Enemies List

Back in my elementary school days, it wasn't uncommon for a teacher to leave the kids in the classroom under the watchful eye of a class monitor selected from among the students, while the teacher went off down the hall somewhere to do something infinitely more important than supervising those under her charge. The class monitor was usually someone the teacher could trust, which meant a girl with high grades whom most everyone else disliked for her overbearing nature and the speed with which her hand always shot up to volunteer for the part of the snitch. If anyone talked or left his seat during the teacher's absence, it was the monitor's job to write the name of the offender on the blackboard, so that the teacher would have a list of those deserving of punishment when she returned smelling like cigarettes.

The punishment for ending up on the monitor's list usually wasn't very severe. It was the threat of punishment that tended to keep the kids in line. When a boy wanted to tell his neighbor something of great importance, like the fact that he could see the outline of Samantha Harris' training bra through her shirt, it wasn't the idea of being whacked on the palm with a ruler or having to write sentences that kept his mouth sealed. It was really fear of seeing his name on The List that maintained his good behavior.

The List wasn't just restricted to the blackboard, however. Some teachers kept their own lists while they were in the room. If a student whispered out of turn when he was supposed to be reading or doing classwork, the relative quiet might suddenly be shattered by the teacher's thunderous voice: "MAX! YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND YOURSELF ON MY LIST!!!" Other times there was no warning; the miscreant would think his misbehavior had gone unobserved until just before recess, when suddenly the teacher would call out The List of names: "Joey, Billy, Alan, Bobby and Max, please come up here and see me! Everyone else line up in the hallway for recess!"

The kids quickly learned this listmaking behavior. In fact, they were taught to make lists for various exercises of spelling, science or social studies. "List your favorite things," a teacher might say.

"List your favorite foods."

"List different kinds of animals."

"How many kinds of tree can you list?"

"Make a list of leaders."

"List people you admire."

Of course, the kids quickly learned they could apply this method of categorization and organization of data to their own purposes. For example, discovering one's name on someone's Friends List could be the highlight of the day, unless of course it was the Friends List of one of the Snodgrass brothers, the smelly poor kids who didn't bathe. Then you could count on being tormented at recess for your association with the undesirable element. There were also sex lists, starting in more innocent years as the Pretty Girl List and progressing through the Girls I Like List, Girls I Would Date List and ultimately the Girls I'd Do List in junior high school. If there were positive lists, there also had to be negative ones. There were Ugly Girl Lists and People I Hate Lists.

Not every kid was making all these lists. My point is that The List wasn't uncommon, and it didn't originate in any unhealthy or sinister tendencies among students. Listmaking didn't identify anyone as a problem student or potential criminal, even when they were making Hate Lists. Putting someone's name in writing just created an illusion of some kind of power, like seeing one's name on the chalkboard. "You're on my list," was a vague threat that really didn't mean anything at all.

That brings me to the ultimate Hate List, the Enemies List. In my formative years, Enemies Lists really weren't considered any more sinister than any other kind of lists. It's a natural part of childhood development for a child to begin to categorize the things around him and divide them according to their relationship to him. Having an Enemies List didn't mean a student really intended to do anyone any harm. It was simply another way to process and understand relationships that weren't always positive. I mean, if someone called you names, tried to get you in trouble or punched you in the gut on the playground, why shouldn't you consider him an enemy?

But after a string of high profile school shootings around the country, and especially after the incident at Columbine, bewildered educators and law enforcement officials began looking for the Sure Fire Warning Signs that would positively identify a young mass murderer before he ever took action. Throughout the country, parents who unrealistically expected their kids to be 100% safe at school began to support "Zero Tolerance" policies on this kind of expression. In some places, a kid can actually get arrested for what he's thinking, without ever having actually done anything to anyone. Just the act of categorizing someone as an enemy is enough to get a student expelled from school, despite the fact that the students learn the behavior from their teachers in their early years. Even our own government makes regular use of their own Enemies List of regular citizens they think might be hostile, in order to keep our airports and airlines safe; but if Bobby Teenager does it, he MUST be planning some kind of terrorist attack on his school.

