Karen Carruthers had never thought much of women who filed sexual harassment claims. A woman who couldn’t hold her own with a man--any man--simply didn’t have balls. But now, Karen was one of them.

Gripping the gearshift of her convertible Mustang Cobra, Karen pressed down hard on the gas and didn’t let up until the speedometer hovered near eighty-five. At this time of the day--only minutes before sunrise--L.A.’s 405 Freeway resembled the flatlands of some Midwestern highway. The road was all hers, so she took it.

Whenever trouble loomed, Karen did the one thing that soothed her. She drove.  For the past few weeks, anxiety had crept into her every thought and buried itself there. But during her freedom drives, as she liked to call them, she felt fearless. Invigorated. Fulfilled. All those empowering words her therapist insisted that she embrace.

As the Mustang glided past ninety, the crisp air fanned Karen’s face and she inhaled a healthy gulp that a New Yorker would have considered warm for a February. Despite the cool temperature, she felt a hot exhilarating rush. Not all that different from what she experienced during sex. Really great sex.

Zooming past the Santa Monica exchange in a nearly drunken state of euphoria now, Karen almost missed the Mulholland exit. Imitating a stunt she’d seen in a Bruce Willis movie, she laterally zipped across three lanes, just in time to make it to the off ramp. As Karen ascended the short incline to the traffic light ahead, she combed her fingers through her thick mass of strawberry blond hair, then rubbed her emerald green eyes. 

When Karen first reported her allegations of sexual harassment against Henry Randle, she had expected that the man would be fired. But she had not anticipated that Randle would turn around and sue Micronics Corporation. Now, Karen was her company’s star witness in his wrongful termination case. A case she wanted nothing to do with.

Leaning forward, Karen pressed the CD button and began singing along with Faith Hill. Not until she had made a left onto Skirball Center Drive and a right onto Mulholland, did she notice the black sedan a couple of car lengths behind. A longer glimpse in her rearview mirror told her that the car was a BMW with a lone occupant inside. Karen punched off Faith mid-chorus and picked up speed. Her pulse did the same. She passed the University of Judaism at close to seventy. The sedan sped up as well.

And then it hit her. The documents! Karen snatched her purse from the passenger’s seat, fished out an envelope, and stuffed it down her sweater and into her bra. She had known all along that they would eventually come looking for the documents. Feeling them against her skin sent an icy chill through her body.

Karen inhaled and tried to think clearly as trepidation gradually sucked the air from her lungs. The two-mile stretch of Mulholland that lay ahead was interspersed on both sides with outrageously expensive homes and cliffs with made-for-Hollywood views. A sharp turn down one of the long driveways would leave her trapped, making her an easy target for her pursuer. A wrong turn in the opposite direction could send her into a nosedive off one of the cliffs, finishing the job for them.

Though fear now coursed through every vein in Karen’s body, an odd smile graced her lips. There was no way the BMW would be able to keep up. Her breathing slowed ever so slightly after another glance in the mirror confirmed that her pursuer was losing ground. Karen had cruised Mulholland so many times she could almost drive it blindfolded. She only had to make it down the hill to Beverly Glen. Somebody was bound to be walking a dog or taking an early morning jog.  They would not want witnesses.

Karen patted her breast, confirming that the envelope was still there. Still safe. Just then, another car shot out of a driveway several hundred yards ahead and Karen’s heart slammed against her chest. Instinct told her the BMW to her rear was not working alone. She anxiously felt for the envelope again and concentrated on her next move.

She took another quick glance in the rearview mirror. The BMW wasn’t there.  When she looked to her left, her eyes bore across the empty passenger seat of the BMW and directly into the barrel of a gun.
 
Time froze for a second, then a piercing scream left Karen’s lips, reverberating into the early morning air. Karen stomped on the brakes and the BMW, unprepared for her sudden stop, darted ahead, just as she had anticipated. 

What happened next, however, had not been part of Karen’s plan.

She jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left and hit the gas. But instead of making a full U-turn, the Mustang headed off the road, straight toward a thin patch of bushes where a guardrail should have been. Karen’s hands flew to her face, barely muffling her futile screams.

For what seemed like minutes rather than seconds, the Mustang floated across the reddish-orange sky like a wonderfully woven magic carpet. After a moment of calm, Karen felt the sharp pull of gravity, then braced herself for a landing that turned daybreak into darkness.