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dry mouth, shortly washed away with a couple of gulps from a water bottle fetched from the black-and-white. The real gagging came a little later.
    *   *   *
    That first night was okay. Rachel held her in bed, the idea pretty clear: I’m just so glad you’re alive.… She might have even said it out loud. But Cheryl was a little foggy on the details; it was a tequila and Mexican night. How friggin’ appropriate. Finally curling up in bed with the TV droning and the blue light flickering against the walls. She thought she heard Rachel tell her, “You’ve got time coming. Take a tip from me. When this settles down, let’s take a little trip.” And for a fleeting second Cheryl shivered. Did Rachel really say, Take a little tip ? God, she never wanted to hear “Low Rider” again.
    The noose tightened about three days later; her departmental paperwork had been filed, time for the official Internal Affairs Q&A. The Inquisition. Her required taped statement with Internal Affairs didn’t go smoothly. Lots of photos of the fake gun with the imbecilic bang flag sticking out the muzzle. The pictures looked more and more absurd as they were shoved across the table at her. The Internal Affairs officer stared at her with the face of a ferret, lean cheeks, pockmarked from an ancient bout of chicken pox. Didn’t listen to Mother when she told him not to scratch.
    â€œWhattaya mean you didn’t see this?”
    â€œDidn’t notice anything wrong?”
    â€œHow many times have you discharged your weapon in the line of duty?”
    Answer, obvious, just look at the record: first time. And now, maybe the last.
    Worse than that there were two other jackals at the hearing: a division captain from the LAPD sat in, some politically connected friend of the mayor’s, along with a suit from the Department of Justice, Los Angeles Civil Rights Division. This last sit-in probably because a local civil rights group was making ugly noises and planted a few protesters across the street from the crumbling Parker Center at the new HQ. The photos of the Bang-Flag-Gun had magically appeared, blown up as homemade protest signs. Not good. And every day the rent-a-mob left for the afternoon, Felix’s face in chalk grinned up from the pavement.…
    The light from the windows threw bars across the interrogation table, blinding white against black field; motes of dust stirred lazily in the air. Nothing was going to be settled that afternoon. Cheryl’s eyes wandered from the men in front of her, and she stifled the urge to yawn. The urge came on by surprise, and it took all her will to stifle it. Yawning very bad. What every cop knew: yawning during an interrogation meant you were guilty.
    But apparently she couldn’t mask her glassy eyes.
    â€œAre you sleepy, Officer Gibson? Are we boring you?” the pockmarked ferret asked her; and then out of the blue, a curveball: “Take a little tip from me, don’t yawn.” That damn “Low Rider” lyric, like he’d been listening to the same old tunes as Chico in the Chevy.
    The police captain, the mayor’s crony, a well-fed man, full of himself, played at being her friend. Telling the ferret, “Oh, I think we’ve covered what we can today, Felix. Let’s let Officer Gibson off for the weekend.”
    Felix? The Internal Affairs agent’s ID tag said, Frederick. A nickname? And he took his cue from the Captain, “Sure, whatever.” Then to Cheryl, “Thanks for your cooperation.”
    The ride home seemed endless: miles of snaking traffic, of glinting chrome, and a cap of yellow smog over all. Rachel wasn’t in from work yet. No surprise; she often worked late, lawyer’s hours. Cheryl watched the sun go down from the patio; this time of year it always set between two yucca plants. The landscaper had planted their canyon backyard in Sonoran colors, sandy shale, rocks,