Last week we got a flashy press release from the Chief of Police of a nearby town, which I'll call T-ville for simplicity's sake. T-ville is the county seat, and Chief Axelrod is the same chief mentioned earlier who ran against Sheriff Jones for his county's top cop position and is now rumored to be in the running for a chief position in a much larger city. The heading of the release read, "Terror Plot Avoided at T-ville High School." Then, in smaller letters underneath: "Zero Tolerance Policy Nets Multiple Weapons, 200 Rounds of Ammunition." It was full of Homeland Security buzzwords meant to catch the easily impressed eyes of assignment editors and producers.

Wow! High school terrorists in our own back yard! This has the makings of Story of the Year!

T-ville High is a pretty big school, enrolling 1500 students in grades eight through twelve. Thus, it includes part of the age group usually associated with junior high, with seventh graders graduating directly from middle school to high school. The school itself is a county school, and most of its students live outside the city limits, spread out in rural areas of the county. Since the school is inside the city limits, however, its School Resource Officer (SRO) is a T-ville city cop.

This rural county still maintains many of its old traditions. One of those traditions is for many of the boys to learn to fire their fathers' hunting rifles during their preteen years and accompany their fathers on hunting trips by the time they become teenagers. By their mid teens, it isn't unusual for these boys to go on hunting, fishing and camping trips with their peers and their older brothers, without adult supervision. High schoolers occasionally even go hunting after school for a few hours, and up until Columbine many of them would keep their rifles in their cars to be able to head straight out to the woods together when the bell rang without having to waste time regrouping somewhere else.

The Zero Tolerance Policy on School Violence took care of that; now no weapons of any sort are allowed on school grounds. That's certainly a positive development, but occasionally a kid will forget to take his rifle out of his truck after a weekend of shooting. If he's caught with it, he'll usually face a stern threat from the SRO and a few days suspension to think about it. Usually that's all. The Zero Tolerance Policy also makes it a crime to make "threats against the school, its teachers or other students," even if there's little evidence any such threat will be carried out. What actually constitutes a "threat" is vague.

Nobody has ever been arrested under the Zero Tolerance Policy. Until now.

Mark was still working as my nightside reporter the day this story broke. We were actually working on another story but were reassigned in a flurry of excitement and panic when Chief Axelrod's press release came in during one of the early evening shows. There was no press conference scheduled according to the release, but the Chief would be available most of the evening for interviews and to show us the evidence seized from the young terrorist's home.

We got out there at the same time another station had arrived, so we ended up sharing an interview. Chief Axelrod greeted us with a big smile and handshakes all around, then led us into a rather small room arranged like a classroom. "We can do the interview in here with the evidence, if that's okay with you folks," he said.

There was a large table in the front of the room, on which were displayed a single bolt-action hunting rifle, a small assortment of knives including utility knives for skinning game, a small box of shells for the rifle and a scattering of loose ammunition, most of which were shotgun shells. There was also some cold weather hunting gear, including a mask that would cover most of the hunter's face.

This scene almost immediately irritated me. While it wasn't exactly inaccurate, the press release's promise of "weapons" and "200 rounds of ammunition" brought to mind something much more impressive. I was expecting several guns and lots of bullets, not some kid's regular hunting gear. I began to smell something ugly going on there.

We set up for an interview, Chief Axelrod standing behind the table with his trophies before him. Even though this wasn't supposed to be a press conference, the chief obviously had his remarks prepared and started right into a statement.

"Earlier today Officer Jacobs, my SRO at T-ville High School, was alerted by a teacher to the existence of certain documents indicating that a fourteen year old white male was allegedly planning an attack on other students at the school. Officer Jacobs detained this young man and examined the documents in question. At that time he determined that a threat existed and took the young man into custody. He was removed from the school for the safety of the other students and is currently being held here in our jail pending arraignment.

"Subsequent investigation uncovered the weapons you see here, including two hundred rounds of ammunition. That's enough ammunition to kill or injure this young man's entire class.

