Night Prey

CHAPTER
29

Koop was in Modigliani's Wine amp; Spirits off Lyndale Avenue when the cops got him. His arm was actually in the cold box, pulling out a six-pack of Budweiser, when a red-faced man in a cheap gray suit said, "Mr. Koop?" Koop realized a large black man had stepped to his elbow, and a uniformed cop was standing by the door. They'd appeared as if by magic; as if they had a talent for it, popping out of nowhere.

Koop said, "Yeah?" And straightened up. His heart beat a little faster.

"Mr. Koop, we're Minneapolis police officers," the red-faced man said. "We're placing you under arrest."

"What for?"

Koop stood flat-footed, hands in front of him, forcing himself to be still. But his back and arm muscles were twitching, ready to go. He'd thought about this possibility, at night, when he was waiting to go to sleep, or watching television. He'd thought about it a lot, a favorite nightmare.

Resisting a cop could bring a heavier charge than anything else they might have on you. In the joint, they warned you that if the cops really wanted you, and you gave them a chance, they just might blow you away. Of course, it was mostly the spooks that said that. White guys didn't see it the same way. But everybody agreed on one thing: your best shot was a decent defense attorney.

The red-faced cop said, "I think you know."

"I don't know," Koop protested. "You're making a mistake. You've got the wrong guy." He glanced toward the door. Maybe he should make a run for it. The red-faced guy didn't look like that much. The black guy he could outrun, and he'd take the guy at the door like a bowling pin. He had the power… but he didn't know what was outside. And these guys were armed. He sensed the cops were waiting for something, were looking at him for a decision. Everything in the store was needle-sharp, the rows of brown liquor bottles and green plastic jugs of mix, stacks of beer cans, the tops of potato chip bags, the black-and-white checkered tiles on the floor. Koop tensed, felt the cops pull into themselves. They were ready for him, and not particularly scared.

"Turn around, please, and place your hands on the top of the cooler," Red-face said. Koop heard him as though from a distance. But there was a hardness in the guy's voice. Maybe he couldn't take them. Maybe they'd beat the shit out of him. And he didn't know yet what he was being arrested for. If it wasn't too serious, if it was buying cocaine, then resisting would bring him more trouble than the charge.

"Turn around…" Peremptory this time. Koop gave the door a last look, then let out a breath and turned.

The cop patted him down, quickly but thoroughly. Koop had done it often enough at Stillwater to appreciate the professionalism.

"Drop your hands behind you, please. We're going to put handcuffs on, Mr. Koop, just as a precaution." The red-faced man was crisp and polite, the prefight tension gone now.

The black cop said, "You have the right to see an attorney…"

"I want a lawyer," Koop said, interrupting the Miranda. The cuffs closed over his wrists and he instinctively flexed against them, pushing down a spasm of what felt like claustrophobia, not being able to move. The red-faced cop took him by the elbow and pivoted him, while the other finished the Miranda.

"I want a lawyer," Koop said. "Right now. You're making a mistake, and I'm gonna sue your butts."

"Sure. Step over this way, we'll go out to the car," the red-faced cop said.

They walked down a row of potato chips and bean dip and the black cop said, "Jesus, you sound like some kind of parrot. Polly want a lawyer?" but he grinned, friendly. His hand was hard on Koop's triceps.

"I want a lawyer." In the joint they said that after they warn you, the cops'll get friendly, try to get you talking about anything. After they get you rolling, when you're trying to make them happy-because you're a little scared, you don't want to get whacked around-then you'll start talking. Don't talk, they said in the joint. Don't say shit except "I want a lawyer."

They went out the door, a customer and the counterman gawking at them, and the red-faced man said, "My name is Detective Kershaw and the man behind you is Detective Carrigan, the famous Irish dancer. We'll need your keys to tow your truck, or we could just pop the tranny and tow it."

Two squad cars were nosed into the parking lot, one blocking the truck, four more cops standing by. Too many for a routine coke bust, Koop thought. "Keys are in my right side pocket," Koop said. He desperately wanted to know why he'd been arrested. Burglary? Murder? Something to do with Jensen?

"Hey, he can talk," the black cop said.

He slapped Koop on the shoulder in a comradely way, and they stopped while the red-faced cop took his keys out and tossed them to a patrolman and said, "Tow truck is on its way." To Koop, Kershaw said, "That black car over there."

While they opened the back door of the car, Koop said, "I don't know why I'm arrested." He couldn't help it, couldn't keep his mouth shut. The open back door of the car looked like a hungry mouth. "Why?"

Carrigan said, "Watch your head," and he put a hand on top of Koop's head and eased him into the car, and then said, "Why do you think?" and shut the door.

The two detectives spent a few minutes talking to the uniformed cops, letting Koop stew in the backseat of the car. The back doors had no inside handles, no way to get out. With his hands pinned behind him, he couldn't sit easily, had to sit upright on the too-soft seats. And the backseat smelled faintly of disinfectant and urine. Koop felt another spasm of claustrophobic panic, something he hadn't expected. The damn cuffs: he twisted against them, hard, gritting his teeth; no chance. The cops outside were still not looking at him. He was an insect. Why in the hell…

And then Koop thought, Softening me up.

He'd done the same thing when there was a prison squabble that they had to look into. When the cops got back into the car, one of them would look at him, friendly-like, and ask, "Well, what do you think?"

The plainclothes cops spent another minute talking to the uniforms, then drifted back to the car, talking to each other, as if Koop were the last thing on their minds. A screen divided the front seat from the back. The black guy drove, and after he started the engine he looked at his partner in the passenger seat and said, "Let's stop at a Taco Bell."

"Oooh, good call." When they got going, the red-faced guy turned and grinned and said, "Well, what do you think?"

"I want a lawyer," Koop said. The red-faced guy pulled back a quarter inch on the other side of the screen, his eyes going dark. He couldn't help it, and Koop almost smiled. He could play this game, he thought.