The police hadn't given up searching for me. Far from it. They picked me back up. As soon as I heard the siren, I knew they had me. I pulled over. They came out of everywhere. And they made it clear—they weren't playing.
"Get out of the car, right now!" one of the officers yelled at me, his gun drawn.
Behind him, the officers from the other squad cars and the undercover van stood at the ready, legs wide, guns drawn. A drug dog barked and tugged at its leash. I had been through this before. My trial for attempted murder in '89 was big news. The headlines that ran on TV and in the tabloids were plenty nasty. I'd had to go through it again a year later, when they retried the case.
I couldn't face it all over again. I was totally demoralized.
I hit the button and opened the secret compartment where my gun was hidden. I had a 9mm Beretta in there, and I put my hand on the grip.