Sleeping Dogs Read Online Free Page B

were merely using and not selling, then confining them to prison is a waste of their lives and taxpayer money. The prison population is too big now because of mandatory sentencing. Even the ABA has come to question the fairness of five-year terms for possessing a small amount of pot or crack.”
    Jim Lake, guardian of all that was right and holy, was quick to respond. “I have one question for my friend Warren Nichols. How can we be sure that a person is simply a user? Maybe all the police could find was a small amount. But maybe somewhere this person has a lot more than that. Maybe this person, unbeknownst to the justice system, is a major dealer. And maybe this person that Warren is so concerned for—maybe this is the same person who, allowed to walk the streets, will be the one who gets your son or daughter hooked on narcotics for life. I don’t have to tell you what a miserable life it is for every family member when one of their own becomes an addict. I have good friends who are going through this very thing right now.”
    The fucker. I was against mandatory sentencing in most applications. But his answer had been much more dynamic and dramatic than Warren’s.
    And so it went.
    The military, foreign policy, tax cuts, sex education classes in public schools, the influence of big business on Congress—you’re always waiting for one of the journalists to lay your client out with a question so unexpected that you see, depending on how he answers it, a career hanging in the balance.

    In the first twenty of fifty-five minutes, nothing extraordinary was asked or answered. They both were being given time to settle in, get more comfortable, so that as the hour progressed, they’d be better prepared to start laying the heavy-duty accusations and smears on their opponent.
    The audience had been instructed not to applaud, so the candidates’ voices were clear and distinct in the auditorium. The twenty-minute mark was reached, several more familiar questions asked, several more familiar responses given. Lake, a five-ten former Purdue running back and, unlike Warren, a very physical man, writhed under the constraints of politeness. His consultants had told him, as I’d told Warren, to start doing the drive-by shooting just about now. Lake was ready to blow up an orphanage if need be. All I could hope for was that his “opposition research” people hadn’t come up with anything we didn’t already know about.
    Then I noticed Warren weaving as he stood at the lectern. At first I assumed his back was sore from standing so rigidly and he was just trying to loosen up when the camera was off him. But very soon not only was the weaving more pronounced, so was the way his head was angling to the right. He seemed groggy, like a prizefighter suddenly stunned by a punch from nowhere. He’d been hurt and maybe badly.
    I don’t know if I was the first to notice it or simply the first to make note of it out loud. The swaying got more pronounced. Whispers from the audience. Now he wasn’t merely placing his hands on either side of the lectern—he appeared to be gripping it desperately in an attempt to stay upright. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was drunk.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” I muttered to Kate.
    And then another problem: He started slurring his words. Now he not only appeared drunk, he sounded it, too.
    â€œWhat the hell’s wrong with him?” Laura said.
    â€œShit,” Billy said.
    â€œDev, you’ve got to do something,” Kate said. And then she shook
her elegant head and said, “Sorry. That was stupid. There isn’t anything any one of us can do.”
    By now the entire audience was aware of Warren’s problems. Not only was there whispering, there were also sniggers and the occasional outright laugh. Everybody was remembering the way he’d stumbled on his way to the lectern.
    Lake started glancing over at