From the moment I arrived at the station, trouble was afoot. A murder of men in yellow jumpsuits strolled past my car and down the block. Their tattoos and creative facial hair assured me they were prisoners, but they had no escort with them. If they were escaping, they were doing it very very casually.
"You guys go on ahead, I'll catch up at the commercial break."
"Hey you," I called.
"Hi," they said.
"Did- are you guys leaving?"
We stared at each other for awhile.
"OK," I warned them.
I let the front desk clerk know that some of their most listless prisoners were making a break for it. He explained that they were trusted prisoners, men incarcerated for non-violent crimes and now they were responsible for manual labor in and around the station because they weren't a flight risk.
"Like indentured servitude?"
His eyes narrowed. "Did you just come in to report our trusties?"
"I'm doing a ride-along."
He sighed a long, heavy sigh that I'm pretty sure meant he felt bad for all the crime happening that night because it wouldn't stand a chance against me. In another life, he and I could have been great partners. We both knew it, especially after we closed the books on that prison escape so quickly. But that's life on the force: It never works out like you thought it would. Maybe. I don't really know.
You're probably closer with your partner than your own wife. Unless your partner is your wife. Oooh, dibs on that CBS show.