Forecast: Mostly Clear With A Slight Chance Of Raid (Part 2)

(Part 1)

The rhythmic tattoo of boots as the assault squad descended the flight of steps seemed to mock the thumps of my heart.

What followed next could best be described as “the epitome of surreality.” It’s not that I can’t recollect certain things from the raid now -- as if they’ve just been dismissed from my mind with the passage of time; it’s like I wasn’t aware of them even as they were happening. I mean I distinctly remember asking myself questions like “how did I get in this room?” and “when did we come upstairs?” and never gaining the answers.

It’s like trying to watch a DVD with someone who won’t stop toying with the remote control.

Play.

They didn’t immediately enter the bedroom after the door swung open. Instead I was ordered to exit the quarters by a man I couldn’t see. I’m not sure if I’d gotten to my feet before the command came or after. Do everything they tell you to do. Exactly how they tell you to do it. Don’t be scared don’t be scared.

Fast Forward.

How did I get in this room? Special Agent Jason Trent was standing by my left side. Jason Trent? Really? Really? Another man was in front of us, slightly off to the right. Who’s he? I wanted to remember everyone so I eyed him carefully from head to toe, taking in each inch of him. By the time I’d gotten to his shoes, I’d already forgotten what his face looked like. Meh. I have the sense he had gray hair, and a gut that’s probably been hanging over his happy place since his 10th wedding anniversary. Someone flipped a switch and the room erupted with light.

Don’t show ‘em you’re scared don’t show ‘em you’re scared. Mr. Trent informed me I was being placed under arrest, plus read me my rights. That means he officially plans to interrogate me. Great; the man takes everything I say the wrong way. He was holding something during his trite spiel and although I was deliberately staring at it the entire time his lilting voice lifted and dived, all I could see in his massive hands was… was a… There was definitely something there -- a card with printed Miranda warnings seems logical -- but the blood pulsating in my ears and distracting thorns of anxiety blanked it out. Firearm?

I was not handcuffed.

Fast Forward.

I was asked where specific items were -- computer, camera. I gestured at the noticeable tower and screen that was eight inches in front of them. “We don’t need to take the monitor” Mr. Trent said to his accomplice. Hmm... why would he tell him something so obvious? Aren’t these guys supposed to be the professionals?

I think the camera’s in the car. It’s customary for me to bring it inside and download images straightaway when I’ve used it but I wasn’t sure I’d done so the night before. I was under the impression I’d intended to carry it in and decided, since I’d be putting it to work again so soon in the morning, I wouldn’t bother. I conveyed to the beefy men only that the object was in my automobile.

“Is that a laptop?” Agent Trent had targeted a zippered black case. I indicated his deduction was spot on and grabbed socks from a drawer. I was slipping my feet into a pair of Converse when, bent upside down, I again glanced at the Toshiba’s holder. On second thought, the camera might be in there. I, like, always carry it in with me. Frustrated with my amnesia poisoning, I brooded aloud something to the effect of what had just gone through my head. My uncertainty was resolved in moments; no picture-taking device inside the bag.

Still no cuffs.

Random Play.

An audio CD, made by Jon McKay, of a JADE-controlled drug buy, sitting atop a speaker on my desk caught my attention when one of the officers went near it. Ach! I hope the prints got wiped off that. I should’ve moved it. Aww… what are the chances I’ll get it back?

Random Play.

Kitchen. When did we come upstairs? Mr. Trent repeated something about if I told him where they could find items they were looking for, they wouldn’t need to disturb much. You mean no trashin’ the house? Hell, I’m all for that!

Pause.

Officer Trent was predominately focused on the computers in the residence. Seriously. Tunnel vision. To the third power. I guess I can understand why, given that we’re in the digital age ‘n all, and the man steadfastly feels I’m “computer-savvy,” but I deem it nothing short of incompetent. I believe it’s generally a bad idea for law enforcement to rely on the mere potential of computer evidence as heavily as it does these days. In any case, this made cooperating with him and his team that much easier because a) there were only two PCs that I use and b) I didn’t have to reveal where anything else was that they didn’t have the sagacity to ask for.

Random Play.

Walked an unlit hallway, closely followed by Jason Trent. Stopped. Turned around and crashed into a different cop. It was a girl. Whoa. Where’d she come from?

Somewhere in the midst of the event I’d been told by Mr. Trent “I brought along a female officer. To pat you down.” Um, thanks? I’m sure Smurfette there is thrilled too.

Random Play.

I wonder if you vomit on one of them if they’ll charge you with assault.

Play.

Outside, inquiries I found odd were directed at me here and there including “do you have ID?” Huh? It’s not like you don’t know who I am.

In every direction I gazed there was an armed person. X26. Visions of Taser test subjects suddenly bubbled up. The middle of a raid is not the time for recourse.

Pause.

Throughout I tried to be as obliging as possible. Always in the back of my mind was the thought that I didn’t want to slurp down a slug of Sig Sauer. Nor was I going to give them any leverage whatsoever for future courtroom testimony.

Random Play.

Count them. Now; now you should count them! … Seven. Eight. Nine…

Rewind. Play.

I unlocked my Toyota on the passenger side while several males, and the sole woman, donned in battle wear circled about the yard and driveway. Good gaaaawd. Wish I’d been the invisible participant in their briefing for this. I reckoned their soon-to-follow debriefing would consist of ten words: Well that was lame. She didn’t even swear at us.

Mr. Trent hovered near me at my vehicle -- to ensure I didn’t tamper with or remove his hallucinated evidence, I suppose. I wasn’t even given the opportunity to retrieve the identification he’d just a minute sooner requested before I got spun around and was patted down. Uuuh, I didn’t know they got that close to, ahem, there. Eek! Talk about “invasion of privacy.”

An audience of lawmen watched while their token female counterpart, a pretty, petite lady that Jason Trent could pro’ly cart around in his pocket, unskillfully moved her hands over me. Huh. She seems nervous. I think she’s more intimidated by these guys than I am. I’d noticed Mr. Trent had a habit of superciliously coaching her. Which in turn threw her off her groove. Which in turn compelled Mr. Trent to give her further directives. Exacerbation at its finest. If this is what they do to her all the time, it’s no wonder she’s angst-ridden.

Are these people all State Police? I’d barely put the dot on that question mark when…

Cuffs, at last.

(Continued here)