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gone exactly as Galvin had expected. It was a quiet night on the streets of South Jamaica and Galvin sincerely hoped it would stay that way. He was driving the unmarked department auto, since his partner was new to the precinct and didn’t know his way around the area just yet. Galvin looked up at the rear view mirror seeing Brian McGregor, who was in the back seat. He couldn’t have been too comfortable.  The Impalas didn’t allow for a great deal of leg room in the back and Galvin estimated the man to be at least six feet tall.  Looking at the man, Galvin believed they were roughly the same age; give or take a few years.  The reporter had a pad and pen at the ready, likely in case anything of interest were to happen. Galvin observed McGregor tug the bulletproof vest that the Lieutenant had lent him.
    “Don’t worry, Mr. McGregor, you’ll get used to it by the end of the night,” Galvin reassured the reporter.
    “I sure hope so. It’s really uncomfortable…and please, call me Brian.”
    Up to this point, m ost of the evening had been spent in almost total silence. Neither Galvin nor his partner wanted to say anything inappropriate in front of the reporter.
    “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with Mr. McGregor,” said Galvin curtly.
    “Listen. Detective Galvin…Tommy. I know you probably feel that I’m out here trying to make you guys look bad. I give you my word Detective, that’s not the case. I just want to do my story on how police do their jobs in minority neighborhoods. I don’t exclusively write negative stories on the police department. As a matter of fact, you and Paul here, you’ll determine the outcome of my story. We really aren’t on opposite sides. All I want is for you two to do your jobs as you normally would.”
    “So how come I can’t remember one positive story you’ve ever done concerning the NYPD?” Middlebrook pointedly interjected. It had been the first time all evening that Paul had spoken to the reporter, recalled Galvin; he found the question blunt, and was curious to see how the reporter would field it.
    “Because you ch oose not to. Many police officers—or people in any profession, for that matter—will only remember the bad we write about their profession. That’s what sticks in their mind because it makes them all look bad. When we praise people, they appreciate it, but they forget about it soon after. They don’t forget what hurts or offends them for a long time.”
    “I’ve read your column on numerous occasions,” replied Middlebrook. “Why don’t you refresh my memory?  What articles have you written that were favorable to cops?”
    McGregor was swift in his response:
    “How about the fire rescue that rookie cop made last month while walking his foot post? Or how about the story I did on the Auto Crime Unit when they broke up and arrested members of a citywide carjacking ring. Then, there was the cop who walked in on an armed robbery when he was off-duty and had a gun battle with the robbers before he was able to arrest them. And, if you’ll recall, I never mentioned that the location was a known brothel. I’m not anti-cop, but if there is police corruption, you can be sure I’ll write about it. After all, that is my job.”
    Middlebrook didn’t seem at all pleased with th e response. He’d figured McGregor had rehearsed it, possibly expecting the question or some other sort of confrontation.
    Galvin, on the other hand, considered what the reporter had said as he made a right hand turn onto 140 th Avenue from Springfield Boulevard. He believed McGregor to be truthful.  He studied McGregor’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His light brown eyes seemed honest; the eyes don’t lie . He could remember reading the articles that McGregor had mentioned and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
    “I’ll tell you what,” Galvin offered. “I’ll pretend like you’re not here and I’ll go about doing things the way I normally