"We also seized the young man's computer and discovered an extensive collection of pornographic materials. Our investigators are still sifting through that material to determine if any of it is child pornography or illegal.

"I'm saddened and disgusted by what has happened here today, but I have to commend Officer Jacobs for his quick action to seize control of the situation and remove this threat from our school. I can't release the young man's name to you, since he's a minor, but we have booked him into the jail on charges of making terrorist threats under our Zero Tolerance Policy on School Violence. I'd be happy to take any questions now."

The other station's reporter went first. "You said Officer Jacobs received some documents. What kind of documents were they?"

"This young man had compiled a list of people he intended to do harm," the chief said. "Another student found it and gave it to a teacher, and she passed it on to Officer Jacobs."

"What kind of list was this? Was it just students, or teachers?" the reporter asked.

"It was students," he said. "It had ten or eleven student names on it and said 'Enemies List' at the top. It was in the young man's handwriting, and he admitted writing it."

"Do you have any details on the plot?" asked the reporter. "What was he planning to do?"

"At this time, we have no further information on that, but we're questioning him further to get more details and we'll let you know as we find out more."

I was getting itchy, and Mark was just standing there with his lower lip jutting out, asking no questions at all. There were huge obvious questions that I really wanted to hear answered. I ask questions on my own sometimes when I'm working by myself, but I usually don't speak up when I'm with a reporter, so I kept quiet.

The other reporter continued. "Tell us more about the weapons you seized."

"The rifle is a Remington 223. You may remember that this is the same kind of rifle used in the DC sniper case. There's also two hundred rounds of ammunition and a number of knives. We also discovered camouflaged combat gear, as you can see here."

By this time I was grinding my teeth. The DC snipers did NOT use a Remington, but he was trying to associate this kid with them. I don't know that much about guns myself, but I specifically remembered that they used a Bushmaster. There were also not 200 rounds of .223 ammunition. At least half the pile was shotgun shells, which fit a gun the cops didn't even seize.

"That's all I have," the reporter said, looking at Mark. "You have anything?"

Mark just shrugged his shoulders to indicate he had no questions.

WHAT THE FUCK? I couldn't contain it any longer.

"I have a question," I said. I may have been overstepping my bounds, but something needed to be done.

"Sure, shoot," said the chief.

"You said that's a 223 rifle?" I asked. I was nervous, and I think my voice probably shook a little. Usually the interviews I do by myself are simple little conversations that don't involve challenging the interviewee at all, especially a police chief.

"Yep, it's a Remington 223," he said.

"It looks like there are a bunch of shotgun shells mixed in there. Did you seize a shotgun also?"

"No, those are rounds for another gun," he said.

"Did this kid have a shotgun?"

"No," he said. "They were for his brother's shotgun, but his brother doesn't live there in the house."

"In the kid's house?" I asked.

"Yes, all these weapons were seized on a search warrant for the young man's room."

"Was any of this stuff seized at the school?"

"No, he was keeping it all at his house."

"Did he take any of this stuff to school with him?"

"No, like I said, it was all in his room. Anything else?" The chief was starting to get irritated, and I was starting to lose my nerve. Luckily Mark caught on and saved me.

"So..." he started slowly. "What indication do you have that this boy intended to use these weapons at school?"

"We're still investigating that," the chief said. He glanced over at me menacingly after he said it. I buried my eye in the eyepiece and tried to hide inside the camera.

"Let's go back to this list," Mark said. He was on the scent now. "You said it's an 'Enemies List.' What exactly is that?"

"It's a list of names of people this young man intended to do harm," he said.

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I know you've been over this already, but sometimes I have to hear something a couple of times before it registers." That, coupled with the fact that Mark looks a lot dumber than he really is, disarmed the cop a little. "I hope you'll bear with me a little bit."

"That's okay," the cop said.

"So, this list... Did it say anything else on it besides 'Enemies List'?"

"It just had the names of the victims."

"Victims?" Mark asked. "Did he actually attack any of them?"

The cop revised his position. "No, I should say 'potential victims'."

"What indication did you have that this kid was going to do something to these people?"

