Not for the first time, I ask myself the obvious question: Why didn’t the cops simply ring the doorbell at a decent hour and have a chat with Mr. Renfro? Two cops in plain clothes, or maybe just one in a uniform? Why not? The answer is simple: These guys think they’re part of an extreme, elite force, and they need their thrills, so here we are in another frantic hospital with casualties.
Thomas Renfro is about forty. According to Partner, he’s an optometrist out in the suburbs. His two sisters do not live around here and are not yet at the hospital. I swallow hard and approach him. He wants to wave me off, but I say over and over it’s important that we talk. He finally steps away and we find privacy in a corner. The poor guy is waiting on his sisters so they can go to the morgue and start arranging things for their dead mother; meanwhile, their father is in surgery. I apologize for intruding but get his attention when I explain that I’ve been through this before with these cops.
He wipes his red eyes and says, “I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Probably on the news. I take some crazy cases.”
He hesitates, then, “What kinda case is this?”
“Here’s what will happen, Mr. Renfro. Your father is not coming home anytime soon. When the doctors are finished with him, the cops will take him to jail. He’ll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. Carries a max of twenty years. His bond will be set at a million bucks or so, something outrageous, and he won’t be able to make it because the prosecutor will freeze his assets. House, bank accounts, whatever. He can’t touch anything because this is how they rig prosecutions.”
As if this poor guy hasn’t been hit with enough crap in the past five hours. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s listening. I go on: “The reason I’m bothering you with this is that it’s important to file a civil lawsuit immediately. Tomorrow if possible. Wrongful death of your mother, assault on your father, excessive force, police incompetence, violation of rights, et cetera. I’ll throw everything at them. I’ve done it before. If we get the right judge, then I’ll have access to their internal records right off the bat. They’re covering up their mistakes as we speak, and they’re very good at it.”
He breaks down, fights it, gets some control, and says, “This is too much.”
I hand him a card and say, “I understand. Call me as soon as you can. I fight these bastards all the time and I know the game. You’re going through hell now, but, unfortunately, it will only get worse.”
He manages to say “Thanks.”
Later that afternoon, the police stop by and have a chat with Lance, the shiftless kid next door to the Renfros. Just three cops, in plain clothes, bravely approaching the house without assault weapons or bulletproof vests. They didn’t even bring their tank. Things go smoothly; no one gets shot.
Lance is nineteen, unemployed, home alone, a real loser, and his world is about to change dramatically. The police have a search warrant. After they grab his laptop and cell phone, Lance starts talking. He’s in the den when his mother comes home, and he’s admitting everything. He’s been piggybacking on the Renfros’ Wi-Fi system for about a year. He trades on the Dark Web, on a site called Millie’s Market, where he can buy any quantity of any drug, illegal or prescription. He sticks to Ecstasy because it’s accessible and the kids, his customers, love it. He does his business in Bitcoin, current balance valued at $60,000. All the details pour out in a torrent, and after an hour he’s led away in handcuffs.
So at 5:00 p.m., or about fourteen hours after the raid, the police finally know the truth. But their cover-up is already in play. They leak some lies here and there, and early the next morning I’m reading the
