Free Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova Page B

straight, all desperate to go home, and these six idiots are in the way of that happening. Joe sighs, knowing that their minutes are numbered, wishing they’d save everyone the time and trouble and beat it now. Joe and his fellow officers will give the boys only a touch longer to celebrate, to sober up a bit. There are no more beers to be had in the middle of the street, and no bathrooms. Even Artie’s sausage cart is gone by now. There’s nothing interesting going on here. Maybe they’ll leave of their own accord. Joe knows they won’t.
    At last, Jonesie steps out of formation, into the street. It’s finally time to nudge things along. The night will now end one of three ways—full cooperation, the paddy wagon, or an ambulance.
    Jonesie is a six-foot-four grizzly bear of a guy who grew up in a tough section of Roxbury. He saunters into the middle of the street and approaches the biggest of the six boys, probably only five feet ten. He’s wearing a preppie striped golf shirt, jeans, and boat shoes.
    â€œGame’s over, boys,” says Jonesie. “Time to call it a night.”
    â€œWe have a right to stay here if we want to,” says one of the other, shorter kids.
    â€œCome on now,” says Jonesie. “Everyone went home. Time to wrap it up here.”
    â€œIt’s a free country,” says the redhead, the most visibly drunk of the crew.
    The kid standing nose-to-nose with Jonesie stiffens his posture and stares straight into Jonesie’s eyes. He ain’t budging. Jonesie adjusts his stance a bit wider and leans in real close to the kid’s face.
    â€œListen, Chester,” says Jonesie. “You and your pals need to go on home. Now .”
    Maybe it’s because Jonesie invaded the kid’s personal space, maybe it’s a matter of alpha male pride, maybe it’s because Jones­ie spit out his t ’s and p ’s, maybe it’s because he called the kid Chester. Joe never knows for sure what exactly trips the trigger, but he and every other cop watching this scene knew Chester would bite the bait. Chester takes a swing at Jonesie, and Jonesie easily dodges the blow. He then grabs Chester by the arm, turns and pins him stomach down to the ground, and cuffs him.
    Joe and ten other officers march into the street in a wedge formation, heading directly toward the remaining kids with an intimidating suggestion of force.
    â€œThis ain’t campus security, boys,” says Tommy. “This is Boston PD. Unless the rest of you want to join Chester down at the station, I suggest you go home right now.”
    The boys hesitate for half a second and then, like a flock of birds who decide to take flight in unison, they wordlessly abandon Chester and scurry down Lansdowne, out of town. Good boys. Joe smiles and checks his watch. Time to go home.
    IT’S JUST AFTER midnight when Joe parallel parks his car on Cook Street. His good mood dials up a notch as he appreciates this small but significant victory. Parking in Charlestown can be a nightmare. It’s practically routine to “get home” only to spend the next half hour hunting for a spot that will invariably be six blocks away and at the bottom of the hill. And then it starts raining. But not tonight. Tonight Joe found a space first try in full view of his house.
    He steps out of the car, and every muscle in his body screams in protest. No more standing! He pushes the heels of his hands against his lower back, forcing his torso vertical. It takes considerable effort. He feels as if he’s aged thirty years in one night, as if he’s the Tin Man and every joint in his bodycould use an injection of WD-40. And nothing can save his poor feet.
    As he approaches his front door, he’s surprised to notice the windows glowing amber yellow behind the drawn shades. The living room light is on. He checks his watch again, even though he knows the time. Patrick is still bartending at