told me that she would do all the talking. I told her to be careful not to use my name.
A bell chimed when we stepped into the store, and a black man dressed in a blue work shirt looked up at us from the paperwork he was reviewing. He set down a pen and put both hands on the chest-high counter in front of him. Years ago, I took a course that taught officers how to identify drug couriers by observing their facial expressions and body and eye movements. The man smiled when he first saw Karen. Then he raised his upper eyelids showing fear, thrust his jaw forward displaying anger, wrinkled his nose in a sign of disgust, and let the corners of his lips drop down portraying sadnessâIâve known very few people who could burn through so many emotions so quickly.
âKaren,â he said and extended his hand.
âMr. Cousin,â she answered and shook the hand.
âDid one of my boys go astray?â he asked. The sadness in his voice matched his expression.
âOne of your boys?â I said.
âWho are you?â
âHeâs with me,â Karen told him. To me she said, âMr. Cousin has been very good to us. Heâs given work to a lot of parolees over the years. A good man.â
Cousin shrugged off the compliment. âJust trying to help them make it,â he said.
âWhy?â I asked.
Cousin studied me hard. âYouâre a cop,â he said.
I didnât answerâif he wanted to believe that, it was fine with me.
Karen flicked her thumb in my direction. âHeâs observing,â she said.
âIs he now?â Cousin wasnât satisfied with the answer, but he didnât press it.
âHow many boys do you have?â I asked.
âEight. All of my employees are on parole. I try to⦠Listen. A man, any man, whoâs been in the system, I donât care if heâs guilty or not guilty, I donât care if heâs been acquitted or exonerated or pardoned or what, I donât care if heâs just a kid who screwed up or a repeat offender, if youâve been in the system, youâll never be considered innocent again. Youâll never be given the benefit of a doubt. People look at you; to them youâll always be a thief.â
I had a feeling he was talking about himself, so I asked, âHow long have you been out?â
âTwenty-three years, seven months, eighteen days.â Cousin recited the numbers like a recovering alcoholic who knows the exact moment when he had his last drink. âIt took me so long to get a decent job. I started applying when I was in stir. Back then you had to have a job or be assured of getting a job before you got parole. I only responded to the want ads that had a post office box. You donât make collect calls from Stillwater. Iâd tell them theyâd never have an employee who would work harder. âSo what?â theyâd say. âWeâll be getting a thief.â
âThe jobs I did get, they treated me like a leper, like I had a communicable disease. Or worse. One employer tried to blackmail me, said he was going to accuse me of stealing from the company unless I boosted some TVs for him. I turned him in. Nothing happened except that I had to get another job. When I became manager here, I figured I might be able to help some guys who were like me, guys who did stupid things when they were young and paid the price and now were trying to live it down. The owners, they didnât care as long as sales were solid, as long as there were no complaints about service. Now I am the owner.â
âGood for you,â I said, and I meant it, although I doubt it sounded that way.
âWhy are you here?â Cousin asked.
âScottie Thomforde,â Karen said.
âWhat about him?â
âI want to talk to him.â
âHeâs gone. His shift ended a couple hours ago.â
âWas he here?â
âYeah, he was here.â
âFor his entire
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