Turn Around Time

There he stood standing over the toilet taking his third piss of the night. Frightened of the haunting fear of dying, still half asleep and in his underwear. His wife, son, two daughters, and six month old grandson’s, lives would now unravel. The unimaginable had manifested. Why did he do it?

The FBI stood one-by-one on Quinton Styles front porch at 5:53 am on a Friday. He counted eight agents to be exact. Each carrying a Glock 19 for their much needed protection. Each pointing their commercial flashlight into the morning eyes of Quinton Styles.

“Let us see your hands Mr Styles!” Agent Caves, the lead agent spoke with unbiased command. And his robust practiced law enforcement voice. You know the law enforcement voice; the one that sounds loud yet rasping.

“Let us see your hands Mr Styles!” The ear piercing voice repeated with more authority and less patience. Quinton showed Agent Caves his empty hands.

“FBI open the door Mr Styles,” the lead agent screamed! In a clear attempt to awake the sleeping neighborhood. So they too could witness the fall of their fellow brother.

“I have to get the keys to opened the door”, Quinton said - or spoke - or whatever; he couldn’t hear any words coming from his mouth. All eight aggresive agents had their Glock 19 and heavy duty flashlights. He felt like he was on a theatrical stage. Yeah, it must be a play - this can’t be real.

“Let us see your hands Mr Styles,” the growling sound of the lead agent snapped him back to reality. He saw the silhouette of the only woman he’d ever loved standing shaking at the top of the stairs.

He ask the agent was it okay for him to get the keys to unlock the door? Agent Caves annoying reply didn’t change. “Let us see your hands Mr Styles and open the door NOW damn it.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation is an interesting bunch. They have a no-holds-barred agenda. They have no problem using any tactics they see fit. In their own little sordid way; insuring they get their prize.

They’ll crush any and all involved. The first time they called Quinton, he almost shit in his pants. What the fuck did he do? But he knew exactly what he’d done. Quinton knew what he’d been doing.

Quinton gave the feds credit. When they came calling, he had a chance to cooperate. But he’d convinced himself he hadn’t done anything wrong. At age 50, Quinton Styles prepared for the most difficult stretch of his life.

The conviction rate of the United States federal court system is over 92%. Pretty impressive numbers. If he’d cooperated from the onset, he wouldn’t be in this dilemma.

The FBI are persuasive - they have ways of making you come clean. For Quinton, eight FBI agents standing on his front porch at 6:00 am. With one hand on their Glock 19. The other hand used to shine their commercial grade flashlight up his nose. Was pretty damn convincing to him.

Make no mistake about it, when the feds want to talk, they mean business. Quinton received the watered down version of an FBI raid. When the feds want a big fish, then there’ll be no cooperation. They go after their target at the crack of dawn, a swat team toting M-16 rifles. There’s nothing to say - no agreement- jail will be open for the arrival of the presumed innocent.

Quintin finally got the gated door open. The feds stormed the house like horses at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. They began frisking or should we say touching him in total violation; must be part of the mind game.

The agents, with their dirty boots and snarled faces, trampled his home with impunity. “Fucking Bastards,” ran through Quinton’s mind. He recognized at least two of them from recent questionable business dealings. “Those sons of bitches,” he thought.

Those two agents with joy and delight growled, grinned, and batted their eyes. They reminded him of leg splitting cheerleaders. The girls who’d jump the highest and turn the most flips; must be part of the mind game. His wife asked for a warrant. They showed it to her; with a how dare you ask to see anything attitude.

Aubry, the family’s most recent Yorkie addition. Was jumping in his cage with crazed energy and curiosity. But for whatever reason, he never once barked. Quinton’s inner self whispered “he didn’t bark because he didn’t want to wake up the kids.” His children would face teasing, tortured, and made fun of, for the rest of their lives.

With watery eyes, his wife asked Quinton, “what do you want me to do?”

Quinton told her to call their attorney Rueben. “Call Rueben,” he repeated, he’ll know what to do. But little did he know, it was Rueben who’d gotten him into this mess. But there was no way Rueben, could ever remedy the fire-storm.