As a law enforcement officer, my fundamental duty is to serve mankind; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation, and the peaceful against violence or disorder; and to respect the Constitutional rights of all men to liberty, equality and justice.

“Protect the peaceful against violence or disorder~~” I’m great at that. I’ve only broken one arm in the last year. Only contributed to one suicide attempt.

I can’t make the Mustang do more than 118. There’s a governor set there. I wonder if that’s standard on rentals and consider writing an outraged letter to the company and complain. What’s the point of renting a Mustang GT if you can’t take it up to at least 120? Of course the freeways are too congested out here to do more than 80 anyway. 90 tops.

I will keep my private life unsullied as an example to all; maintain courageous calm in the face of danger, scorn or ridicule; develop self-restraint; and be constantly mindful of the welfare of others. Honest in thought and deed in both my person and official life, I will be exemplary in obeying the laws of the land and the regulations of my department.

Self-restraint. Another of my specialties.

I zoom past a white Mitsubishi Eclipse and then zip in front of it, narrowly missing the right front quarter panel. The driver slams his palm into the horn and shakes a furious fist before extending a rigid third finger, face twisted in rage.


I recognize the badge of my office as a symbol of public faith, and I accept it as a public trust to be held as long as I am true to the ethics of the police service. I will constantly strive to achieve these objectives and ideals, dedicating myself before God to my chosen profession… law enforcement.

“…true to the ethics of the police service~~” Ah, but if I’m a civilian now… I grin and switch lanes and when the Eclipse pulls even on my left I cheerfully flip him off.

Nice. Except for being unemployed, in debt, facing criminal charges of financial misconduct, and losing my fucking mind I’m peachy keen. Shit, I think I’ll start flipping people off constantly. It’s fun. I lift the other hand and add a second bird to it, then wave at him.

The driver of the Eclipse gestures at me to pull over, having a full blown temper tantrum now but when he spots me laughing hysterically and indicating I’ll be happy to pull over he suddenly has more urgent business and floors it, reaching for a cell phone.

Oh good. My luck he’s dialing 911. Reporting a crazy person up on the interstate driving recklessly and using vulgar gestures. Let’s hope SFPD gets as many of those calls as TX DPS does and slots them exactly where we do.

Still, better safe than under arrest. I cross three lanes in a horn blasting swoop and take the nearest exit finding myself in a rather run down section of businesses featuring adult video and liquor stores which give way to bars before transitioning again into a residential area with a definite Spanish look to the architecture.

A motel. I need to find a motel and set the computer up, try to find S’Phear.

I fucked myself on the phone. There’s no going back from a taped conversation like that to Chain of Command. If I had held my temper, if I had practiced self- restraint, if I had bit my tongue and took the ass-chewing, I could be in the Hawthorne Suites using my Voyager card right now, stalling long enough to finish this.

Instead I had fucking lost it and now I didn’t even have my cell phone to try to reach Jinny and let her know what happened. I had shrieked profanities at three of my superiors and stranded myself out here with no money and no resources and even if Sarge or Major Allan were inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt in reference to the misuse of funds, I’d proven I am not fit for duty. General Order #3 states To keep myself clean and presentable, and in good physical, mental, and moral health.

I’m clean on the outside, but I am definitely not in good mental or moral health. I feel forlorn and abandoned in a way I haven’t since childhood. I somehow want Sarge to do something, fix things, find me, make it better. It’s ridiculous and unrealistic and I have to grasp that in the end he was my supervisor, nothing more. And that I destroyed the only means he had of talking me back from whatever this is.

I fly right through the stop sign, not even seeing it. I’m on the edge of the residential section now and there isn’t much traffic but the cross street is busier, lined with small bars and pool halls. I sail through the intersection and am jerked by adrenaline out of my gloom and contemplation by the horrified look on the face of the elderly Mexican woman who is seated on the passenger side of the small blue four door the Mustang is hurtling towards.

Time can be very fickle in certain situations. We take for granted that it ticks by at a steady pace and there is a determined and inexorable march of precise seconds and there must be sixty of these to make one minute and sixty of those in an hour, but anyone who has ever lived through a plane crash, a car wreck, a gun to the head will tell you time is a very slippery element indeed.

