ust before three a.m. the alarm clock began its irritating reveille. An anxious Bob Longstreet woke from his short, shallow sleep and listened to the dense rain clattering against the side of his trailer home. It was hard getting out of bed. At the sink he turned the hot spigot and dashed his face with cold water in order to dissolve the crusted sleep that blurred his vision. Slowly the water began to warm as he brushed his teeth. Warmer, but still not hot, he shaved his puffy cheeks, noticing that the short hairs, nearly two day's growth, were coming in gray.

It had stopped raining, was only a drizzle, when he stepped outside. Bulbs strung on wires made a feeble light in the wooded trailer park. Puddles and sheet metal glared. He removed the tarpaulin from his new 1995 Subaru Legacy wagon. The rain beaded and rolled along the black shell of the car.

He guided his car along winding roads until he reached the highway. The car handled the damp and twisted asphalt with aplomb, but it was not as nimble as his old car. When he was at highway speed is when he missed his Acura Legend Coupe the most. It had 240,000 miles on the odometer when he traded it in and received next to nothing for it. When the time came to buy the new car, with alimony and child-care, even the Legacy was hard to afford, and a new Legend would have been twenty thousand more. Even so, this new car was bound to cause him trouble with Midge, his ex-wife, when she finally found out.

He checked the speedometer. It surprised him to find the needle edging past ninety. It was the first time that he had had this new car above eighty. Although the car was not as quiet and relaxed as the Legend, he was satisfied with the performance.

"A wagon? Why the hell a wagon? For God sakes, you're a bachelor now," Greg had teased him. A few years back and Greg had been the new guy in the office, had been assigned to Bob to learn the ropes, and was since promoted over Bob. Bob was not bitter, but he was disappointed. It was his own fault. He couldn't play the game and be as ruthless as Greg. But he knew it was really the - what would you call it, his nervous breakdown? - that lost him the promotion. The office would never forget it and he would never rise any higher. Didn't Abraham Lincoln have a nervous breakdown, yet he went on the become a great president? Perhaps it would be best if he found a new job.

There were good reasons for the wagon. He still felt like a father to his children. He still wanted to be available for his children. He wanted to be able to take his two youngest daughters, Heather and Tiffany, and their friends, and their equipment, to lacrosse and soccer practice. He wanted to be able to pick up his eldest daughter, Jennifer, from the University of New Hampshire and bring her and all her belongings home to spend summer with her mother, picking up Bob, junior on the way. His son, the eldest child, worked in the outskirts of Boston. His son might want to come home for the weekend, and could take a train, or even fly back on a Sunday.

There was a dark car parked on the shoulder and he slowed because he didn't know what it was about. Perhaps it was a police car, perhaps hoodlums, perhaps someone with car trouble and he would have to consider stopping. As he drove past, he recognized that it was either a Firebird or Camaro, two cars he hadn't been able to tell apart for the last many years. The car had not appeared occupied, so there was no reason to stop. He decided to make a concerted effort to drive slower, the roadways being wet and the overcast sky making the night very dark. Except for the abandoned car he had just passed, he had the two lanes of the northbound highway entirely to himself.

And the real reason he had bought a wagon, aside from mundane concerns - such as affordability, performance, and reliability - he really bought it because it provided him sufficient space to pack all his worldly possessions. He was not sure where he would be living in a week or a month, and where he would be in the week after, or a month again. Already the new car, with barely two thousand miles on it, was more home to him than the rented trailer. And it offered him security to know, if necessary, there was ample room in the Legacy for him to sleep, even though he was just over six feet tall.

He passed a young man wearing a brown leather coat, which would have been little protection in the downpour of half an hour before. The fellow was walking southbound on the right hand shoulder. Bob pulled into the left lane to give the pedestrian a safe margin. It was this fellow, unkempt and marked with stains, that made Bob think of the comfort and security provided by his new car. How he wished his car could be armored like a tank. Or better yet, built like a submarine so that he could park it at the bottom of the river, rent free and safe.