"Well, the list itself is enough," the chief said. "Under our Zero Tolerance policy on school violence, threats like this are considered sufficient to establish that a threat exists to the safety of the school."

"So there wasn't actually a threat to the students?" Mark was on it now.

"Well, sure there was!" the cop defended. "Some kid makes a list of people and calls it an 'Enemies List', that's threat enough!" He was off balance. Mark can sneak up on you like that if you assume he's stupid.

"About this camouflage," Mark shifted the subject. "You called that combat gear earlier, but isn't that more like hunting camo? The jacket even has the orange strip on it."

"It could be used for hunting," the cop said.

"So it's not really military gear?"

"Uh, no, but you could use it that way."

"To camouflage yourself in a school?" Mark asked. I almost laughed out loud at that.

"To... As... As part of the whole intimidation factor," the cop stammered.

"I guess that's all I have," Mark said.

"I have another question," I jumped in. The cop just nodded at me. "You said you were searching his computer for child pornography. Do you have any reason to believe that he's involved in child pornography in some way?"

"No, we have no reason to believe he's involved in it, but it's pretty much standard procedure to look for it. We, uh, we actually didn't seize the computer to look for pornography. That's not what the warrant was for. We were looking for emails or plans relating to an attack on the school."

"Did you find any?" Mark jumped in.

"Not at this time," he said. "But we have some specialists working on the computer to recover any files he may have deleted."

"So how much porno did you actually find?" I asked.

"There was quite a bit of it in his cache," the cop said.

"So it wasn't actually saved on his computer?"

"No, it was saved in the cache."

Holy shit this guy is full of crap, I thought. At this point I was really angry for this kid. The evidence against him consisted of an Enemies List with no other specific threats, his hunting gear and porno on his computer. Take away the Enemies List, and the other two items are perfectly normal for a rural fourteen year old. I would actually be a little concerned if he weren't looking at porn. Perhaps by his age he should have outgrown the interest in making an Enemies List, but not everybody grows up at the same rate. It certainly wasn't evidence that he intended to shoot these other kids, despite the school's Zero Tolerance Policy.

About this time I think the cop began to realize this whole thing wasn't turning into the public relations triumph for which he was hoping. Suddenly his attitude changed, and he tried to get out of the predicament by playing the good cop hamstrung by unreasonably harsh laws.

"Look," he said. "I have to enforce the laws we have. The law says we have Zero Tolerance for school violence, and that includes threats or potential threats to other students. This law is important for keeping our kids safe. What we don't want is to ignore the warning signs and end up with another Columbine. Hopefully now we can get this young man the help he needs. I think that's about all."

And thus concluded our interview. What a weasel.

The kid spent the night in jail, but the next day his parents, the school and the prosecutor worked out a deal to keep him out of court. The prosecutor apparently thought the whole thing was bullshit also. He mentioned to another of our reporters that he thought this was nothing but a publicity stunt for the chief to get his face on television. Then again, the prosecutor is a good friend of Sheriff Jones, so one might be wise to take what he says about Jones' political enemy with a grain of salt.

Things didn't go so well with the school. The kid was asked not to return. He now has to attend another school in the county, which will force his parents to drive him 30 minutes to school each morning.

I have to give Mark kudos on his handling of the story that night. While the other station used the inflammatory rhetoric from the press release and from the beginning of Chief Axelrod's interview to perpetuate a story that didn't exist, Mark said, "I don't want to do this story, but Wendy's gonna make me." He then put together a fair picture of what happened, focusing on the actual offense and highlighting Axelrod's good cop act at the end, letting it seem as though the chief's hands were tied even though the kid really did little wrong. My instinct would have been to make the chief look like the idiot he is; but I'm sure Chief Axelrod was watching, and Mark's story allowed him to save face so that we can maintain a professional and cooperative relationship with his department.

As for me, I suspect that I'm now on Chief Axelrod's Enemies List.

Delays, Delays

I'm busy. Sue me.

