Page 65 of Rules of Engagement

"It's the information that's going to put you, Mikey Gibbs, inside the big house for the rest of your life."

"Inside the what?" Mikey asked.

"Are you serious?" asked Garrett. "Inside. Prison. Jail. The big house!"

"Naw, man."

"Yes, man!" Garrett slapped his hand on the table and the twitching man jumped before slumping in defeat again. "We have enough evidence to ensure you won't see sunlight for more than an hour a day for a very, very long time."

"I can do a year. No problem. I don't like living on the outside anyway," Mikey mumbled.

"It won't be a year, Mikey, no, it will be years. As in decades. You shot a man, Mikey."

"Says who?"

Garrett extended a forefinger and tapped the file. "Says all the evidence, Mikey. We already have the gun you were carrying, without a permit, I might add, and ballistics are testing it now. So, here's what's going to happen. You have until the time when I receive a report that tells me everything I need to know. I'll throw in a good word for the judge and tell them how you cooperated. That might shave a few years off your sentence, and you might get to see your mom before she dies..."

"She's already dead."

"What about your dad?"

"Wherever he is," mumbled Mikey. His eyelids began to droop. The moment Garrett slammed his hand on the table, he jerked upright, wide awake again.

"I don't care what you want outta life," said Garrett, "but I'm trying to make it crystal clear to you that you're never going to see it again. You're being charged with attempted murder and a bunch of lesser charges. You've got a single chance right now to make a deal that could result in sparing your pitiful life, or else I'm gonna come down on you like a ton of..."

"Shit?"

"Bricks, Mikey. Bricks!" Garrett pulled out the chair and sat down heavily. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. "Start talking, Mikey. Tell me why you shot a man when he appeared at his own front door."

"I never shot no one..."

"Cut the crap! When we picked you up an hour ago, you had a gun stuck in your waistband, one that matches the bullets the surgeons pulled out of John Solomon a couple of days ago. Now, I don't see any connection between the two of you, so what I want to know is, why did you shoot him?"

"Maybe I ain't got no reason."

"So you did shoot him?"

"Wait! I never said nothin’ about shootin’ no black dude."

"How did you know what color he was? I didn't say."

"You did! You said!"

"No, Mikey, I did not. Why'd you do it?"

"I..."

"Two shots. Two shots point blank to his chest. You were seen fleeing the scene on a motorcycle, the one we found dumped down by the train tracks near Frederickstown."

"Ain’t mine."

"We know it's not yours! It was reported stolen two days before you rode it into Chilton and shot a man at point blank range!" yelled Garrett, leaning in closer. With his back to us, I couldn't see the expression on his face but I was sure it must have been menacing. Mikey didn't seem to think so. He smiled lazily at Garrett before looking around the room, his eyes flitting too quickly to notice any details.

"I don't have a motorcycle license," he said.

"Well, then, you're free to go," said Garrett, throwing his hands in the air. "We have obviously made a huge mistake. You don't have a motorcycle license and you don't own the motorcycle that we have on video of you riding. You can go home now. So sorry for any inconvenience. Sit! Down!" he yelled when Mikey started to stand up to leave. "Don't you know what sarcasm is?" he shouted. "I don't give two shits that you don't have a motorcycle license. I found your wallet next to the burned out motorcycle and you, in case you hadn't noticed, still stink of kerosene."

Mikey sniffed and shrugged.

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