I live in this little rat's nest shithole in Brooklyn, and I'm the sort of guy who'll mug you and then say it's because I live in a shithole that I did it, but the truth is that's bullshit. I got five brothers and two sisters and they don’t go around mugging people. Not that I know of.

        I saw the woman from a block away, her arms wrapped around her purse, her head tucked into her collar like a turtle. And I thought, she must be carrying a lot of money to be acting like that.

        Mugging ain't the same as killing. Mugging will get you as little as six months. Trust me on this.

        She wore this ratty looking thing, short and dark blue, like sailors wear. I think they call it a pee coat. Dumb name. Hers was missing a button and had a bleach stain near the ass. Why would I think someone like her would be carrying a lot of money? It was the way she was walking, all scared and hunched and pulled into herself. Everyone is careful in Brooklyn, especially in my neighborhood. But she was acting weird.

        We rounded the corner and I closed the gap near Kentucky Fried Chicken. Up ahead there's a garage that was closed, this being Sunday and all. I don't live here but my friend Roach does. I get my weed around here too.

        So we passed the KFC, and I was barely half a block away from her. This area’s nothing but run-down apartment buildings and closed up stores and garages. There's a gas station three blocks up that was probably open, and the fast food chicken place was open, but that's pretty much it.

        Other than that it was deserted.

        Where was she going in such a hurry? And in such a bad part of the city? She looked like she belonged here -- long black hair pulled back and held by a cheap plastic comb, large ugly fake flowers arranged along the top. Too tight jeans. Probably had a belly hanging out under that pee coat. I felt sorry for her, looking all ghetto and shit.

        I really needed to know what was so valuable in that bag of hers.

        Next came the part I'm real good at. Before she could turn completely around to see for sure if she heard something behind her I had the gun pressed into her ribs.

        She opened her mouth, probably to scream or curse but I pressed harder and told her not to say a word. I shoved her into the narrow alley behind the garage, startling a family of cats that ran screaming deeper into the alley.

        The woman started to cry, clutching the bag even tighter against her chest.

        "Please," she said, "I got nothing."

        I motioned for the purse.

        "Please! You don't understand." She turned away.

        I looked behind me, above me, all around me. Then I lifted the gun and pointed it at her head. "Purse."

        "I can't. Please don't do this!"

        I reached out for it and she pulled away.

        In all the years I been doing this I have to say this was a first. This never happened even when I didn't have a gun. I wasn't even sure what to do.

        "Do it," I snarled, hoping to scare her, make her feel at least as nervous as I felt. I had to have the upper hand, had to pretend like I didn’t give a shit what happened there.

        This whiny little scream poured out of her mouth and chest and she started shaking her head like she was trying to wrench it off her shoulders.

        Grabbing her hair, I pulled her toward me. No matter what I did she wouldn't let go of the bag.

        We struggled, me grabbing the bag with one hand, my other hand still clutching the gun, her hanging onto the bag like we were in the ocean and it was her life jacket.

        What happened next really was an accident, although no jury would ever believe that, especially with my record. The gun’s safety wasn’t even on, which was really stupid on my part, when you think about it.

        Then I grabbed the purse.

        A month ago, I ripped that gun off a drug dealer, and I'm sure he didn't even notice. I doubt a missing gun was on the top of his priority list anyway. So I’m not afraid of the cops tracing the crime to me. I like to think that, but when I sit here in the shadows with cold chills gripping my bowels, I have a hard time convincing myself.

        I tucked the purse under my sweatshirt and ran. The El was just a few blocks away, so I hopped the "J" train and twenty minutes later was home. A cab would have been quicker, but good luck finding one from there.

        The second I walked through the door I pulled out the purse and emptied it onto my bed. A fat black wallet was buried beneath a pile of keys, sticks of gum, make-up, checkbook.

        My hands shook with excitement as I undid the clasp on the wallet and spread it open. Two fat, ugly kids grinned at me. The father looked grim. Who could blame him?

        Twelve dollars. Twelve dollars. A ten and two ones. I opened the change compartment and poured a handful of coins into my palm.

        I think my heart stopped. I figured I must have missed something. There had to be a wad of cash rolled up in the lining or something. I tore open the purse, using a razor blade to slash the lining, cheap polyester stuffing covering the bed in piles like mini tumbleweeds.

        There was no money. No small fortune. I'd killed that woman for twelve bucks. The insanity of it all hit me suddenly, the meaningless gesture. The woman was dead, and her life had amounted to twelve bucks. I wanted to scream.

        I rooted through the rest of her stuff. The eyeglass case was empty -- she'd been wearing the glasses. I examined and reexamined and ripped apart the wallet. I wasn't interested in the two traceable credit cards. I flipped through the checkbook and stared at the figures, more money that I couldn't touch. The balance was $53.86.

        I swiped everything onto the floor. I moved from item to item, examining each one like a rare jewel, holding each piece just below my nose. What had I missed?

        The pen was just a pen. I unscrewed it, ink cartridge and spring falling into my lap. The coins were recent, not rare. I flipped through every page in the checkbook. Nothing special, no remarkable amount in the register. Never any more than a thousand in her account at one time, and that was always during a rent week.

        I pulled the checkbook apart. Receipts scattered on the carpet. A small piece of paper caught my eye. I unfolded it to find a ticket from yesterday's lottery. And circled in pencil: all six winning numbers.

        I stared at the ticket for an eternity before calling the 976 number of the New York State Lottery Hotline. I've had that number memorized for years.

        Of course it was the winning ticket. Sixty five million dollars. One of the biggest jackpots the state had ever seen.

        I don't know if this sort of thing is traceable. Her prints are all over the ticket. They knew exactly where she bought it. Which means they could prove who bought it.

        I sat on the floor until the sun went down, leaving me in a darkness only faintly dulled by the streetlight outside my window.

        The ironic thing is, it would have been her word against mine if she didn’t get killed. And I could have cashed in the winning ticket.

        Imagine a person losing their life because of money. It's just so sad.