“Let them prosecute,” I said. “Every day I’m in jail is going to cost them a lot of money.”

The sheriff entered the conversation. “Look here, boys. This has been a mistake. Now let’s get together and do the right thing.”

I said, “I wanted the car. I still want the car. I think it’s a good car. I’ll give him sixteen hundred and seventy-two dollars for it. I made a mistake and drew on the wrong account. That’s all.”

“And you’ll let the rest of it go?” the sheriff asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

The deputy district attorney said to the automobile man, “Don’t do a damn thing until you get a written release from him.”

“All right,” I surrendered, “draw up the written release, and pass the cigars.”

The deputy district attorney typed out the release. I read it carefully. All charges against me were dropped. I agreed not to make any claims against the automobile people, and gave them a complete release of any cause of action I might have against them growing out of the arrest. I said to the deputy district attorney, “I want you and the sheriff to sign it.”

“Why?

“Because,” I said, “I don’t know much about the procedure here, and I don’t want to waive my rights and then have something else happen. This just says the automobile people withdraw their charges. How do I know but what you might have a grand jury file against me?”

“Baloney,” the deputy district attorney said.

“All right, if it’s baloney go ahead and sign. If you don’t, I don’t.”

Everybody signed. I folded the agreement and put it in my pocket. The deputy district attorney gave me a blank check on the Bank of Commerce, and I made it out for the price of the automobile. We all shook hands. The automobile man went back to his office. The deputy sheriff said, “God, it was hot coming across that desert!”

I got up and started pacing the floor, scowling.

The sheriff looked at me and said, “What’s the matter, Smith?”

I said, “I’ve got something on my mind.”

There was silence in the room. The two officers and the deputy district attorney were watching me with speculative eyes as I paced the floor.

“What is it?” the sheriff asked. “Maybe we can help you.”

“I killed a man,” I said.

You could have heard a pin drop.

The deputy district attorney broke the silence. “What was it you did, Smith?” he asked.

“Killed a man,” I said, “and my name isn’t Smith. It’s Lam, Donald Lam.”

“Say,” the sheriff said, “you’re too full of tricks to suit me.”