I see the occupants in excruciating detail. The woman has a child on her lap, a little boy with dark straight hair and thick, crooked bangs. He’s no more than two and has a wet pink finger stuck in his mouth and wide, surprised dark eyes. There’s a car seat in the rear with a Winnie the Pooh pattern and I’m furious that the child isn’t in it, secured. There’s an older man driving and he leans forward in shock staring past the woman and child and looks directly at me from what seems like mere inches. His glasses are brown plastic and held together over the nose with silver duct tape and so thick his eyes are distorted behind them, rheumy and bluish with cataracts.

I see all that in what could be no more than ten seconds and I flick my eyes at the speedometer and see it begin to drop down from fifty two. Jesus. Fifty two in a residential. At the same time my knee jerks up to transfer my foot to the brake I realize there is no way I am not going to plow straight into them. The old man has panicked and slammed his own brakes and stopped almost in the center, paralyzed with fear.

The taffy-like time strings out further as all those years of driving training for the Department kick in and my brain does a cold little assessment of facts as it shuts down the panic and ticks off a litany of cool advice in split seconds.

Don’t slam the brakes. Easy. Kids on the sidewalk to the left. Building on the right, no people.

So I turn the wheel and steer into a brick wall.

The tires and the street have suddenly become glass and the Mustang does a nauseating pirouette; I let the wheel spin through my fingers, the leather skimming the palms of my loose hands, that little slice of my brain reminding me not to grab, not to jerk, ride it out. I watch with detached interest as the rear of the Mustang gracefully clears the right front quarter panel of the blue car and then brace myself as it goes into a brief broadside skid before the tires bump over the curb and the vehicle impacts the wall, almost dead center, now facing the opposite direction.

I’m stunned by the sheer force of it; I’m always amazed at the ferocity of a crash and at the incredible dizzying airborne feeling of the spin just before it. It’s as if the car suddenly sprouts wings and dons ice skates and the asphalt is transformed into glass and the vehicle becomes a huge, lissome ballerina.

The seatbelt kicks in sometime after I turn the wheel and catches and holds me but my head whacks and bounces off the window as I’m slammed to the left in the vehicle. The air bag deploys and gray powder billows out and then in the eerie silence the engine cuts off as the toggle switch to prevent explosions is triggered. I listen to the engine ticking and hissing before the noise is replaced by excited voices and feet slapping the pavement as people run up.

Car wrecks are always so exciting. Great crowd pleasers.

I’ve got that giddy rush of Holy Fuck I’m Okay! adrenaline and when I ease the seatbelt off and turn back to look and see the little blue car sitting in the middle of the intersection unscathed, the man and woman and child inside it goggle-eyed, I get the giggles. By the time the first excited face peers in through the passenger side window I am totally convulsed with laughter.

This leads the man to assume I am deranged, a fact I hear him relate to someone in Spanish who answers him in what I immediately recognize is a cop voice because in a calm, yet weary tone, he urges the man to get away from the vehicle and out of the street. The car creaks and little pieces of glass fall onto the dash as he opens the door and looks in.

He’s young. A Rookie, twenty four years old tops. The blue uniform is spotless and he is so clean shaven it looks painful. Less than a year on, I bet. I look automatically for rank and there is none. He’s a baby cop. Probably not even off probationary status.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

“Yes,” I assure him but I can’t stop laughing. I make movements to pull my legs up and over the console to climb out the passenger side since the driver’s is toast and up against the bricks.

“Don’t move, ma’am. EMS is on the way. We were parked there at the taco stand and saw it happen, we’ve already radioed for an ambulance.”

“Well, 10-22 them,” I manage, “I’m fine.” I stop, my laughter cut off abruptly as something cold grabs me by the throat. I can barely speak to get the question out.

“I didn’t hurt anyone, did I? I aimed right for this building because there was nothing here.”

His eyes flicker briefly over my face and I realize he caught the ten code but California and Texas don’t share the same ones so he has no idea what I just said except it was something in Cop. He’s trying to figure out if he knows me, if he’s seen me, who and what I am.

