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standard chain-of-custody transfer log,” beganRoberts. “I’m going to take the cocaine with me to headquarters. If you gentlemen will each sign here with me, I’ll be on my way. For now, you have Slim on assorted felony charges including the High’s store robbery, auto theft, and traffic charges. When you fill out the SF 252, put ‘an unknown white powder’ was taken from the subject and turned over to Narcotics for further processing.”
    “Why can’t we have the coke bust,” complained Brady.
    “Oh, it won’t disappear. But, I really must get back now. Please talk to your lieutenant, and thanks for the good work.”
    “I need my nose fixed,” whined Slim.
    “Shut up,” I said. “First, you’re going to answer some questions so we can do all this paperwork, then you’re going to get printed upstairs, then you’re going to central cell block, then maybe somebody will take you to D.C. General Hospital.”
    “Stone, let’s walk over to the range and talk for a minute,” said Brady.
    “Sure. My goddam foot still hurts like hell.”
    The old range had five firing points, probably put in when they converted the building. No ventilation system existed to suck the toxic lead out of the air. Occasionally, one or two of the brothers would use it until the air in the range got too bad, which was for maybe a half hour.
    “I’ve been here five years and you more than three,” began Brady. “That’s eight years of police experience without ever seeing cocaine. Now, they send a detective lieutenant here with his toy bag. You know something I don’t?”
    “Big Carol told me that Tina and Nina recently got pinched for possession. And coke was beginning to make the scene.”
    “She say anything else?”
    “No, and her body language said the topic was closed.”
    “Well,” said Brady. “I guess the big shots can sort it out. We fight crime; they make policy.”
    I smiled at the sarcasm. “Let’s get Slim Jim upstairs for printsand hope that Sergeant Allen doesn’t break all his fingers ‘just to make printing easier.’” This was one of Allen’s standard threats to any uncooperative prisoner. Allen had a dark side. In fact, many desk sergeants do. They could not make it on the street, so they manage paper and supplies, which mostly keeps them away from the public.
    As we began to climb the stairs with Slim Jim, the Wagon crew with O’Day and Grab had arrived ahead of us with a prisoner. O’Day, it seems, had been tasting a little Jim Beam and seemed to be in rare form that night. Jansen and Crash had returned from their beat and were preparing to check off.
    “Jansen,” bellowed O’Day. “Do you know how to spot a holdup man?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you’re gonna learn.” Allen stood behind the huge book that records all arrests with a smirk on his face.
    “What’s your name, asshole?” said O’Day.
    “Reggie Jones.”
    “Are you married, single, widowed, or divorced?”
    “Divorced, I guess. We don’t have no official paper.”
    “What’s your address?”
    “I move a little from place to place.”
    “So, no fixed address.”
    Talking to himself, O’Day said, “Armed Robbery – gun,” and continued writing on the Arrest Book.
    “Jansen! Back to the cell block,” bellowed O’Day again. Anticipation grew as Allen, a card-carrying redneck, had now joined the odd procession.
    “I don’t want to see this,” said Brady. “You make certain your rookie friend understands these assholes are the exceptions and make our work with the public harder.”
    “I’ll take care of it,” I replied.
    “OK, drop ‘em!” screamed O’ Day as he slammed the holdup man against the cellblock wall. The two old timers smirked as hescreamed the order again; his face flushed, working himself into a cold rage. Allen had taken out his blackjack and was knocking paint chips off the wall, closer and closer to the lock-up’s face.
    In a single movement, O’ Day ripped off the snap and tore the