I've mentioned before that this blog isn't the only project that demands my attention. I do this as a diversion from other things that are going on. I enjoy writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it, and I appreciate all the positive feedback I've received. However, given the length of some of these posts (which is usually necessary to properly relate the story), you can probably imagine that it takes a considerable chunk of time to write them. Unfortunately, from the comments I've read lately, it appears I can't keep up with the demand; so the demand will have to simply wait for the supply.

Major developments I have every intention of sharing in the near future include:

The live truck is back, thanks to Jake the Engineer's fine handiwork.

Sarah is back on nightside after a couple of weeks of "help" with her writing.

Lynn isn't talking to me any more because I'm a lying bastard.

Please look forward to those and more, or as my Japanese friends would say, "Otanoshimini!"*

Meanwhile, why not expand your knowledge? For instance, you could learn all about absinthe, the Devil's own liquor. Or you could check out a giant, flying soccer ball. Use one to fuel your dreams about the other, and by the time you come back down maybe I'll have something new for you to read here.

*I actually don't have any Japanese friends. But I know at least one Japanese word, and by God I used it!

So why haven't you written about it?

I've been hiding from the obvious story I should be telling: What happened after the St. Patrick's Day Incident? These other stories about dead obese women and crazy sheriffs are probably just meaningless, empty diversions, placeholders for what people really want to read. A number of obstacles have stood between me and the telling of the real story, one of which being that I haven't spoken with Kat since she returned home from her visit here.

Last night, however, I received an email from her.

"So why haven't you written about it?" she wrote. That single line is a prompt, a permission and likely a plea. So I'll relate to Kat, and the rest of the world, how I see what happened.

Picking up where I left off:

Kat and I sat up for quite a while that night talking and waiting for Joe to return. Her mood had improved, and our conversation got so far off the issue hanging in the room that at times it seemed like we had forgotten it. By midnight we were laughing and reminiscing in a way we hadn't been able the entire time she had been here, since the two of us had had virtually no time alone together just to talk.

Kat glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. "Don't you have to be at work in the morning?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I should probably get to bed soon."

"Don't wait up on my account," she said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna sit up a while and wait."

"Where the hell could he have gone?" I wondered aloud.

"Who knows. He's weird."

"You think he's okay?" I asked. I didn't really want to go look for him, but it made me a little uncomfortable that he had been gone for hours with no word.

"He's fine. He does this," she said.

With that, I retired to my room. Despite everything that happened, I was pretty exhausted, so I drifted off to sleep fairly quickly.

About 2:30 I awoke when my bedroom door opened. Kat was standing in the doorway.

"What's wrong?" I said.

Her voice told me she had been crying again. "I don't want to sleep alone," she said. "Can I stay in here with you?"

"Joe didn't come back?" I asked.

"No," she said, her voice lilting upward as she tried not to cry. "Please," she whispered.

"What if Joe comes back?" I asked

"I don't care." In fact, she didn't have to worry about that at all. By that time, that idiot was in a hotel several hours away. When Joe left my house, he walked to the shopping center down the street, got a cab out to the airport and rented a car to drive back by himself. He fucking left her there, the bastard.

"Please," she said.

"Okay," I said, "But I'm in my underwear. Let me get up and put on--"

"I don't care," she said, as she was already slipping under my comforter. She pressed herself against me, burying her head in my shoulder. She was wearing her sweats. I was at a distinct disadvantage, but something about the situation felt too fragile to risk breaking away from her.

I held her like that for a while, listening to her breathing become more calm. Her hair smelled great. I could feel her heart pounding against my ribs. Certain parts of my body responded in a predictable manner, but I was resolved not to take advantage of this situation.

Unfortunately she was not so resolved.

I'd like to say that I remained the perfect gentleman. Absent that ability, I would like to say that it was beautiful and tender. I could probably say it anyway to make a better story, but Kat would know I'm lying. I can at least say that I didn't make the first move, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it.