“No. No one was in the way. Nobody’s injured but you.”

I hear another voice and see the rookie’s eyes drift off to the left as he listens. It’s a steady bawl of a voice, harsh and disgusted and it informs the by standers to clear out because the show is over.

I half turn and see a uniform in his mid to late forties strutting across the street tugging at his heavy Sam Browne which is keeping his pants up by some miracle of gravity defiance. He pauses in the center of the intersection and slams a hand down on the hood of the blue car where the little man is still sitting wide eyed and petrified and bawls out an order to move, clear the street, I said show’s over!

I ignore the rookie’s admonition to not exit the vehicle and climb out over the passenger seat, then shake glass out of my hair. There’s a small cut somewhere on my head which is of course bleeding as if I’ve had my throat cut and I tentatively finger it, grimacing.

“You should have the victim remain seated in the vehicle unless there’s danger of an explosion, Mennie. These people sue at the drop of a hat and it’ll be your ass on the line if she’s got a broken neck and is in shock and don’t know it.”

He’s got a huge meaty head and a gigantic nose that’s dimpled and spread in a lush alcoholic bloom and he talks to his rookie as if I’m not standing there looking right at him, obviously fine.

“He told me to remain in the vehicle but since I’m not injured, I got out. Cancel the EMS.”

He’s got one rocker bar on each fat upper arm. I out rank him and he’s everything I absolutely loathe in law enforcement. He plants big meaty hands on wide hips and gives me a condescending smirk.

“And you’re a doctor, right? Little self-diagnosis at the scene.”

I ignore him after a long, chilly silence to make sure he knows he’s being ignored and then turn to the rookie.

“Officer Mennie, you can cancel the EMS.”

Before he can speak his partner pipes in. “Well, now, no he can’t. It’s policy. If you want to refuse treatment once they get here that’s your business. “

He takes a little notebook out of his breast pocket and flicks the nub of the pen out, then pauses with it over the paper giving me a big fake smile.

“You flew right through that stop sign, little lady.” He’s writing and he walks to the rear of the vehicle to get the plate and then casually asks, “You been drinking today?”

Temper. Self-restraint. Conduct myself as an exemplary citizen and a representative of the state of Texas and the Department, I remind myself. Okay, well as just a citizen then. But Jesus Christ, I hate being called “little lady”.

So… what I want to say is, Fuck no, you fat fucking slob, how many shots did you put away on your break, asshole? Who you think you’re kidding with that nose?

What I say is a polite, “No.” I don’t tack on “sir” or “officer”.

He lifts his brows and I hear sirens wailing probably ten blocks away still. He hears them too and gives me another big fake smile.

“You got a cut there on your head, are you aware of that?”

Again, I bite my words back. What I spit in silent fury to myself is, Fuck yeah I’m aware of that, you moron. Kinda hard to miss since I’ve got blood dripping all down my boobs here.

What I actually say is a tight, “Yes.”

The smile goes bigger and he takes a step towards me, deliberately sniffing and looking at my pupils.

“Under the influence of any controlled substance? Anything illegal in the car?” Before I can do more than frown he flicks a hand at the Mustang and asks if I can produce ID and valid registration on the vehicle.

My driver’s license is in my organizer and was tossed down in the floorboard of the passenger seat and slid back. I dig it out and hand the piece of plastic to him, leaving my Department ID inside.

It gets tricky when you’re a cop involved in any sort of altercation or accident. If you bring up your chosen profession to another officer who is investigating you for whatever reason it can be misconstrued as an attempt to avoid a citation or to lessen the severity of a penalty. The Department particularly frowns upon this. I personally frown on it because it reeks of kissing ass. While you don’t want to write another officer up without knowing they’re a cop, I’ve always loathed the traffic stops where the badge and ID are flashed in my face before the car’s even stopped all the way. When I was in traffic law, I wrote those suckers extra tickets. So I keep my Department ID out of sight.

And too, there’s a little warning bell going off in my head from the moment I hand him my DL and see his piggy little eyes squint at the unfamiliar Texas format. He looks briefly at the photo and asks casually, “Texas, huh?” but there’s something steely and deliberate about the smile he gives me when he looks up.

