Trooper Down! Read Online Free

promise.”
    Reece tells him to sit back and relax. They’ll be at the courthouse in five minutes. At the entrance to the booking room, the officer unbuckles his holster and steps into a cubicle to deposit his gun. Twelve years earlier, in this same building, North Carolina troopers Dean Arledge and Lawrence Canipe were killed in the breathalyzer room when a drunk driver grabbed Canipe’s pistol and shot both men in the back. As a result, law enforcement officers are now required to put their weapons aside while administering breathalyzer tests.
    Inside the booking room, Reece starts the paperwork while a sheriff’s deputy frisks Farmer. Behind them is the “drunk tank,” a grimy, concrete enclosure designed to hold up to twenty or thirty inebriated adults. Three men, all in various stages of intoxication, are sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. One has been protesting his innocence all night: he wasn’t driving the car in which he was found, he says, he was walking alongside it.
    â€œYeah, and doing about eighty miles an hour at the time,” says the trooper who arrested him. “You must have a great set of legs.”
    Farmer is spread-eagled against the counter, ready for the routine search that is part of every arrest. With the cuffs removed, he seems faintly bored, as though he’s done this several times before.
    â€œTake your shoes off,” the deputy tells him. “Now your socks. Turn them inside out. That’s right. Now put ’em back on.” His brown leather wallet, a set of keys, and seventy dollars in small bills are on the counter.
    A few minutes later, Reece, who’s been busy with paperwork since he and Farmer arrived, escorts him down the hall. In the breathalyzer room, no larger than a bedroom, are three desks, five folding chairs, and—at the moment—eight people. Half are waiting their turn at the breathalyzer machines. The other half are troopers. Two of the officers are sergeants who routinely administer drunk driving tests.
    Inside the small, windowless room it is hot and stuffy. Reece pulls up a chair and loosens his tie before turning to Farmer.
    â€œWelcome to the circus,” he says. “Grab a seat ’cause it looks like we’re gonna be here a while.”
    On weeknights, it takes up to an hour to process one drunk driver. Fridays and Saturdays are worse.
    In a corner of the room is a heavyset woman wearing tight black pants and a low-cut top, exposing parts of her considerable breasts.
    â€œSo what are the charges?” she asks the trooper seated before her.
    â€œLots of stuff,” he says, smiling. “But first we’ve gotta get the basics. How old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-five.”
    â€œColor eyes?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she says, leaning forward. “Look for yourself.”
    Every trooper in the room grins.
    â€œOccupation?”
    â€œNone right now,” she says.
    â€œEver been arrested before?”
    â€œYeah, for all kinds of things.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said all kinds of stuff.”
    The officer looks up sharply, his good humor gone.
    â€œWhat?” he says impatiently. “You might as well tell us because we can find out anyway.”
    â€œThen go ahead and find out.”
    â€œAnything bad? Ever had any felonies?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAny drug charges?”
    â€œNo.”
    She sits back while the officer prepares the breathalyzer test. After blowing into the machine and waiting for the results, she registers .11, one point over the legal limit. A few minutes later, she is on her way to the magistrate’s office to post bail.
    â€œDon’t we know her from somewhere?” Reece asks when she leaves the room.
    â€œYeah,” says a sergeant, “she’s that hooker who got busted for cutting up a customer. Hurt him pretty bad too.”
    â€œYou mean guys actually
pay 
for that?” says another