Jay Samoff, a retired local lawyer, sitting beside him, said, “You know the rules, no snickering unless you share.” Jay reads the Kingston paper, the Daily Freeman, mostly for the obituaries, and every time he sees that a friend, an acquaintance, or a former client has died, he says, “Did you know” so-and-so. He never seems upset, in mourning, or fearful for his own mortality. It’s like he’s just keeping track so he can be sure everyone is being filed away where they belong.

Mark Cuddy came in a bit later and joined them. He’s the most friendly, social, and jovial of that bunch. He’s in the funeral business. I don’t know him very well, but I do like him. Passing their table on my way out, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Fuck you, Cuddy. It’s good to be alive.”

“Don’t worry,” Cuddy said, with his Midwestern smile. “We can be patient.”

Our town has no supermarket, but it has two hardware stores. One of them, Houst, is right next to Bread Alone. I needed some bar chain oil, so I ambled over, through the parking area, around the rentals, toward the back door. I noticed a kid who seemed to be looking at me at little quizzically. He didn’t say anything. I continued about my business.

—

Back in 2007, our sheriff formed U.R.G.E.N.T.

Ulster Regional Gang Enforcement Narcotics Team. The Team had more than an acronym. They had attitude. They had gear. They were high-tech and well armored. They were undercovers plus SWAT. They were ready if the Crips and Bloods came east from L.A. or the Latin Kings came up the river to rural Ulster County.

There was a long established—one could even say traditional—purveyor of herb right in the center of town.

U.R.G.E.N.T. decided to go total Reefer Madness on him. If you were here at the time, you probably know who I mean. If you weren’t, I’ll call him Jaz—short for Johnny Apple Zeed—Jones. If you watch TV you might be imagining a high-roller kingpin. Draped in bling. With a pool and a hot tub, both stuffed with buttock models in thongs that dramatized well-rounded cheeks. Nah. Jaz lived in a small third-floor walk-up, in a rickety wood-frame building, over another apartment, which was over a store. He believed in peace and love, in music, and in the spiritual benefits of cannabliss. He was in his seventies and wore tie-dye clothing, not all the time, but sometimes. In sum, if UNESCO had known about him, they’d have named him a living human heritage site.

U.R.G.E.N.T. staked out his domicile. They watched the action. Tailed him. Then they planned their raid.

It was early morn. Barely dawn.