Upsetting
Monday, June 30, 2003
 
I slam the door and drag Allison across the cement terrace in front of the police station. We run past the fountain that is turned off toward a set of stairs near a pay phone. I look over Allison’s shoulder to see the cab speeding off, maybe faster than it’d ever went with us in it.

The crisp clack of other doors lets me know at least someone from the Chevrolet is also heading across the cement.

Allison and I separate our hands as we start to go down the stairs. Near the bottom of the 2-tier stairs, I know that whoever it is behind us is just about at the top of the stairs, about to come down. We alight in the parking lot at the bottom, where people who aren’t cops but work in the building park their cars.

We brush past the SWAT truck and head underneath the cement overhang across which we’d just come and head to a ceiling-high gate where police bring in bad guys. It’s called the Sally Port, I think.

And it’s literally a fortress.

Fuck, Allison says as we jog to a pedestrian entrance to the right of the vehicle entry. I don’t hear footsteps.

Now what? She says.
 
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