“I’ll just run this real quick. You rolled a tow truck yet, Mennie?”

My heart is slamming as he turns and strolls lazily back to the patrol unit parked on the corner maybe fifteen feet behind the Mustang, reds and blues whirling. He recognized my name. I remember McCafferty’s words about how popular Massey is around the Divison, buying drinks, buying dinners, buying bikes and donating to balls and charities and scholarship funds. Chandler is a powerful enemy and I think maybe I’ve only thought I was in deep shit up until now.

I try to watch him without seeming to watch him as he ducks into his unit, the weight of him rocking the vehicle as he eases in. I see his watch flash in the sun as he picks his cell phone up instead of a microphone and I feel dizzy and nauseous as my Hink Meter goes off full force. Bad shit going down, it screams at me. I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart rate.

“Mennie~~”I begin and then stop because what am I going to say? Turn your back and don’t watch me run because I’ve got to get the fuck out of here? And please don’t shoot me?

“EMT’s are nearly here,” he says, “You look like you’re going to faint.”

“He’s going to set me up.” My voice is quiet and calm, but certain.

“Do what?”

I turn to look at him. “Your partner. Your FTO. Your whatever-he-is out here. I don’t know what it’ll be~~ drugs, maybe? DUI? Maybe he’ll plant something.”

There’s a brief flicker in the blue eyes, a moment of acknowledgement that his partner is capable of such heinous police behavior and then that wall of blue slams down, the unwritten code kicks in.

“Officer Van Zandt’s just a little gruff. a little brusque. He’s been doing this a long time. He’s less than six months from retirement and he can come across as impatient, or unkind.”

I laugh mirthlessly, thinking Van Zandt probably just got a lot closer to retirement in the last three minutes.

“Look at him,” I say not turning my head myself. “Do you guys normally run your traffic by phone? “

He looks and I see the little frown and he shakes his head slightly and then shrugs. “Maybe he’s calling the tow truck, I don’t know. Maybe dispatch had radio problems.”

“He told you to call the tow truck,” I remind him and I see the car shift beneath Van Zandt’s weight again as he heaves his bulk up off the seat and say quickly, my voice low and urgent, “I’m the cop from Texas that arrested Senator Chandler’s daughter for controlled substance yesterday. “

“What?” he asks, blinking as he realizes now how he knows my face.

“He’s going to set me up somehow, Mennie. You’re here which makes you part of it so I’m telling you. What you do with it is up to you.”

I hold his look for a moment and then turn slightly when I hear Van Zandt’s heavy steps behind me.

“We got a problem, here,” he says jerking his head towards the top of the Mustang.

“Car’s been reported stolen.” To me he says, “Put your hands on the top there, Miss Finn.”

I shoot Mennie a look as I obediently spread my fingers and lay my hands palm down on the top of the dented and steaming Mustang.

Stolen car. God, what a fucking idiot I am! Driving off in a car paid for with one of Massey’s credit cards. He probably just reported the card stolen which makes the car rental invalid which makes the car stolen.

“You fucking dumbass,” I say shaking my head and laughing. I made it so fucking easy for them, that’s the thing. Drive off in the car, run a stop sign, hit a building right in front of a cop~~ You have to laugh.

“What did you say?” Van Zandt demands and I feel my feet kicked apart slightly as he frisks me visually. He can’t touch me. They’ll have to get a female uniform for that.

He can’t touch me. Right?

“I’m armed,” I announce suddenly because until then I haven’t thought about it. The gun’s a part of me, an extension of my ribs on that side. But this isn’t a good time to have someone like this spot it and nail me, claiming anything he fucking pleases because I’m just a stupid cop from Texas and he’s got a buddy with connections. I’m an outsider here who has pissed some major people off.

“I’m armed,” I say again, louder, announcing it to the crowd which is lingering despite Van Zandt’s attempts to disperse them. I practically shout the next bit because I want to make sure it carries over the kid with the boom box blasting Santana and Rob Thomas.

