Cops And Robbers

It was a scene out of a bad movie, really. A really bad movie, not just your average bad movie. Like those "Lethal Weapon" massacres, the type of movie where bodies just get stacked up, and the death of people does not mean a damn thing. The type of movie that involves car chases and such, shoot outs on highways and byways, the kind of movie that she always begged her students not to see, the kind that she hated!

She felt her fury rise again, and she stomped her foot to control, making some of the police officers crowding around cast glances her way. There were probably a hundred plus of them, with two massive trucks and two equally imposing vans, probably over twenty police cars with their lights going, a helicopter hovering overhead to shine its powerful spotlights down, and many more unmarked cars blocking the road. The neighbors were out in force now, and she walked next door to Jamie's house to avoid the commotion.

It was well past bedtime for Alex and Sandra, the couple's two children, but they would not be sleeping anyway, so Matthew and Jamie had the two of them sitting on the porch swing, while their parents enjoyed a late cup of tea, watching the spectacle play itself out. Matt saw her coming, smiled and stood to get her a cup as well, making room for the woman to sink down onto the porch next to her best friend, who wrapped an arm around her.

"Want to tell me what happened?"

"You are going to laugh like you have never laughed before." Mary closed her eyes, taking herself back, and then told the most bizarre tale.

Not only did she dislike most popular movies, but television as well. So she did not watch it at night, prefer the company of a good book, her current interest being a title by a Mr. McLynn, writing about Britain's ascendancy to the top of the world in the 18th century. Being single and a homeowner, she did these things in the comfort of her own bed, in her own house, in whatever she damn well pleased, which had not been a whole lot tonight.

The book had pulled her in deep, and she had not realized that it was coming close to ten o'clock, her normal bedtime. Being a teacher required her to be at school no later then 6:45 a.m., and that meant she had to get up around five if she wanted to get a good morning run in. Sleep was a must.

But as she put down the book, forcing herself the way she always had to when she got wrapped up, there was something not right. She was not sure what it was, and as she got up to check the house before turning of the last of the lights, her world had collapsed.

Actually, it had exploded, as her front door was battered down at the same time as her back door burst inward. Her home alarm shrieked like a thousand banshees, and she had dashed for the phone, Maggie, her faithful dog coming to her side and barking loudly, as if to announce that not everything was right and good, the way the little dachshund liked it.

She grabbed the dog and jumped over the bed, the cordless phone dead in her hand. What the hell! She knew for a fact that it had worked earlier, when she had spoken with her mother! Frantically she tried to remember where she had left her cell phone, when the door to her bedroom flew open, and four men fanned out across the room.

"GET YOUR HANDS UP!"

"DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!"

The woman before them did not respond, did not do anything but crouch down, shielding herself from the harsh lights mounted beneath the men's weapons, and cried out, screaming as the dog went crazy, barking and going in circles. They were still screaming, but she was covering herself, curled up in a fetal ball, a sudden announcement over their radios making the men stop in their tracks, and then an uncomfortable silence settled over the room, the only noise the sobbing of the woman, and the barking of the dog. Even the alarm had stopped, as if realizing what had just happened.

The one that was clearly their leader pointed to one of the men, then the others turned and stormed back out of the room, and she heard them running out the front door along with many more. Her eyes were still closed, and she wondered if this was it, if she would be raped in her own home by men with guns, and how do such things happen in America? This was not Iraq, Pakistan, or any other third world shit hole where violence against women is an acceptable past time, and where the presence of firearms in polite conversation is a social requirement.

"Ma'am?" The man backed up slowly to the door, and hit the light switch, his weapon now dangling from the sling. He removed his helmet, goggles, and then pulled the flash and fire resistant baklava down, exposing his face and eyes. "Ma'am?"

"Huh?"

"I'm going to turn around and take a few steps down the stairs. If you could please do me a favor and put some…some clothes on?" There was a hesitation in his voice, and something oddly familiar. She made something that sounded like an affirmative noise, and she heard him walk out.

