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you’d think we’d get a little professional courtesy and, you know, them not assuming she did this thing. But they’re making it seem like it’s a pattern, and it’s getting political. It happened on the wrong day apparently. I’m worried.”
    Swartz looked at me and blinked.
    I laughed. Had I really found a situation that Swartz didn’t have a wise answer for immediately? Just my luck.
    After a few minutes, I said, “I’m worried about her.” I wanted Swartz to tell me what to do.
    Swartz replied with a thoughtful “You think that this Fiske man is influencing the murder charge?”
    â€œNo,” I said immediately. “No, that’s stupid. He’s not like that.”
    â€œSo, what are you saying?”
    I’d answered quickly, but now I was starting to wonder. Cherabino thought he had a few judges in his pocket here in Atlanta. . . . “I don’t know what I’m saying. She has half adozen enemies anyway, but nobody knew we were going to be at that concert. The odds of this being a deliberate thing . . .” I trailed off. “The brass is smart. They’ll give her a slap on the wrist and then go find the real killer. They have to, right?” I had to believe that, regardless of the political stuff. The department stood by their officers. They always had, right?
    After a short pause, Swartz said, “The truth has a funny way of coming out, even if you don’t want it to.”
    â€œYeah.” My brain flashed fuzzily through the interrogation last night and the vision. That vision. I forced myself back. “It feels like I need to do something, but I don’t know what to do. It’s Cherabino.”
    â€œIf she needs you, she’ll ask for help,” Swartz said calmly.
    â€œThis is Cherabino,” I said. “You’ve met her, right? She’d say she was fine lit on fire and covered in supercancer. And then she’d work a fourteen-hour shift and close two cases and then complain nothing got done. It’s not me here. I swear.”
    Swartz thought about that for a moment. “Pushing your way into the situation isn’t going to help anything if she doesn’t want you there.”
    â€œIt would make me feel better.”
    He took a sip of his tea. “Even so. What’s the third thing?”
    â€œThe third thing I’m grateful for? You know, I don’t remember.”
    â€œI’ll wait.”
    I sipped at the coffee and thought. And thought. “I wish I didn’t have the visions,” I said finally, unable to think about anything else.
    â€œThat’s not something you’re grateful for.”
    â€œI know.”
    Swartz waited, patiently, and after ten minutes of silence he pulled out the NA Big Book, the collection of readings we did for Narcotics Anonymous.
    February was Higher Power month, where we came to believe in a higher power and being restored to sanity. This time, the sanity seemed a bigger miracle than the God stuff. The powerlessness I felt, could feel all over again. The surrender—and the sanity—were harder.
    *   *   *
    I caught a bus back to the DeKalb County Police Department, which took forever. Worse, the mood of the bus passengers was particularly grim today. Traffic was heavy, and I felt the sadness, despair, and frustration of a dozen strangers like they were my own. They worked all day and still couldn’t pay the bills. They despaired. I despaired too, actually, some reflected emotion and some a lack of sleep and a lack of knowing what to do about Cherabino.
    The ancient stone steps of the department felt almost restful in comparison, despite the officers bustling to and fro inside. Their minds moved in preset patterns like an insect colony in progress, a dance seen a hundred times before. Booking had some particularly loud suspects screaming at each other while the arresting officer tried to