CRYSTAL VANDERPOOL

At 10:30 Saturday morning Sheriff Ponder booked Crystal Vanderpool for asking him to dinner at the Rexall in front of Bob. Wrote solicitation; no box for the other thing. Took her Polaroid, put it on his desk, called it evidence. Bonita Escobedo read it off his palm at nine that night. At 1:15 a.m. Crystal came back for her picture.

Twenty-eight, long blonde hair showing roots, feathered bangs, pale blue shirt open over white, hoop earrings, fine chain. Eyes wide, mouth open, always looking like she'd just heard something. Through the courthouse's black-framed doors she came like she owned a piece of it. Might could make a case.

“I want my picture.”

“It's evidence, Crystal.”

“Of WHAT?”

He didn't have that. Man could find a charge easier than a dinner reservation.

“Marvin. Is it on your DESK?”

“That's where evidence goes.”

“Evidence goes in a damn BOX.”

“Some of it goes on the desk.”

“Then it's a picture of me on your desk.”

Sure as shit, it was. Bless them both. One asking for supper and the other trying to process the invitation through county government.

He booked her for retrieving it because he couldn't book himself for keeping it. Wide-eyed, animated in the second Polaroid, at the front doors, having said the true thing where everybody could hear. Hell of a witness.

The first one's still on the desk. She's never gotten it back. She's stopped asking. She comes by.