Slowly rising, she pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then slipped into her flats and slowly approached the door. The young man turned around, and the two starred at each other for a second, then his lips unmistakably formed the words 'oh shit.'

"Markus Branden!"

"Yes, ma'am…"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!" It was not so much a question as a statement, a statement that he, and all his friends with all their guns and gear, should not be there. The young man backed up, almost tripping over the dog now harping at his heels, and backed down the stairs, his hands up in a rather defensive posture.

"Ah…ma'am….ahhh…please stay where you are!" He turned suddenly, and ran out the door, dropping his helmet and pulling the mask back up as he went. Mary slowly descended the stairs, then stepped out the front door, her eyes not at all surprised by the chaos she witnessed. Nothing could surprise her after that.

"They hit the wrong house." Matt handed her a cup of tea, green, with a spoonful of honey. He was a lawyer, and a stickler for details, the kind of man that would always remember how you took your tea or coffee, and always prepare it perfectly. It put you at ease before he cut your jugular in the divorce trials that he specialized in. Maybe that was why he was so perfect to his wife, having seen the damage that divorce can do a thousand times over.

"What do you mean?" Jamie scooted over to give her husband room, and he sat down next to her on the step down from their porch, watching him point down the road to the house on the other side of Mary's.

"They've dragged six people out of 4498. All of them cuffed, so probably all bad guys. They didn't take anything out of Mary's house, we hope. So they probably hit the wrong house, realized their error all of a sudden, and adjusted. I wonder how much drugs got flushed down the toilet before they made it in there."

"That kind of thing happen often?" By virtue of the fact that he had a J.D., Mary assumed that the man knew about such things. That and he had successfully represented lots of cops, who apparently got divorced a lot.

"More then it should."

"You said you knew the kid, the one that stayed behind."

"Yeah. Markus Branden, class of 2000. Great talent, that one. Should have gone to college, but no, he wanted to be in the army, or something like that. Well, I guess he's a cop now. He won the North Carolina Junior Writers contest that year, and took the trip to Raleigh with me."

They watched as one of the trucks accepted two more suspects, then turned, and slowly rolled down the busy street. All the neighbors were out now, and they waved back and forth at each other. Finally several patrol officers came around and asked everybody to come down to the street, where they gathered behind an unmarked car around a man in a cheap suit. His blond shock of hair looked like he styled it by sticking his finger in a socket, and the massive handle bar mustache didn't look much better. He smelled of coffee and cigarettes, and he did not make any friends when he put out the smoke he was enjoying by mashing it in his sole, then flicking it down onto the street. The residents of Morrow Lane took pride in their neighborhood.

"Sorry to wake you folks up at this time of night. Apologize for all the commotion, noise and lights and such. But we want you folks to know that earlier tonight the Highway Interdiction and Traffic Safety Squad, your HITS team, the one's that keep 485 and all that safe, they arrested a man by name of Lyle Howell. He was speeding 105 in a 65 up where 485 and 77 meet. So anyways, he had a trunk full of goodies, and during a search incident to his arrest, it was discovered. After which he could not wait to tell us where he got it, which is where your neighbors come in."

He reached into the car behind him and pulled out a copy of the search warrant, waving it around. "He claimed to have purchased his drugs from here, and to have done so consistently over the last couple of years. Working of his information, we put together an immediate raid package, and together with several agents from some federal agencies, conducted this operation tonight, resulting in seven arrests, and the confiscation of an arsenal of firearms, a drug lab, and an as of yet unmeasured amount of finished drug product. You can go back to bed tonight knowing that your streets are safer, and your neighborhood now free of drugs."

There was a murmur in the crowd and he smiled, waving his hands across the rest of the street. "Now…it is understandable that these type of things place strains and stresses upon communities. From what I saw in that house, the Williamsons would appear to be a totally normal family, unless you go in the basement, crack their safe, or dig in their closets. But I assure you that nobody else on this street is suspected of any crimes, or under any investigations. So I hope you all paid your taxes." He smiled, and several people laughed. The crowd slowly broke up, and Mary turned to walk back up to her house when she felt a tap on her shoulder, turning to face the massive man mountain that had earlier led the assault into her bedroom. He motioned her over towards the remaining van, and she followed him, waving Jamie to do the same.