Bob yawned and was extremely sleepy. He turned on the interior light and searched the adjacent seat, on which he had a pile of cassette tapes, and selected Thelonious Monk. He inserted the tape, turned off the interior light, and noticed for the first time a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror racing towards him. Bob twisted his head around for a better look. Whoever the jerk was, he was approaching ridiculously fast. Realizing he was in the wrong lane, Bob considered changing lanes, but it was too late, as the other driver might try passing on the right. For a frightful moment, Bob was sure the other car was not going to stop, that it was going to plow into the back of his new car.

It didn't happen. The other car slowed suddenly and seemed to fasten itself to the rear of his Legacy. The proximity made Bob nervous. Careful not to brake, he signaled his intentions and then moved to the right lane. The other car, without signaling, stayed with him. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, trying to make out the other car's features. He was scared now, and wondering if it wasn't the Firebird-Camaro that he has passed a moment before, some thrill-seeking teenager out to torment hapless motorists. Bob signaled left and changed lanes again, and the other car, still just a few feet from his tailgate, remained glued to him and would not go around. He considered which would be wiser, to race ahead, or to slow down? The anxiety was made him wide awake. The bright headlights in the murky darkness were making his sleepy eyes sore, made it harder to see the road ahead.

Before he could reach a decision, the roof of the other car exploded in swirling lights of red and blue. The first sensation for Bob was one of relief. He was safe; this was no foolhardy teenager with a death wish playing with cars. He pulled to the side of the road and the police cruiser came to a stop directly behind him.

He was familiar with the routine. He turned on the interior light, and before the policeman reached his window, he had the insurance card and temporary ownership out of the glove compartment, and his license out of his wallet. But then he began to feel nervous. He could ill-afford an increase to his car insurance, and another ticket would do that. And now he couldn't remember how to rewind and eject the tape in this new car. The policeman was already standing at the window saying something, and Bob finally had the tape out, but the radio went on and was playing too loud. He brought the radio under control and turned to speak with the policeman. The cop was scrutinizing him with suspicion. Jesus, Bob thought, it was nearly four in the morning and I'm without sleep; the cop probably thinks I appear drunk or drugged? He looked back at the cop, who was very young and short. The cop sported a meager mustache, probably to lend age to his appearance, but the contrast to his smooth cheeks only amplified his child-like face. He wore no cap despite the slight drizzle and threat of a deluge.

"You gave me quite a scare, officer," Bob told him.

"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?" queried the cop. Bob had not considered his speed, had no idea how fast he had been traveling.

"I'm sorry officer, I have no idea what speed I was driving."

The cop's eyebrows arced with disbelief and then he sneered. "You were speeding at eighty-one point two miles per hour. Do you have any idea what the speed limit is?"

The State's maximum speed was fifty-five and everybody knew this, so Bob supposed the question was just a rhetorical remark. The cop was waiting for the answer. "Fifty-five?" Bob replied in a mild manner, uncertain as he was that the cop really wanted the question answered.

"That's right, fifty-five, and you ought to know that," the cop said. Bob realized he had been made to feel dumb, but he was still collecting his thoughts, still half asleep. "You were going much too fast for these road conditions. Can't you see it's raining and the streets are wet? You were driving very carelessly, much too fast."

Bob would not say, yes, and you were tailing me, so which of us was the most unsafe driver? Here the cop was talking about rain, yet not wearing his cap. Bob considered the dilemma he was in and began evolving a strategy. It would do no good to approach this with a sales pitch, this was a different game. The cop had to be dealt with on an emotional level. Reasoning with him would appear aggressive, an attack, and he would respond by showing his power and delivering a ticket. "I'm sorry officer. I was not aware I was driving so fast. I am really sorry. It's a new car and I'm not yet familiar with it."

The cop stuck out his jaw, compressing his lips in imitation of a tougher man. Bob interpreted this expression as he would a potential customer. The cop was expecting an argument. Bob was trying to mollify him. The cop's flashlight examined the interior of the car. What was this cop thinking, that since Bob could afford a brand new Japanese car, then he can afford a ticket? Bob was going to lose this one. It annoyed him, the speed limit was an absurdity, he was driving at a comfortable speed when there was no other traffic, and the cop demonstrated he was the more dangerous driver. It was the thirtieth of April, the end of the month, and didn't cops have a quota?