It was terrible. I was terrible. It seemed like both of us were all knees and elbows. Our bodies just didn't seem to fit together. Our timing was all off. It was over almost before it started. Unfortunately neither one of us wanted to leave it at that, so we tried again two more disastrous times before giving up in an awkward tension that left us laying on opposite sides of my tiny bed, our backs to each other, each trying not to steal too much of the comforter from the other while keeping a thin demilitarized zone between us. We came as physically close to each other as two people can get, and yet the entire time we've been friends I never felt more distant from Kat than I did that night.

That Saturday morning I left her sleeping and slinked off to work in a guilty stupor. All day I kept thinking what a betrayal I had perpetrated on Lynn. We weren't "officially" dating, but I still knew this was wrong. To make things worse, Lizzie, Lynn's friend, picked up on my mood almost immediately and asked me several times during the day why I was so quiet. I couldn't exactly tell her.

I decided pretty quickly that this was not something Lynn needed to know about (which presented the other major obstacle to relating it here). The reader is probably thinking, "Duh, no shit, moron." Unfortunately, however, while "what she don't know won't hurt her," I have a hard time dealing with my own guilt in situations like that. When I've done something wrong, I have a sense that I should be punished for it. I resolved to make it up to her, even if she never knew the truth, by being the best man I could be for her from that time forward.

The other pressing issue, how to face Kat later that night, was solved for me. She, her car and all her stuff were gone when I got home. I hadn't talked to her since then, but in characteristic Kat fashion she emailed me last night almost as if nothing had happened. She explained what happened to Joe, thanked me for letting her stay and said she had a good time. The only reference she made to our mistake was that one line at the end of her message:

"So, why haven't you written about it?"

I hadn't written about it because I was afraid I had lost my friend. I truly hope that's not the case.

Unfortunately I did lose my girlfriend. I'll save that part of it for another day.

Sheriff Jones

Lizzie and I went out to the county seat of a neighboring county Sunday to cover a spring fair. The fair itself wasn't supposed to start until 1pm, to give everyone time to get there after church; but we headed over early with the idea that we would grab lunch first, get there right as it started and get back in plenty of time to put something together for the evening show.

Upon arriving in town, we cruised by the park where the festival was being set up, just to get a lay of the land. This was around 11:30, and there were still people erecting tents and scurrying around to get everything ready. At one end of the park, a couple of sheriff's deputies had their cruisers parked up on the grass facing opposite directions, with the driver's side windows facing each other so they could talk without leaving their vehicles. The town also has its own municiple police force, and we found a couple of its officers at the other end of the park, leaning against their cars and chatting. I thought it was interesting that they segregated themselves that way. The deputies had ignored us, but the city cops eyeballed the Hate Van as we cruised by. I'm sure a white, unmarked cargo van is always suspicious, especially when it drives slowly through an area without stopping. But they apparently decided we weren't terrorists and went back to their conversation.

Satisfied with the reconnaissance, Lizzie said, "Let's eat!" We headed back toward the middle of town to find this little home cooking place Lizzie wanted me to try. As I stopped at a red light right off Main Street, we suddenly felt a jolt.

"What the--?" I said. I looked into my rear view mirror to see that a large gray Suburban had bumped into us. "That guy just hit us!" I said.

Not again. I was already having flashbacks as I jumped out of the van. I was pretty mad. But as I approached the Suburban, I noticed the two old guys inside were laughing hysterically. I stopped and just stared at them. "What the fuck?" I thought. The driver rolled down his window.

"You need to get that heap a' shit out the road before you get a ticket!" the man said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "You HIT me!"

"Seems to me that you hit ME," the guy said. "I's just sittin' here waitin' for the light to change, and you just backed right into me. I gotta witness right here."

"That's right," said the passenger. "Just backed right into us. Wasn't nothin' we could do!"

"You guys are crazy!" I said.

"Best watch yourself, young man," said the driver. "You might need to cool off that temper at the county jail."

By this time Lizzie was standing on the other side of the Suburban, where the passenger had rolled down his window. She was laughing. I was thoroughly confused.

"Sheriff, you better leave my photog alone," she said. I slowly began to realize what was going on. This was Sheriff Jones driving the Suburban. I finally recognized him from having seen him on our own newscasts, but I had never met him myself. He had been over at the park and had recognized Lizzie when we passed.

