hope the judges read it because I believe they will be drawn in and enjoy it as I did. Now, you can help me out, if you will, by going to my chapter, reading, rating and reviewing it as well. thanks, Laz
The Medicine People
Please check out my entry, MURDER IN WINNEBAGO COUNTY--thanks!
The Friend Behind the Mask--First Chapter
If you can, stop by my page and check out WHIP.
Laura's high school Latin translated this as "law is love which links and requires," thus missing the poetry of the thought.
My first thought was then, what does this really mean? Did she translate it incorrectly? And then I wondered if you were just referring to the fact that there is always some of the original feel that is lost when language is translated.
Good luck!
Please check out "Promiscuous Mode", my first chapter.
(1 comment. Shorten: "Maybe that's because I only smoke when I'm nervous!" To: Maybe that's because I am nervous!)
DRY HEAT
If you find time, please come by and read and comment on my story.
Bonnie W AKA Sunwanderer - The Case of the Curious Cousin
Jim, The Third Hand
I absolutely loved Laura and was so glad you brought us back in time to when
she meant Frank. I smiled throughout and know that you'll get to the finer points of mystery in the chapters to come. Wonderful and I hope I see this in the next round!