The members of the SWAT team looked hulking and brutish, all dressed in black, with their bulky vests with the words "POLICE" and "SWAT" emblazed on them in white and yellow letters. They all had pistols strapped to their legs and various rifles and shotguns hanging from their bodies. Some had removed their helmets, but most had kept them on, looking even more like robots and boot strapped government storm troopers that her father was always ranting about.

The man walked around to the backside of the truck, where two men in suits were chain smoking, as evidenced by the small pile of cigarettes between their feet, and Markus was leaning against a black Suburban, his eyes closed.

"Mrs. Williamson it is?"

"Ms."

"Sorry, hi, I'm Special Agent James Bradbury, Federal Bureau of Investigation." He pulled out his credentials and badge and she went to wave them away, but then thought better of it. She was pretty sure that in this entire circus the man was the real thing, but how often do you get to see a real FBI agent?

"What can I do for you, Mr. Bradbury?"

"Ma'am, I would like to apologize for us kicking down your door…" He stopped when Jamie and Matt stepped behind the truck, and the team leader went to shoo them away when Mary put her hand up, making him stop. The cops exchanged looks, and then Matt stepped forward, offering his hand in the smooth, glib way that lawyers always do, smiling at the man. "Matthew Witten, we've met before, you probably don't remember."

"No, I don't…"

"I represented one of your agents at his divorce trial last year. Special Agent Donald Picker."

"Ohh, yeah…" The man's face lit up, then fell when he realized that a lawyer was present. That was not part of the plan. "How do you…"

"We live next door." Matt smiled, and James saw his stock decline even further. The ass chewing he saw coming his way at 110 miles per hour would be one for the books.

"Well…Ms. Williamson as I was saying, I would like to greatly apologize for us kicking down your door earlier. We will obviously replace it, along with the back door, and I will have your alarm panel box replaced, no cost to you, of course. Ahh…"

"Can you tell me why you burst through my door?"

"I'll field that one." The second cop now spoke, clearly to the irritation of James, who shot him a look that was past dirty. It was filthy.

"When the information first came in about a possible drug lab, we called in all component parts of the Violent Crime Task Force. There was an FBI agent not to far away, having just finished up an interview in an unrelated case. He came down and scoped out the scene, then marked the yard with an IR marker that would allow our drivers and pilots to see which house to hit through night vision devices."

James looked liked he might have an aneurism at any moment now, but the older man ignored him. "Anyways, the agent marked the wrong house. I guess he got 4496 and 4498 confused. You have my deepest apologies."

The SWAT team leader cleared his throat, and Mary turned to look at him, having to tilt her head up to do so. "Ma'am, I just wanted to…ahhh…." He looked over at Markus, and the kid smiled, then shrugged his shoulders.

"I just want to apologize, as well."

"Apology accepted." Out of the three, he seemed the most sincere, so she even smiled at him.

Special Agent Bradbury handed her his card, and told her to call him to set up a time for his people to come out and fix the door. He did not get a smile, or a verbal acceptance of apology. The last man in his rumpled suit did not get a smile, either, he was obviously trying to throw Bradbury under the bus, but he got a verbal acknowledgement.

Markus pushed away from the car when she walked back towards her house and followed her for a couple of steps, then fell in next to her. "I'll help you right your door."

"Why thank you, young man."

"I feel really bad for the way we bust in on you like that."

"As you should."

"I'm really sorry."

He walked through the house, and assessed the damage at the back door. Mickelson, one of the biggest members of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department's team had hit the door with a battering ram right by the lock, knocking it out of the wooden door and crushing part of the frame. "You are going to need a new door, and possibly a frame. While you are at it, I would recommend making the FBI spring for a steel frame, more secure."

He pushed the door back into the frame, then bent part of the lock with a multi tool he produced from one of the many pockets on his gear, and motioned for one of the chairs she had situated around her kitchen table. She picked it up and carried it over, and he jammed it underneath the handle, pinning the door in place.

