He sits in his car for a long time, a dark shadow occasionally in motion as he talks into his radio.  When he gets out and turns his flashlight on, we’re all relieved not to recognize him.  We’ve dealt with most of the cops in this town before.  They know us and are much less inclined than the neighbors to turn blind eyes and deaf ears to us.  This guy’s young and maybe new to the force and hasn’t arrested any of us before.

            
           “Which one of you beat him up?” he asks as he strides toward us.  He’s looking right at Hollis, so we all know it’s a typical cop question, the kind of thing he already knows the answer to but needs one of us to acknowledge formally for possible later use in court.

            
           Hollis gives him a small wave.  “Me.  He ok?”

            
           No answer.  Not even a nod.  It’s like Hollis never spoke or the cop never heard.  The three of us exchange worried glances.

            
           “All of you keep your hands where I can see them.  Get your ID.  Slowly.”

            
           I give the cop my license while he shines his flashlight in my eyes, then wait while he copies my name and various numbers and steps away to mutter briefly into his radio, almost certainly checking for criminal history and outstanding warrants.  Then we make a sort of trade:  He gives me my license back and doesn’t give me a hard time even though I’m swaying on my feet.  In return, I give him a version of what happened, an amalgam of what I saw, what I mostly remember, and what Hollis remembered for me.  I forget to mention that Dane was a wrestler in high school.  The young officer, maybe new to the force and certainly aware that he’s being lied to, writes in his notebook the entire time that I speak, never asking a question.

            
           Paul talks to the cop next, carefully keeping his swelling hand out of sight.  Then the two of us stand in the driveway between the police cruiser and Hollis’s Thunderbird, smoking cigarettes until Hollis’s done telling his story.  If anyone’s going to jail, it’ll be Hollis.  As he takes notes, occasionally asking for elaboration on one point or another, the cop finally answers Hollis’s question.

            
           Dane’s already in jail.  He stumbled, drunk and bloody and raving, into someone’s party just down the street.  They took one look at him and called the cops.  Somehow, the cops managed to understand him enough to figure out where he’d been when he got in the fight.  That’s what the cop claims, although I suspect the neighbors’ calls may have helped them in their detective work.

            
           When the officer snaps his notebook closed and turns to his car, I smile.  The three of us can barely contain our laughter—our relief.  Dane’s in jail, and none of us are joining him.

            
           Justice served.

            
           There’s not a light on in any of the neighborhood houses, but I know that they’re watching, waiting, and hoping.  No doubt they’re disappointed by the results of this police intervention.

            
           We sit on the porch, watching the bull back out of the driveway, notebook filled with details of what we claim we did and saw.  He stops at the street, waiting for two cars to pass, then pulls the rest of the way out.  There’s a clunk as he drops the transmission into gear, an unhealthy thunking sound that tells me everything worth knowing about the budget of the police department. 

            
           Sitting on the edge of the porch, we watch him until he’s out of sight, none of us talking.  Hollis takes a last long drag on his cigarette, and the night’s so quiet that I can hear the wrapping paper sizzle as it burns.  Exhaling, he flicks the cigarette away with his middle finger.  The butt arcs into the dark like a meteor, passing over the entire lawn and sidewalk and landing in my memory in a shower of sparks.  

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