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that, partner? He satright down next to that bag, didn’t open it, and didn’t take it with him. I’m calling bullshit on this one.”
    The short one moved over to the bag. “If this isn’t yours, then you wouldn’t mind me looking in it, would you?”
    I looked from one to the other as I took in a deep breath, preparing to bolt. I only hoped these two weren’t crazy enough to shoot me in the back.
    At the street, a dark green Ford Thunderbird bounced into the parking lot at high speed, drove over, and stopped beside the cop. Out stepped John Mack.
    He stood six feet with 190 pounds of muscle. He wore his hair in a flattop, and the tattoo on a thick bicep that peeked out from under his t-shirt sleeve read: “BMF.”
    â€œI’m a detective with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department,” said Mack. “Congratulations, boys, you got him, you really got him. Cuff him before he gets away. He’s got a federal fugitive warrant for 187.”
    The two cops jumped me and took me to the ground. They slammed me down on the dirty, hard concrete and wrestled my hands behind my back. The coffee cup broke open. Hot wetness burned my legs. John Mack walked up, his feet inches away. Had this whole thing been a conspiracy between Mack and Barbara Wicks to get me back into the States to throw me in prison for the rest of my life?

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Once cuffed, the two cops manhandled me to my feet and shuffle-dragged me to the back door of the black-and-white. “No shit, a federal fugitive wanted for murder—excellent!” said the tall one.
    They tossed me in the backseat like a sack of potatoes and then got in the front. This wasn’t my first time in the backseat and I hated it just the same, the confinement, the inability to make simple choices. Through the black metal screen that separated the back from the front, the short passenger cop asked, “What’s your name?”
    I didn’t answer and watched Mack go into the Quick Stop with my Sno Balls in one hand. He went to the coffee kiosk, poured a cup, and walked back by the clerk, whose lips moved as he commented. Mack said something in return and stuck his hip up to make sure the clerk saw his sheriff’s star clipped to his belt. Just like Mack, he didn’t want to pay for the coffee. Mack stood out in front by the door, eating my Sno Balls and drinking free, steaming coffee.
    â€œAsk that dude what this dude’s name is, he knows him,” said the tall police officer in the driver’s seat.
    The short cop got out. “Hey, man, what’s this guy’s name? He won’t tell us.”
    Mack spoke around marshmallow cake covered in pink coconut. “That there is Leon Byron Johnson.”
    I let out a long breath and relaxed. That wasn’t my real name. The tall cop mistook my relief for guilt. “Yeah, that’s his name.”
    â€œThanks, man, we owe you,” said the short cop. He got back in and started typing the new information into the computer.
    Mack sauntered over to the open window of the driver. “You take the 10 Freeway all the way into Los Angeles. It’s about fifty miles, get off at Grand, hang a left and—”
    The short cop had the valise on his lap, trying to open the latch. “Wait, hold up. What are you talking about?”
    Mack pasted on a confused expression. “You fellas got yourself a federal fugitive. He has to be taken forthwith to appear before a federal magistrate. You’re kidding, right? You really didn’t know that? Well, you can’t book him in just any jail. Get your watch commander to clear it and make a run to LA, no problem.” Mack started to walk off.
    The driver jumped out. “Hey, hey. You shittin’ me?”
    â€œCall the jail if you don’t believe it.”
    The short cop muttered, “Bullshit, we are not going to LA, not this late in the shift.” He jumped out.