"I'm going to have to give you a ticket," he announced.

Bob focused his attention on the cop's eyes. "I see," he said. But he knew it was bullshit, and he searched the cop's eyes to see if the cop also knew it was bullshit. The cop could not sustain the stare. He tore his eyes away and looked up and down the highway. He took out his pad and commenced writing the ticket. Whenever the cop happened to glance back, there was Bob staring into him.

"I'll tell you what I can do," the cop said while looking out over the roof of Bob's car and into the blackness, "instead of eighty, I'll make this ticket out that you were only doing sixty-five."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, that way you won't get as many points."

"Thank you officer, that is very kind of you," Bob replied. It was a good compromise. With less points maybe his insurance would not go up.

Bob continued his journey into the office, but the issue continued to burn inside him. He was not satisfied with how it had turned out. He was appreciative that the cop decided not to issue him a ticket that would generate many points, but he was bitter that the cop had scared him, had tailed him. And the cop had said he was driving too carelessly. Damn it, did the cop's cruiser have four-wheel drive, dual airbags, ABS brakes, a brand new set of all-weather tires? Yet the cop felt like he could race to catch up and then tail him, changing lanes without signaling, and scaring him, damn it, scaring him! Maybe he wasn't speeding until the cop road up on his tail? Maybe he was driving unconsciously faster trying to keep his distance from the jerk? He didn't know it was a cop and he had felt threatened. Maybe the cop pushed him to eighty-one point two miles per hour? By the time Bob had reached the office he had mentally rehearsed his courtroom stance several times.

"Your Honor, if I was speeding, it was out of necessity. I was only trying to get out of this officer's way. I had no idea he was a policeman. I thought he was some dangerous prankster trying to drive me off the road." But would he bother to go to court? That would mean taking time off from work.

At the office he joined into a conference call with his field technicians and Ameritech's technicians. They were installing his company's newest digital switch for a Chicago insurance firm. Bob stood by with a library of technical manuals at his finger tips and a list of appropriate numbers for any possible emergency. He wanted this switch up and running before Sunday afternoon, long before the start of business Monday morning. It was his baby. He had sold it to them.

Usually when he caught a ticket for speeding, which was occurring once every nine months, or so it seemed, he felt it was legitimate. It was the game. He refused to own a radar detector. He depended entirely on his powers of observation and felt if he wasn't paying attention he had no business driving at a higher than legal speed. It worked for him. He drove carefully, in smooth transitions, without sudden stops, or starts, or lane changes. He never tailed and allowed other cars ample room to merge in front of him. He also made it a point not to be the fastest car on the road, allowing someone else to rush ahead and draw the attention of the cops. And on the rare occasions that they pulled him over, he prided himself that it was never when he was consciously speeding. It always happened to him when he was maintaining a relaxed pace, seemingly slow, and thinking he had no reason to be on his guard. He never fought those tickets because the cops had played the game fairly.

While waiting for the technicians to do their work and come back to the phone, Bob took out and examined the citation to see what it would cost.

"If you intend to respond by mail: 1. Detach and complete the lower portion of this traffic citation/summons with your signature on the appropriate plead line (a. or b.)." 'A' was a plead of not guilty. It still required the amount of the fine for collateral until a trial date could be set, plus five dollars for costs. 'B' was for guilty and a savings of five dollars. He thought about it and didn't like the alternatives. He didn't know at what speed he had been traveling when the cop pulled him over. Wasn't he forced to drive faster because the cop was riding his tail? He strongly believed there should have been a third option, "nolo contendere", an option available to Vice Presidents, but he could not bring himself to check off guilty. He could just leave it unchecked, but the text of the citation informed him that leaving the form unchecked, or not putting his signature on it, would be construed by the court as an acknowledgment of guilt. Bob was infuriated. The cop had played unfair. He checked off "NOT GUILTY" and wrote out a check for ninety-five dollars.

"Your Honor," he would say, "I cannot plead guilty."

"Were you not speeding?" his Honor would ask.