"That should hold, at least for a bit. Doubt any robbers hanging out anywhere near here right now."

He walked back to the front of the house, and together they surveyed her front door. Here they had used a hooligan tool, a long metal rod with two teeth that are inserted by the look, and is used to pry the door open. He managed to push the lock that had been ripped out of the wood back in, and advised her to lock her screen door from the inside once he left.

"Ahh…Ms Williamson?"

"Yes, Markus?"

"Nevermind." He turned around, and she could see by the red on the back of his neck that he was blushing.

"What?" Stepping up close to the young man, she poked him in the ribs, something she used to do when he was a juvenile delinquent with way too much talent for his own damn good. Hurt her more than him, she realized, as her finger bent at an uncomfortable angle as it struck his trauma plate.

"Nothing, it's nothing." He pulled the door shut, pushed on it gently, and looked around the edges, seemingly satisfied with his handiwork.

"You were going to say something. What was it?" She took a step back when he turned around and faced her, her suspicion about his face born out when he was beet red.

"Okay…earlier…and I feel really bad for this…god, I can't believe I'm going to tell you this…okay. When we stormed into the room, my light hit you. I recognized you right away. It was like out of a bad dream, combined with all the dreams I had in high school. And finally, after all those dreams, I got to see you in the buff."

"You used to dream about me being naked?" Despite a Masters Degree in English, Mary sometimes could not keep up with the male mind.

"Who said anything about used to?"

He smiled again and turned around, checking her door once more before pronouncing it good. "You make sure to lock the screen door, ma'am." He smiled again, then stepped down off the step, looked back one last time, then jogged down the hill towards the waiting van filled with his companions. She watched him go, then closed the door. Wow.

Her brush with the law fascinated everybody at work, and many people asked if she was going to sue. Apparently the story was featured in the Charlotte Observer, even though they used a picture of the house that held the lab, not hers. So when she got home, it was a steady stream of phone calls, including the aforementioned newspaper, which wanted to do an interview for a follow up story.

She had called the FBI while at work, and true to their word, the repair crew showed up on the dot at 4 p.m., and ripped the old frames out and replaced them with steel ones that they then painted to match her house. One of them replaced her old, and in his words "way outdated", security box with a new, much scarier looking one. They also explained that the FBI had cut her phone line yesterday during the raid, and then restored service last night, explaining the outage.

But it was over now, so when her boyfriend called, she was able to answer, pinching the phone between her head and shoulder as she sat in her kitchen, trying to get some work done. "Hey you."

"Good to see you live in a good neighborhood." He lived on a golf course.

"Oh please. Don't give me that."

"What's all that noise?"

"Well, they used a battering ram on my back door, and a hooligan tool on my front, so the FBI is replacing my doors and frames. And they bashed in my alarm box, so they are rebuilding that, too." She felt very wise able to explain all this to him after listening to Markus describe it yesterday.

"Wow. You know…I wish you would call me when these things happen."

"Honey, I'm sorry, I didn't think about it yesterday. I was getting ready to get in bed, and then suddenly, like, like BOOM, and there are all these storm troopers in my house. By the time it was all over I was so drained, I just went to bed. I'm sorry."

"You were getting ready to get in bed?"

"Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. I was butt naked, and then these four guys burst in. I don't think they saw anything, they were really nice about it, but one of them was a student of mine!"

"What?!?"

"Well, he graduated a while back, but now he's a cop! And he was like 'that was like a dream come true.' I bet he would have played with me and handcuffs!" Ryan was averse to that fantasy of hers, for reasons she did not fully understand.

"I have to go." The sudden shift in voice did not escape her, and she realized that something had gone wrong in that conversation.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'll call you later, okay?" The phone went dead in her hand, and she dropped it to the table. What was that all about?

"Ms Williamson?" The voice tore through her introspection, and she looked up to see Markus leaning through the door into the kitchen. He was holding his helmet in his hand, which he had left outside her bedroom last night. "I just came by to pick this up."