"Head of investigations…"

"So who am I riding with?" Brazil interrupted, so eager to ride with the police, he couldn't contain himself.

"You're to meet West at four this afternoon, in her office, will ride with her until midnight."

Brazil had just been screwed and couldn't believe it. He stared at his editor, who had just failed the only thing Brazil had ever expected of him.

"No way I'm being baby sat censored by the brass!" Brazil exclaimed and didn't care who heard.

"I didn't go to their damn academy to… "

Packer didn't care who heard for a different reason. He had been a complaint department for the past thirty years, here and at home, and his attention span tended to flicker in and out as he mentally drove through different cells, picking up garbled snippets of different conversations. He suddenly recalled what his wife had said at breakfast about stopping for dog food on the way home. He remembered he had to take his wife's puppy to the veterinarian at three for some sort of shot, then Packer had a doctor's appointment after that.

"Don't you understand?" Brazil went on.

"They're just handling me.

They're just trying to use me for PR! "

Packer got up. He towered wearily over Brazil like a weathered tree gathering more shadow the older it grows.

"What can I say?" Packer said, and his shirt was untucked again.

"We've never done this before. It's what the cops, the city, are offering. You'll have to sign a waiver. Take notes. No pictures. No videotapes. Do what you're told. I don't want you getting shot out there."

"Well, I've got to go back home to change into my uniform," Brazil decided.

Packer walked off, hitching up his pants, heading to the men's room.

Brazil slumped back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling as if the only stock he owned had just crashed. Panesa watched him through glass, interested in how he was going to turn this around, and convinced he would.