Cops who ingest drugs they’ve never heard of and then hit the streets bushy-tailed the next morning. 357 can generate enough force to embed a head hair in the ceiling. Cops who call a high-suicide area “Lemmingsville.” Cops whose sole reaction to splattered brains is wonderment at how a. For one thing, she’s got to earn her stripes among a cabal of enforcers callous as cobblestones. “Somehow,” she says before her maiden perjury, “I feel like I just did six lines of pink Peruvian.” truth so help you God, but it takes the dealers off the streets.” “You go in there and you answer and no, it isn’t the whole. “Everybody in (court) lies,” Kristen is told. To make their charges stick, they must perjure themselves in court. To win confidence, they must do the drugs they’re buying. To make their buys, they must win the confidence of the dealers. To make a case, the narcs don’t bend the rules they powder them down and swallow them whole. With partner Jim Raynor, Kristen is righteously hell-bent on meeting the drug-bust quota of an oleaginous, amoral police chief in Beaumont-a Texas town where races don’t mix and “the locals were always sighting UFOs and having personal encounters with aliens out there in the piney woods.”
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