The Betrayed by David Hosp

unlike so many other college athletes banking on a lucrative pro career, had gotten his degree; the cop who’d returned to the city to fight a losing battle on the streets in and around his old neighborhood; the man who’d arrested Jerome three years earlier on a bullshit B&E charge. At least they hadn’t been able to tie Jerome to anything else at the time.
    Train pulled a chair out from the table across from Jerome; Cassian hung back against the wall on the other side of the room. “Got some bad news for you, Jerome,” Train said.
    “What’s that?” Jerome scoffed.
    “Public defender’s office is a little backed up. Looks like it’s gonna be another five or six hours before they can get someone here to talk to you.”
    Jerome shrugged. “I did two years, Train. Think I can handle six hours.” He folded his arms. “Besides, where else would I rather be?”
    Train smiled. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if we keep you company for a little while, huh? Maybe talk a little?”
    Jerome knew he had to be careful. He’d been in the system long enough to know that, having asked for a lawyer, the police couldn’t ask him any questions directly—unless he agreed to talk. But he also needed to get whatever information he could from the cops in order to figure out where he stood, and he knew the public defenders that were assigned by the courts were often useless—aging hacks who were looking to collect as many fees from the state as possible by funneling as many clients as they could through the system, or wide-eyed idealists right out of law school who knew little about the law, and less about the realities of the criminal justice system. Jerome decided to try walking the tightrope.
    “You can talk about whatever you want, Train.” It was ambiguous, and might tempt the cops into disclosing what they had, without waiving Jerome’s rights.
    Train and Cassian shared a look before Train continued. “Looks like you got some problems, here, Jerome.”
    Jerome laughed. “Problems? Man, you don’t know from problems. You wanna talk problems? You’ve come to the expert.” Washington broadened his smile into a big goofy grin. The Man always likes to see the Sambo shit. No matter what color the Man happens to be, it shows I know my place .
    “You think this is some kind of a fuckin’ joke, Jerome?” Train looked pissed, and Washington wiped the smile off his face.
    “No sir, Sergeant Train, I surely don’t.” He had to play this carefully.
    “You know why we brought you in, Jerome?” Train’s face was serious.
    “Yeah,” Jerome said. “Somebody put they’ rock under my chair, an’ now you think it’s mine. I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know whose shit that is. You think I’m gonna be dumb enough to carry when I’m on probation?” He tried his best to look sincere. “I mean, I ain’t no saint, but I ain’t no idiot neither, right?”
    “The name Elizabeth Creay mean anything to you, Jerome?” Train asked directly.
    Washington racked his brain. What the fuck was going on? “No.”
    “How about the address 114 1 ⁄G Street, Southeast? That ring
    2 any bells?”
    Washington shrugged. “I know where it is, if that’s what you’re askin’.”
    “Ever been there?”
    “Not that I remember. What the fuck you lookin’ for, Train? You wanna gimme a hint, and maybe this’ll go a little faster?”
    Train nodded at Cassian, and without a word his partner reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in a plastic bag. He handed the bag to Train, and Train placed it on the table between him and Jerome.
    Jerome looked down and saw the distinctive skull and crossbones on the lighter in the bag. He frowned before he caught himself and evened out his expression. Train had already noticed his reaction, though.
    “It’s yours, isn’t it?” Train asked.
    Jerome thought for a moment before he spoke. “That wasn’t with the shit that was in the house,” he said finally.
    “Then what’s