“I’m a cop, a commissioned peace officer and my service weapon is in a shoulder holster under my jacket.”

I cringe when the hand reaches around and skates over my ribcage.

“You’re real jumpy, Miss Finn. And loud. Where’s that gun now?”

He’s too close. He smells like coffee and some kind of smokeless tobacco product, Copenhagen or Skoal. Vomit creeps up the back of my throat and I swallow it, hard.

I have a very clear visual of me spinning and slamming the side of my hand into his windpipe, then emptying the Glock into his big beer belly. It’s so perfect in detail and sensation that I am startled when his fingers cup my breast and I realize he’s still alive and I look at my hands on the roof of the car and for three seconds can’t understand whose blood it is on them.

“Right side,” I pant, setting my teeth into my tongue and he chuckles, groping.

“Sir…” Mennie says and the hand pauses so I know he is looking at his rookie.

Now my brain screams at me. Now.

Everything in me wants to run. No, I want to kill and then I want to run. And his rookie will shoot me and I don’t care, I just want his hands off me.

Then Mennie’s stuck with a death not his fault and Jinny is left to swing because S’Phear won’t deal with anyone but me and Chandler and Massey go free.

Shut down, I beg my brain. Turn it off. Shut it down.

“Sir,” Mennie tries again and the hand closes in a hard spasm on my breast and then stays there.

I force my eyes open, scanning the little crowd that’s gathered to see if anyone is seeing this but they’ve got the closed expressions of the lower class minorities who are hassled too often and too cruelly and stopped seeing anything to do with cops a long time ago because it’s useless. And I’m white. I’m blonde. I just smashed a really expensive car into one of their buildings narrowly missing a family on their way to the taco stand. I don’t belong and they don’t owe me anything; I see feet shift and eyes dart as they refuse to meet mine.

We’ve put up with this shit for years from this guy, I read in their hunched shoulders and averted gazes. You’ve dealt with him for five minutes. Live through it.

And Mennie is a baby and he’s too soft to slam into that blue wall more than once or twice although he’s giving it more than I thought he had in him.

“Did you have anything to say?” I hear Van Zandt ask in a sort of lilting sing-song and Mennie clears his throat and says, hesitantly, “Sir, she’s a police officer.”

“She says she’s a police officer. Look at that ass, boy. Does that look like the ass of any policewoman you know? And believe me the front is nice too. “

“Sir, I think we should assume~~”

“Assumptions get you nothing but trouble, but if I were to look at this gal I’d assume she was driving a stolen car since that’s what I was just told~~”

“By central dispatch?”

I want to turn around and high five him. That took balls.

I must make a noise; a snort or a laugh because the hand on my breast tightens to something painful around the nipple, the fingers pinching savagely.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss low and he dismisses Mennie and crowds in close behind me.

“What was that, Miss Finn?”

“Goddamn you. Cut the shit and arrest me. I am under arrest, right? Read me my fucking Miranda you slimy cocksucker and get your mother fucking hand off my tit!”

The last of it comes out in a shriek and I see the faces against the brick wall change, go surprised for a second and then grin. A few thumbs come up to encourage me; someone claps a slow three count punctuated with a hoarse, slurred, “You tell him, girl.”

Van Zandt’s voice is thick with anger and something worse when he leans into me, pushing me against the car with his body.

“Mennie!” I roar, in my best Sergeant Take No Shit voice, “Did you call for a female uniform to assist in transport of a female?”

God, I wish I could see his face. I’d maybe have a clue where he’s at on this, what he’s thinking.

There’s a beep and a squeal of feedback, then static behind me and I let my head go forward in relief when I hear him say into his walkie, “813 Central.”

“You letting her tell you how to do your job, son?” Van Zandt asks, chuckling and bumps me with his hips.

I time the hiss of static behind me and when it’s keyed for Mennie to speak I turn my head and say in as loud and clear a voice as I can muster, “You going to fuck me or arrest me, Van Zandt?”

God, please let that have gone on tape. Please let that have gone out over scanners to news crews and reporters waiting on a story. Please let it go to someone who will put it on the internet and let it find its way to S’Phear who I know won’t let it rest.