"In all truthfulness, your Honor, I do not know. I was frightened and distracted by the proximity of the car behind me and failed to take notice of my gauges."

"Mr. Longstreet, is it not possible you were speeding?"

"Your Honor, I sincerely believe I was traveling at a safe speed, a speed at which this officer, and you yourself, would have probably traveled on the same road under the same conditions." Then, perhaps, the judge would see the bullshit and cut him a break.

A week later Bob received his Notice of Trial. His court date was set for June fifteenth at 2:45 PM. It had been a bad idea, Bob decided. Now he would have to take time off from work and would still probably lose the case. What was the point? And maybe the judge would be angry.

"Mr. Longstreet, I see no reason to take your word over that of this fine officer. You have done nothing more than take up this court's valuable time. The only error I can see on the part of the officer is having filled in this citation wrong, and I will now duly correct it. Mr. Longstreet, it is indicated by this officer's testimony that you were speeding at eighty-one point two miles per hour and I see no reason why you should be spared the appropriate points for this offense. Perhaps, next time, you will reconsider before you take up this court's precious time."

The fifteenth of June was a Thursday. Bob worked through lunch and then left the office early. It was a beautiful day, sapphire blue sky with little puffs of clouds. It was a good day to get away from the office. He no longer feared the outcome of his hearing. He opened the sunroof and enjoyed the day, the freedom, the eventfulness. There were a million varieties of green in the grass, the shrubs, and in the trees en route to the courthouse.

He parked beneath the tall sycamores that lined the street. It was a new courthouse, flat like a shoe box, built of yellowish bricks. As he walked up the access ramp intended for wheelchairs, he found a number of nervous people clutching cigarettes, or just taking in the wonderful outside weather. A couple of young, worried mothers were watching over children at play. The children could not be left alone at home as their mothers answered to criminal charges. And there was a pride of lawyers, trim and combed, wearing crisp suits.

Inside were the bleak faces of people waiting their turn in court. They seemed to all be poor, like Bob's neighbors in the trailer park. They seemed sickly and worn. There was not enough space on the benches along the walls, so many had to stand. A little boy sat in the middle of the floor testing his grandmother's limits. "Get up, Joshua," she threatened him, pointing to a cop, "or that cop's gonna come out and yer gonna go to baby jail." The child accepted the challenge. The cop did not come out, nor did Joshua go to baby jail.

A glass pane along a counter separated the lobby from a long office containing a few clerks. Bob checked his watch and saw that he was on time. He crossed over to a small circle cut out of the glass and waited patiently for someone to come over and assist him. No one came. After several minutes he cleared his throat. The nearest clerk, a middle-aged woman, scowled at him and offered a chilling, "yes?", the word stretched to its limits.

"I'm here for a hearing."

"There is a book out there, you just initial it and wait 'til you're called." It was evident that she was already tired with being pestered by him. He found the book, found his name in the book, and put his initials adjacent to his name in the column of other initials. He spent the next forty-five minutes leaning against a wall and reading, and rereading, the signs posted in the glass that protected the clerks.

"The DISTRICT JUSTICE and the EMPLOYEES in this OFFICE are NOT permitted to give LEGAL ADVICE. If You Have a Legal Question Please Consult An Attorney." It was disheartening to read. Still, it would be cheaper to lose the ninety-five dollars than it would be to ask his lawyer for advice. He meant to try to play their game without knowing their rules.

After an hour had passed, he swallowed his pride and went back to the circle cut out of the glass. Again he cleared his throat. They ignored him. He called out, "excuse me," trying to use the minimum volume of his voice that he expected could be heard. The same woman as before looked up, but didn't say anything. "Excuse me, but my appointment was for 2:45 and no one has called for me." This made her angry.

"That session has already been called. You'd better hurry and get to it," she answered in an annoyed tone while pointing out the general direction of the courtroom.

The courtroom, at least, was noticeably air-conditioned. It was smaller than Bob had expected, and not at all as grand as he imagined courtrooms to be. Had he ever been in a courtroom before? He thought maybe when he was in the boy scouts, but it was just a visit. Another surprise was the judge, whom he had not expected to be a woman.

