to conceive? Women in my family go into menopause early. I may not be able to get pregnant much past forty, and there’s always the worry about birth defects. If I’m going to get pregnant, it should be sooner, not later.
There is another element to this problem I try not to think about, but I have to. I may not be able to get pregnant. I never have been, even when I, or my partner, didn’t use birth control. I don’t know whether that is because of my body chemistry, a consequence of having been shot in the gut as a kid, or just random chance. But when I think that I might not have the option, I feel incomplete.
I have to be up early, and I have to be sharp; I can’t lie awake all night, my mind thrashing about with negative thoughts. I creep out of bed, being careful not to wake Jeremy, and get a 10-mg Ambien out of my purse, which I wash down with a glass of water. I set my cell-phone alarm to six-thirty and get back into bed, sliding my body lightly against his, for emotional security.
I love him. I really want us to make it. I fall asleep to the rhythm of his deep, unworried breathing.
As an officer of the court I am sworn to uphold the law (which I do, except for smoking pot, which shouldn’t be against the law), but I can break the rules. One of the rules is that I get to work at eight-thirty. But it’s barely seven-thirty, and I’m already on the job.
On the way to my first stop, I drop a couple of quarters into a sidewalk vending machine and take out the Los Angeles Times. A page-one headline below the fold screams FULL MOON KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM. I read the opening paragraphs, then toss the paper into a trash container. The Times used to be a good paper. Now it’s down in the gutter with the rest of the rags.
Roberto Salazar’s cube truck is being held at the sheriff department’s impound lot located in the industrial section of downtown L.A., near the train yards. The truck is part of the evidence against him, so it’s being kept under lock and key until his case is settled.
The lot is huge, a maze of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, descriptions. Even with the help of a friendly deputy, it takes me half an hour to find the truck, which is parked in a crowded row of other confiscated vehicles alongside a chain-link fence that borders the L.A. River.
Looking at this truck, I’m beginning to figure out why Salazar didn’t hire a private lawyer. It’s a piece of junk. The tires are threadbare, there are dents and rust spots all over it, and it’s sagging on its shocks. Even if you threw a cheap Earl Scheib paint job on it, it wouldn’t fetch three hundred dollars at auction. If the rest of Salazar’s equipment is this ratty, he isn’t worth spit.
One thing is working properly, though: the tail-lights. The deputy pumps them several times, and they respond the way they are supposed to. Which means the arresting officer’s reason to check inside the truck was an improper search and seizure.
I thank the impound officer for his help, and leave. On the short drive to my office, I think about the search. Under a by-the-book application of the law that search should not have been made, which means the stolen televisions would not have been found, and Salazar would not have been arrested. Fifteen years ago, if I had been practicing law back then, I could have made that argument and the case might have been dismissed. But the rules governing the Fourth Amendment aren’t black and white anymore. There’s a lot of gray area, all to the benefit of the police. That officer’s decision to look inside the truck could be upheld, or it could be kicked out. Judge Rosen is a good judge, but like every other judge in the system, she knows which way the wind’s blowing.
There is something else I have to acknowledge, even though I don’t want to. People whose lives are wrapped up in law enforcement, including me, see the dark side of humanity every day. Upstanding citizens don’t get arrested;
There is another element to this problem I try not to think about, but I have to. I may not be able to get pregnant. I never have been, even when I, or my partner, didn’t use birth control. I don’t know whether that is because of my body chemistry, a consequence of having been shot in the gut as a kid, or just random chance. But when I think that I might not have the option, I feel incomplete.
I have to be up early, and I have to be sharp; I can’t lie awake all night, my mind thrashing about with negative thoughts. I creep out of bed, being careful not to wake Jeremy, and get a 10-mg Ambien out of my purse, which I wash down with a glass of water. I set my cell-phone alarm to six-thirty and get back into bed, sliding my body lightly against his, for emotional security.
I love him. I really want us to make it. I fall asleep to the rhythm of his deep, unworried breathing.
As an officer of the court I am sworn to uphold the law (which I do, except for smoking pot, which shouldn’t be against the law), but I can break the rules. One of the rules is that I get to work at eight-thirty. But it’s barely seven-thirty, and I’m already on the job.
On the way to my first stop, I drop a couple of quarters into a sidewalk vending machine and take out the Los Angeles Times. A page-one headline below the fold screams FULL MOON KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM. I read the opening paragraphs, then toss the paper into a trash container. The Times used to be a good paper. Now it’s down in the gutter with the rest of the rags.
Roberto Salazar’s cube truck is being held at the sheriff department’s impound lot located in the industrial section of downtown L.A., near the train yards. The truck is part of the evidence against him, so it’s being kept under lock and key until his case is settled.
The lot is huge, a maze of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, descriptions. Even with the help of a friendly deputy, it takes me half an hour to find the truck, which is parked in a crowded row of other confiscated vehicles alongside a chain-link fence that borders the L.A. River.
Looking at this truck, I’m beginning to figure out why Salazar didn’t hire a private lawyer. It’s a piece of junk. The tires are threadbare, there are dents and rust spots all over it, and it’s sagging on its shocks. Even if you threw a cheap Earl Scheib paint job on it, it wouldn’t fetch three hundred dollars at auction. If the rest of Salazar’s equipment is this ratty, he isn’t worth spit.
One thing is working properly, though: the tail-lights. The deputy pumps them several times, and they respond the way they are supposed to. Which means the arresting officer’s reason to check inside the truck was an improper search and seizure.
I thank the impound officer for his help, and leave. On the short drive to my office, I think about the search. Under a by-the-book application of the law that search should not have been made, which means the stolen televisions would not have been found, and Salazar would not have been arrested. Fifteen years ago, if I had been practicing law back then, I could have made that argument and the case might have been dismissed. But the rules governing the Fourth Amendment aren’t black and white anymore. There’s a lot of gray area, all to the benefit of the police. That officer’s decision to look inside the truck could be upheld, or it could be kicked out. Judge Rosen is a good judge, but like every other judge in the system, she knows which way the wind’s blowing.
There is something else I have to acknowledge, even though I don’t want to. People whose lives are wrapped up in law enforcement, including me, see the dark side of humanity every day. Upstanding citizens don’t get arrested;
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