He’s furious with me now. And with the crowd too who are laughing at him and with the EMT’s who have finally arrived and are standing by making noises about the blood.

I’m cuffed; they’re too tight but I would rather die than ask him to loosen them. He spins me around fast and I’m dizzy and stagger a little and he says something about checking the car for alcohol or narcotics. I look at Mennie and I try to put it all in my face~~ everyone tells me my eyes are like books, wide open, spread out, everything there so I try to say it without words, I fucking throw it at him.

“I’ll search the vehicle,” he volunteers and I sag in relief and the medic thinks I’m about to pass out and tries to ease me down onto the rolling bed they’ve hefted out of the back of the ambulance.

“I got it,” Van Zandt says stoutly and ambles behind the Mustang and out of my line of sight. I stare at Mennie, silently begging him to watch, to see where he puts it~~

“Why, looky here,” Van Zandt says, in a pleased voice. “I think we got us some methamphetamines and~~ What’s this? Some vodka.”

Vodka. Of course. He probably slid it out of whatever hiding place he has in his patrol unit. Vodka; silent and scentless and potent.

I keep my eyes riveted on Mennie’s as the medic cleans and dabs and patches.

Was that a nod? Did he blink and nod? Is he getting it, does he see? And if he does, can he handle the flack he’ll have to take to do anything against a follow officer?

“She could use some stitches,” the EMT observes casually and I have a sudden flash of Dr. CIA laying cool gentle hands on my head; oh God that would feel good right now. She wouldn’t let this prick cart me off. She’d get blood and it would prove this is all bullshit.

Ker ching!

“Mennie!” I practically bellow. “Blood/Alcohol test! Any accident in which drugs or alcohol are suspected as a mitigating factor, a blood/alcohol and controlled substance testing is required.”

I’m panting, trying to keep the panic down, trying to think ahead, knowing I am fucked because money buys everything and people like Chandler have got millions to just toss around.

Not everything, Coop.

I look frantically around~~ I’m fine with the auditory hallucinations but oh god, what I wouldn’t give for a visual. It would help so much right now.

Not everything, I repeat to myself, trying to trigger whatever psychosis it is because I need some help, even from a delusion. Not everything, I prod.

Some people can’t be bought.

There’s a surge through my brain; it’s not an actual hallucination but it’s close enough.

The medics are leaving. The one closest to me is female; she’s kept her distance and I catch the disdain and the disgust~~ She’s bought into it and she’s tired of weak females making the rest of her clan look pathetic and ridiculous.

I send up a silent prayer to anything that’s listening and ask, “Do you know Weaver? Kerry Weaver? ER doctor?”

She pauses and blinks and glances up at me sidelong, bent over her bag.

Her hands slow, stuffing and zipping. I pray harder.

“Why?” She jerks up right, glaring at me and I’m stunned at the ferocity of her response, then understand.

“Mennie, take blood, take blood. You’ve got EMT’s right here.” I’m practically leaping from foot to foot in anxiety and he glances at Van Zandt who has gotten a page and has strolled off to his patrol car to use the cellular.

Mennie nods at the look the EMT gives him and she cocks her head at me, half grinning.

“Never had anyone beg for a blood sample before,” she comments, pulling the tubing and needle out of her black duffel.

“You gotta hurry,” I tell her urgently and she glances at Mennie then indicates my cuffs.

“I can’t get blood from a cuffed,” she tells him. “Veins are all funky like that.”

I see him look hopelessly at Van Zandt and then back to me and I understand.

“Back of my hand,” I tell her and she’s going to tell me how painful that is and I’m going to tell her I know and don’t care.

“Back of my hand,” I repeat, dead-pan and she snorts and shakes her head before she spins me gently.

It does hurt. The angle is all wrong. I try to lean forward over the roof of the car to give her better access but she has to go in from above and it actually brings tears to my eyes.

“Got it,” she says and I spell my name for her and stress it has to go to Dr. Kerry Weaver at UCSF. “Nobody else. Her.”

