You may
believe what you want, but I came to notice that many of our cops
never properly learn that accepting kickbacks is wrong. As criminal
justice students, they don't pay proper attention to the lectures
used to explain the causes of police corruption, so one day, I wrote
a little fictional scenario starring Sullivan, from the graphic
novel.
This is
Voir Dire.
That newcomer, Crosby, has a really special
voice. My thoughts were along those lines, before I inverted my smile
at seeing Rooney's crazy son.
He's
such a crackpot, his mere presence nearly spoiled the evening of
watching that reel; 'King Of Jazz.'
"What's
up?" I didn't use his name, and I won't name him as I tell my
tale. We'll call him Bane, for the sake of
convenience.
"Kent
showed at the mansion, and I came to drop a tip about the loitering.
Now do your duty, 'Officer'."
"(Sigh),
this is where policing has taken me," I muttered under my breath,
not caring if Bane caught a word.
"I'll
see you, Darling. Business is business." I'm off, but not off the
hook; I'm ensnared.
Eleven
years ago, it seemed a quick way to grab a living. I had just
returned from Europe a hero, and quickly landed on the force in Fort
Wayne, when I met my wife- and a man giving me an offer to moonlight
a little.
No big
deal, right? I'm still policing, I'm just hanging around the same
mansion a couple hours every other day.
So
it changed a little. I rode with him on trips through town for a fee.
Mister Rooney is an important man!
I'm
promoted in the force after staying less than a year in entry- level,
and my wallet now stays closed at the diner.
One
day Bane drops a tip about the other diner in
town.
"Beautiful
day, isn't it, Officer?" I frown, and my voice drips
neutrally.
"Dirty
day. I'm shutting this unsanitary place down, if you can't pay
the fine."
The
next day, a truck snakes to the curb.
"A
delivery for Mr. Sullivan." My hands are unsteady, but the
cellulose packaging tatters open.
A
Thomson Machine Gun, oh boy.
Would anyone like to fill in the ending?