One Silly Little Mistake
One Silly Little Mistake
S acramento, California. This was where it all began-in a nice upscale neighborhood; a quiet community in the suburbs of the city. On first impression, one saw a community, which clearly exhibited that generally perceivable ambience of good, affluent, middle class, sub-urban American living. A more intimate observation, however, revealed nothing really spectacular about this suburb; there were no white picket fences anywhere around, neither were there any sparking-blue backyard swimming pools. But what caught one's immediate attention, were the well-manicured lawns, the beautiful two-story white houses-each costing half a million and upwards, and each sitting on at least a quarter-acre of land, but all competing with each other for the greater glory. Beautiful and enviable homes indeed they were, but they weren't mansions by any stretch of the imagination, and naturally, it had to be the dream of the average working person, to live in a home similar to one of these someday. Most knew, however, that actualizing this dream wouldn't be possible in their lifetime; one had to belong to a certain strata of society these days, to experience the American dream even at this basic level.
The fact that Sacramento was the capital city of the state of California has always been a surprise to many people, because folks usually tend to see Los Angeles or San Francisco as being the capital of the Golden State. So, as amazing as it may seem, Sacramento is indeed the capital of California, and the seat of government of Sacramento County. Situated at the convergence of the Sacramento River and American River, Sacramento is a city of contrast, which defied expectations that the capital of a state should be a bustling metropolis.
With an estimated population of almost half a million, Sacramento, which was once described as America's most diverse city, is the sixth largest city in California, and the thirty-fifth largest city in the United States. In contrast to most capital cities across the nation, California's capital city has tree-shaded streets lined with elegant Victorian homes. Unlike most major metropolitan areas that grew from a civic center, Sacramento started from several small communities that grew together.
Located in the middle of a cul-de-sac, was the Rochester's residence. As was typical of this neighborhood, the Rochester's residence was a beautiful two-story white house, with a two-car garage. Two cars were parked in the spacious driveway in front of the house-a black Mercedes Benz, and a red Honda Accord.
It was Sunday morning, and the Rochester family was preparing for church. Being a very religious family, the Rochesters, who were devoted Baptists, were completely dedicated to their church, and they rarely ever missed a Sunday morning service.
It was ten minutes to ten. Natalie Rochester came running down the stairs, and into the living room. Natalie was a Caucasian teenager, seventeen years old, extraordinarily good looking, and with tall flowing brown hair. She was an honor roll senior in high school, and was currently in college search mode. Conservatively adorned in a beautiful, well styled, knee length dress, Natalie made a beeline across to a large mirror on the wall, where she placed her earrings into her ears, and made a quick adjustment to her well groomed hair. She turned around, examined herself in the mirror, and apparently satisfied with what she saw, she walked across to the other side of the spacious living room and picked up a Bible from off the top of the bookshelf. She then sat down on the couch, crosses her legs, and waited for the remainder of the family to make their appearance.
A few moments later, Justin Rochester came running down the stairs with his Bible in his hand. Justin was in his early fifties, with slightly balding brown hair. By profession, Justin was a software engineer who worked