“Uh huh,” she says, scrawling my name on a sticker she then wraps around the tube. “And we’re talking about the same Kerry Weaver, right? Red head? Can do visual laser surgery on your ass?”

“That’s the one,” I can’t keep the grin off my face.

“Uh huh. And I’m gonna hand her this blood from C double O P ER, F I double N… And she’s gonna know who that is and not write my ass up for not following procedure and she’s gonna care?”

I hesitate and hate the way my voice breaks when I answer.

“If we’re both lucky.”

“Uh huh.” Her voice is flat but she pockets the tube and flashes me a peace sign as she climbs back into the van.

The tow truck arrives to haul off the poor wounded Mustang.

Some other squad cars arrive and uniforms mill about and then depart.

Van Zandt is antsy, obviously stalling and my belly goes cold and sick when the female uniform arrives and is immediately sent off on a burglary alarm in the neighborhood.

I go very cold and very sick when I recognize the red French braid on Officer Andrea Peyton as she pulls up in a real patrol unit. Probably the first she’s ever driven.

“I’m fucked,” I whisper to myself, watching her strut up. Christ, she even has a gun. Not like she can fire it with those nails, but she has one.

God, I’m tired. I think maybe I lost more blood than I’d thought because I am definitely feeling rather pansy-assed and I can’t even summon up much interest to make out the plate of the vehicle which has pulled up and whistled Van Zandt over. That’s probably important though.

I look at Mennie and put my feet apart because I sway when I turn my head.

“You should take that plate down. “

I don’t have the energy for a shriek or a roar or a bellow. It comes out soft and conversational.

I can’t tell if he nods or not. Christ, it must be at least two, maybe three in the afternoon by now. I’ve been standing for hours.

Suck it up, I order myself and straighten as Peyton saunters up, smirking.

“Andrea,” I drawl and manage some kind of grin. “I bet you’re loving that you get to do the strip search.”

“Don’t you know it,” she assures me, smacking gum and hooks me by the elbow, marching me off towards the squad car she’s driven up in.

I glance back at Mennie, confused and tired and wondering what it is I’ve forgot. Something important. Something major.

Fuck.

It slams into me like a freight train and I dig my heels into the concrete and stop, wheeling frantically back towards Mennie, panicked.

“I’m armed!” I yell at him, trying to pull loose from the electric blue nails clutching at the leather of my jacket. “I’m armed!”

He’s half trotting towards me and Van Zandt’s head has swung up from its current position of kissing ass. Andrea’s spitting something and jerking me down the sidewalk and I think, fuck it! And just let my knees go out from under me finally.

We both fall, hard. I land on the curb with a hip and then roll, bouncing my head off the concrete and crunching both hands under me. Beside me Andrea sets up a furious wail of agony.

“What, you break a nail?” I pant and grin up at Mennie as he appears over me, relieved to see he can actually smile.

“I’m armed. Take my gun so this bitch can’t shoot me and claim I slipped the cuffs and had a weapon. And guess who’s my witness.”

He pulls me to my feet and I feel the cut on my head throb a few times and start leaking again and I blink through some bright silvery flashes and clouds in my head. He reaches politely and removes the Glock, hands kind and non invasive. He’s a good kid. He’ll make a good cop.

“You okay?” he asks and I see again how young he is. How disappointed. This isn’t what he signed up for, this is not what he wants to dedicate his life to. He’s only a baby and he’s tired and worn out from the shit he’s seen and he doesn’t know who to believe but he knows that he desperately wants to believe in something.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” I tell him, letting the cursing Andrea jerk me towards the car. She takes a handful of hair and somehow manages to wham me into the roof a couple of times while giving me the polite spiel about “duck your head” and I see him wince and look away.

I want to tell him to not worry about it because I am planning on depositing an enormous amount of vomit all over her through the cage, but I want it to be a surprise, so have to content myself with scooting as close to the window as I can and smile at him.

And mouth silently, spacing my words, “You… saw… this.”

His head jerks as the car shrieks out and I fall back against the seat and hope that was a nod, then lean forward and put my face against the square grid and in a conversational tone ask, “So Andrea… Wanna know what I had for breakfast?”



END OF FORTY TWO