CHAPTER ONE The Actors Part One

"We are organized, staffed, and trained to maximize effective and efficient public service and to maintain a positive work environment."

----Police Mission Statement

"People are mean, you know?" Stan said as he sat across from Susan in the shuttle bus. The driver, his name long since forgotten, was supposed to pull away from police headquarters at ten minutes after two. This departure time was not arbitrary—it was set by some Upper in supervision who decided that if the shuttle filled up before two, everyone would rush to get on and the sin of all sins—that an employee might actually leave his desk at five minutes till two—would occur. So, the Uppers solved this possibility: The shuttle bus would sit in the alley until ten after two—full of passengers.

As every idea that evolves—good or bad—gets baggage added to it, so to the driver began leaving later and later. He had the keys to the bus—he had the authority to drive it—why should he cater to the passengers? The driver was not happy either because he was ordered to sit there and knew a camera was focused directly upon his bus. Every day a deputy chief would watch the shuttle from seven stories up, pushing aside the leaves of the philodendron on his windowsill like a cat peering through the bushes, watching his stationary prey.

Because he was under the microscope, the driver had taken lately to pushing the envelope. Eleven minutes, twelve minutes after. He left later and later every day, one would suppose, to make the shuttle occupants squirm because that is what they did—squirm. The city employees, mostly police officers, would obediently sit in their seats, waiting for the last minute pardon from their suffering that they knew would eventually come. This day it was not only warm, but for some reason hot air was blasting from the bus' air conditioner vents.

The occupants of the shuttle fanned their shiny faces with papers and looked at each other, all locked tight in mutual group suffering. A homicide detective seated next to Susan stood up and opened some tiny sliding windows near the ceiling for the people to get some fresh air for which all were grateful and rewarded him with their weak, sticky smiles. After he sat back down, Susan cocked her head to one side and looked knowingly across the isle at Stan. They had been through a lot together these past three years and had become friends. Stan Byas. He's around forty years old and looks like Mr. T—a good-sized man who shaves his head because "I'm losing most of my hair on top anyway." He is righteous, moral, leads a stable life, is peaceful and connected to a higher power that saved him, as he put it, years ago, from a life he considered wrong.

He is an eighteen-year veteran who had not only been Susan's friend and ally in the den of egos that was The Juvenile Bureau, but he played a ruthless game of Jeopardy! The answer is 'Two police officers who committed the ultimate sin of speaking the truth when the emperor really had no robes on.' Question: 'Who were Susan and Stan?' She laughed to herself—That's the way it goes when you wear cheap clothes.

As the minutes ticked by while the shuttle remained motionless, the passengers tried to forget the stifling heat by talking about anything but that, when someone in the front of the bus spoke up, "It's eleven after," and another, "I have twelve after," and yet another, "My watch says thirteen after," but no one raised their voices or said anything to the driver, whose head was jutted out his side window chatting to someone standing next to the bus. Susan looked at her pager: Sure enough, it was twelve after. Many people are afraid to speak up and like the ostrich, bury their head in the sand but when they do that, they leave their butt high in the air so that someone could kick it. Susan was not a good victim.