the SWAT Team. We busted this big meth house and burglary ring a couple years ago? You interviewed me. I think you must’ve been working a weekend shift or something. You wrote it up in the Sunday paper. My mom has the story framed on the wall, that’s why I remember. I can still see your byline.
“Oh…yeah…sure,” I say, even though I don’t remember.
And a wave of relief washes over me. That’s why he called me Matthew. My old byline. (For a while, it was all the rage in my newsroom to add an initial,
Still, this close call, this scare, has taught me a lesson. That’s what my yawn was-a gentle warning. So that’s it for me. I’m done selling pot. Too scary. I take a deep breath. Smile like the young cop. “So…how did I do on your story?”
“Oh, you did great,” the young cop says. “Got everything right. You still at the paper?”
I can feel myself relaxing. “No, I took a buyout.”
“I read about the layoffs there. It’s crazy, what’s happening to newspapers.” Young cop shakes his head again and turns to older cop. “Can you imagine a world without newspapers?”
“Happily,” says the older cop.
Then the young smiler turns back to me: “So what are you up to now-”
“Other than being a drug dealer,” interjects the older, bald one, Lt. Reese. His voice is flat, chilling. He is staring at me. No…he’s staring
“Wha…what?”
Lt. Reese leans forward. “Maybe we should look in that backpack you keep pushing away with your feet…
I feel my jaw trembling.
“You sure you don’t want some coffee?” the younger guy asks.
And all I can think is: Huh, so they really
So young cop gets me coffee. And for the next few minutes, I try not to vomit as I listen to gruff old state cop, Lt. Reese, and grinning young city cop, whose name turns out to be Randy Martinez, explain that: (A) For the past four years, they’ve worked together on a federally funded drug task force charged with infiltrating and breaking up the pipeline of British Columbian marijuana that has flooded the West. (B) Near the end of this very successful four-year tour, they arrested a suspect who, hoping to avoid prosecution, became a CI-a confidential informant-and told them about a quaint little farming town where a local grow-op wunderkind and his skeezy lawyer friend managed to shave off a slice of the legitimate smoke market with their home-grown knockoffs. (C) And while it’s not in the task force’s direct mandate to break up baby grow-ops like this-they would normally just turn such information over to local police-this one was big enough to warrant their attention.
“So here we are, all ready to make a case against this farm,” says young Randy, “and who should come along?”
I’m pretty sure it’s me, but my voice is too weak to contribute to this conversation, and anyway, I’m still half- afraid I might throw up if I open my mouth. My hand twitches around the coffee that Randy has gotten me. I just shake my head.
“Some asshole takes a verbal shit all over our wiretap,” says old Lt. Reese, “bragging that he can sell weed to middle-class fat-fuck hypocrites like himself.”
I don’t remember bragging that, but I’m not really in the position to deny my middle-class fat-fuck hypocrisy.
The young cop reminds me of someone as he puts out his hands soothingly. “Here we’ve been working four years to bust a bunch of kids and…what? Now their parents want in?”
Lt. Reese’s turn: “I just wanted to sweep you up with the other losers, but Randy here says, wait a second, I know this guy. He’s not a bad guy.”
I look gratefully at Young Randy: No! Not a bad guy! Good guy! If only they could get to know me…I used to give so much to United Way.
“Here’s what I said,” Randy jumps in. “Lieu, this guy, he’s no drug dealer.’”
I shake my head no. I’m not.
“I said, ‘In fact, maybe we should talk to this guy. I think he has goodness in his heart.’”
I do. Good heart. Goodness.
Old cop rolls his eyes. “Tell me something. You got kids, Matthew?”
Before I can answer, young cop asks, “What ages?”
And for the life of me, I can’t remember. “Uh. Ten? And, uh…the little one…eight?”
Old cop: “Boys? Girls?”
Young cop: “One of each?”
Me: “Boys?”
Young cop: “Bet they’re cute.”
Wait. I know this one. Nod.
“I don’t know.” Old cop, sighing, turns to his partner: “I gotta be honest, Randy. I’m not feelin’ it. You sure you wanna give this asshole a break?”
Yes, please. Break. Break, please.
“Lieu-” Randy starts to plead my case. Even when he frowns he smiles.
But Reese wants none of it. “It’s fucked up, Randy. This is what’s wrong with our country, this lack of responsibility. Drug dealer dads? Cokehead in the White House?”
Randy looks at me apologetically. “I don’t think Mr. Prior here is interested in our political views, Lieutenant.”
Lt. Reese turns back to me. “Matthew, you have any idea how deep a pile-a-shit you’re standing in?”
I look down at my feet to see the shit and my messenger bag.
Randy puts his hand on Lt. Reese’s arm, maybe trying to lighten him up. “What’ve you got in there, Matthew, two ounces?”
“Three.” My voice is a low death-rattle. Wait-what happened to B. through N.:
Both cops sit back, maybe a little embarrassed. It’s probably not supposed to be so easy.
Lt. Reese shakes his head. “It’s the hypocrisy. That’s what’s so offensive.”
He’s right, of course. I look down. It’s the same move Franklin makes when he’s in trouble, and I picture myself in handcuffs, my boys watching the police haul their father away. My head falls into my hands.
“Hey,” says Randy. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“Give me a break,” says Lt. Reese. “We’re fifty fuckin’ miles from okay here, Randy. Don’t sugarcoat it for this delusional fuck-
stick.”
Delusional fuck-stick-right. Amazing, how you can misjudge everything, how blind you can be to the truth. The ways you fool yourself. Believing something has shifted, that the world can be benign. No, this is what it means to come apart-not gently unraveling, but blowing out, a tire on the freeway.
I have been wrong about everything.
For instance, I was so sure the older one was going to be the good cop.
CHAPTER 19
S TARTING TO SEE WHY
Monte wanted to sell me