"Tell 'im he needs to get that junker outta the road, else I'm gonna have it towed!" The three of them laughed, while I stood there bewildered.

Sheriff Jones is an older guy, probably in his 60s. He's a good old boy with a deep voice and a country style that people like despite the fact that it's obviously all a big act. He has connections to just about anybody of importance in the area; the guy sitting next to him in his truck was actually a county judge.

He also understands the dynamics of rural politics. During the last election year he caused a bit of a ruckus when word came out that he had told all his deputies not to write any more speeding tickets, because speed traps discourage votes. Never mind that the county had come to count on that revenue for certain projects. The sheriff's prospects for reelection might have been damaged by the loss of that money when certain county commissioners in the enemy camp tried to pin the county's budget shortfall on him. The tactic backfired on them, however, when Sheriff Jones reminded them that state law prohibits counties and municipalities from basing their budgets on income from fines.

In reality, every city and county in this state still budget for ticket revenue and set quotas with their traffic officers, pretty much ignoring the law. But the Sheriff managed to play off that law so well that the commissioners in question actually lost their seats in their next election, after he convinced the voters that they were actually the ones to blame for the budget shortfall because of their own ineptitude with the citizens' hard earned tax money. He came out of it looking like a hero who was doing the voters a favor by not harrassing them on county roads while fighting waste and corruption in the county seat.

"What the devil are you guys doing?" Lizzie asked.

"We're on our way to dinner," the sheriff said. "Why aren't you in church, young lady?"

"I'm workin'," she said, dropping into a kind of sympathy drawl to match his style. "Why aren't YOU in church?"

"Won't do any good," he grinned. "At my age, I'm already a lost cause."

The three of them laughed, but I wasn't quite sure how to act. I was still angry at having been hit, especially after the accident in the live truck from a few weeks ago. The sheriff had only bumped us, so there wasn't any damage. Even if there were, the Hate Van is so banged up we wouldn't have been able to tell. Still, I can't just change gears from angry to happy on demand, regardless of who it is.

"What're y'all doin' out here?" the sheriff asked.

"We're coverin' the fair," Lizzie said.

"That's not your story," said the sheriff. "I got a better one for you."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Well," he started, his voice taking a little more dramatic tone. "'Sources say' that the police chief here in town is up for another chief job out of state."

"What sources are saying that?" Lizzie asked.

"Well, I am, for one," he said. "But you can't quote me on that."

"Who can I quote?"

"Why don't you quote 'sources who wish to remain anonymous.'"

"You know this for sure?"

"I have some paperwork on my desk that'll prove it. And you can always ask him yourself."

Now this was interesting. There was a lot of bad blood between the sheriff and the police chief during that last election, because the police chief actually ran against Sheriff Jones and was backed by the same commissioners the Sheriff effectively escorted out of their seats. Anybody taking on this story would have to tread carefully to make sure the sheriff isn't using her.

"So who can I get an interview with on this?" Lizzie asked.

"Why don't you come by my office some time in the next few days and we'll sit down and talk about it," he said.

"You can't talk to me about it today?" she asked.

"Not right now," he said. "The Judge and I have folks waitin' for us. But you come on by this week and you'll get your story. It ain't goin' nowhere."

"You're not gonna run off and tell somebody else about it first, are you?" Lizzie asked.

"No darlin'," he said. "It's ALL yours."

"All right, I'll try to come by tomorrow."

"That's fine," he said. Then he glanced over at me. "And tell your cameraman he needs to be more careful with his drivin' before I haul him off to jail."

I saw him laughing as he pulled around me, nearly hitting me as I was trying to get back into the van. Then he cut in front of us and squealed the tires as he gunned it out onto Main Street. Crazy bastard.

We covered the fair, but it was pretty obvious that Lizzie's mind wasn't on it. She was excited, but it was clear she was also irritated at having gotten a taste of something she couldn't have yet. I was actually excited about it also, until I realized that since Lizzie works dayside during the week, I won't get to work on it.

Dammit.