Not knowing what else to do, Bob seated himself where others seemed to be waiting, in seats set in rows at the back of the courtroom. Fabric covered the walls and acoustic tiles covered the ceiling. Only the wall behind the judge had wood paneling. He studied the design and decided that it was intended to muffle any sounds that might be made in these back rows. The real game was being played on the other side of a banister that split the courtroom into halves. The rooms attention was focused on the long, tall desk with the State Seal smack in the center. It dwarfed Judge Colaci. The Nation's flag hung limply in the right hand corner. The Commonwealth's flag hung limply in the left corner. He searched the room and did not see the cop who had ticketed him. His friends at the office had told him that if the cop didn't show the charges would be dropped. Was that true?

The cop did not show. After dealing brusquely with two cases, judging both in favor of the State, she paused to make an announcement to the back of the room. "Are Mr. Mendez, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Simpson here?" Bob rose while two other men raised their hands. "Please meet me in the hall."

In the hall the three gathered at a Dutch door, the top being opened, and the lower part presenting a narrow counter on which to lean and write. The judge appeared on the other side. Although she was short, she was taller than his ex-wife. And unlike Midge, she didn't appear to be fat, although Bob couldn't tell what was really beneath the sweep of her black robe. Judge Colaci wore no makeup. Her hair was straight and cut like Prince Valiant's, and it was just as black and shiny. Bob thought her beautiful, thought how much happier he would have been had he married this attractive and successful judge instead of bloodsucking Midge. The judge moved in swirls, exchanging a few words with the staff, swapping papers, then leaning on the half door.

"Mr. Mendez, Mr. Longstreet, Mr. Simpson, you have all been found not guilty. You are free to go. Your money will be refunded to you in its entirety by mail in a week to ten days. Can I assume there are no questions?" She looked up from her paper, was already turning to leave. Mr. Mendez and Mr. Simpson were both beaming smiles, were already rushing away, but not Bob.

"Uh, yes."

"You are?" She spoke curtly, just as did the clerk behind the glass partition, earlier.

"I'm Mr. Longstreet."

"Mr. Longstreet, what is the problem. You are not guilty. You will lose no money. You are free to go. I am very busy."

"I'm willing to come back."

"Mr. Longstreet, there is no reason. I already find you not guilty. Why in the world would you want to come back."

"Well, I just wanted you to know about your officer, not that he was rude, or anything, but I wanted someone to know how reckless he —"

"I don't have time for this," she exclaimed, her dark brown eyes widening. She twisted away from the half door, waving the back of her hand to chase him off. Bob was stunned. He was angry. He didn't want this cop to go unpunished. Then she turned again. "Mr. Longstreet," she called. She came back to the window. He looked down into her handsome features, no fat cheeks and double chin like his ex-wife. "Reckless? Mr. Longstreet, let me explain. It doesn't matter whether or not you are guilty of —" she checked the clipboard, "speeding. You are not guilty, and perhaps it is that you are not guilty exactly because Officer Barnes is reckless." It was the first time he knew the name of the cop that had ticketed him. "Officer Barnes is dead. He died Tuesday. He was shot in the line of duty by a seventeen year old trying to steal video tapes from Blockbusters."

Had she said anything else after that? He was still staring across the half door, but no one was standing on the other side. He took a stroll about the town. He couldn't make sense of it. He tried to consider the games the police had to play. There was the one game with drivers not keeping to the absurd speed limit. Then there was the other game where people shoot you for not letting them take what they don't need or deserve. Where was the connection? There was no connection. Then he realized what the connection was. Justice had not been served. Some psychopathic punk committed a despicable murder for a deplorably selfish interest and Bob Longstreet benefited from it.

Bob returned to the courthouse, returned to the little circle cut out of the glass pane and called for a clerk's attention. The same scowling woman came up to him making no effort to contain her hostility at being disturb by this same face for a third time. "How can I help you now?" she said in a labored voice to reveal how tiresome it was.

"You have some kind of policeman's widow fund, don't you?" asked Bob.

"Why yes, we do," she said, beginning a smile. Bob commenced writing a check for a hundred dollars.

© Bruce Bentzman