The sun is barely up but there’s enough light to capture the mayhem. The Renfros’ front yard is swarming with cops and rescue personnel. Lights flash in the background behind the breathless and stuttering reporter. Neighbors in bathrobes gawk from across the street. Bright yellow police crime scene tape is strung high and low and in all directions. It’s a crime scene all right, but I’m already suspicious. Who are the real criminals? I call Partner, tell him to get to the hospital and start snooping.

Sitting in the Renfros’ driveway is a tank, with an eight-inch barrel, thick rubber tires instead of treads, a camouflage paint job, and an open turret where, at the moment, a warrior cop is sitting, his face hidden behind biker sunglasses, his expression one of extreme readiness. The City’s police department owns only one tank and they’re proud of it. They use it whenever possible. I know this tank; I’ve dealt with it before.

Several years ago, not long after the terror attacks on September 11, our police department managed to bilk Homeland Security out of a few million bucks so it could arm up and join the national craze of ETF—Extreme Terror Fighting. Never mind that our city is far away from the major metropolitan areas, or that there has been absolutely no sign of any jihadists around here, or that our cops already had plenty of guns and ninja gear. Forget all that—we had to be ready! So in the arms race that followed, our cops somehow got a new tank. And once they learned how to drive it, then, hell, it was time to use it.

The first victim was a rather rustic old boy named Sonny Werth who lived at the edge of the city limits in a part of town that realtors tend to avoid. Sonny, his girlfriend, and a couple of her kids were asleep at 2:00 a.m. when the house seemed to explode. It wasn’t much of a house, but that really didn’t matter. The walls shook, there was a roar, and Sonny at first thought a tornado had hit.

No, only the police. They would later claim that they had knocked on the door and tried the doorbell, but no one inside the house heard anything until the tank plowed through the front window and stopped in the den. A mixed spaniel mutt tried to escape through the gaping hole but was gunned down by a brave warrior. Luckily, there were no other casualties, though Sonny spent two nights in the hospital with chest pain, after which he went to jail for a week before he could post bond. His crimes: bookmaking, gambling. The cops and prosecutors claimed Sonny was part of a ring, thus a conspirator, thus a member of organized crime, and so on.

On Sonny’s behalf, I sued the City for “excessive force” and got a million bucks. Not one dime of which, by the way, came out of the pockets of the cops who planned the raid. As always, it came from the taxpayers. The criminal charges against Sonny were later dismissed, so the raid was a complete waste of time, money, and energy.

As I sip my coffee and watch the scene, I think to myself that the Renfros were lucky in that the tank was not used to bust up their house. For reasons we’ll never know, the decision was made to keep it in the driveway, just in case. If the eight soldiers were not enough, if the Renfros had somehow managed a counterattack, then the tank would have been sent in to destroy the den.

The camera closes in on two cops standing beside the tank, each with an assault rifle. Both weigh over three hundred pounds. One is wearing a uniform of green-and-gray camouflage, as if he were hunting deer in the woods. The other is wearing a uniform of brown-and-beige camouflage, as if he were hunting insurgents in the desert. These two clowns are standing in the driveway of a suburban home, about fifteen minutes from downtown, in a well-developed city of a million people, and they’re wearing camouflage. The sad and scary thing about this image is that these guys have no idea how stupid they look. Instead, they’re proud, arrogant. They’re on display, tough guys fighting bad guys. One of their brethren has been hit, wounded, fallen in the line of duty, and they’re pissed about it. They scowl at the neighbors across the street. One wrong word, and they might start shooting. Their fingers are on the triggers.

The weather comes on and I go to the shower.

Partner picks me up at eight and we head to the hospital. Doug Renfro is still in surgery. Officer Keestler’s wounds are not life threatening. There are cops everywhere. In a crowded waiting room, Partner points to a huddle of stunned people, all sitting knee to knee and holding hands.

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.”

3.

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.