Free Amnesia by G. H. Ephron

said as our beer arrived.
    Annie dipped her index finger into the creamy foam, put the finger into her mouth, and drew it out slowly. “I guess for some women, that’s a turn-on,” she said. I found myself wondering what it was that turned on Annie Squires. She gestured to my beer, which was sweating into a puddle. “See what you think.”
    I sniffed. Fermented molasses. The taste was better. Not subtle. But dark and rich, almost creamy. “Very nice,” I conceded. “Interesting.”
    â€œInteresting?”
    I took another drink and wiped the foam from my lip. “A little more of this and I’ll be ready for a snooze,” I commented, yawning.
    Annie stared into her beer before saying, “I know you don’t want to talk about it. I just want you to know that I … we all feel the work has changed since what happened.”
    Why couldn’t people just leave well enough alone? What was the point? “Really, you don’t have to —” I started.
    But Annie was determined to finish. “So you’re not coming back to the same place, really. It’s a helluva way to learn about murder. But once you’ve seen it from the inside, you can’t treat it quite the same.” It was just a statement of fact. Annie’s direct look didn’t feel like pity.
    â€œSo how do you keep doing it?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s still a job. It’s how the system works. Don’t think I haven’t considered going over to the other side. I have. But that would be even harder. My heart wouldn’t be in it. And leave the work completely?” She shook her head. “I could never do that.”

    â€œSo you can still do this work, defending people you know in your heart of hearts are guilty?”
    â€œWhen you put it that way …” She looked directly at me with those clear gray eyes. “Maybe you’d understand if you knew how I got into this work in the first place. I’ve never told you, have I?” She rested her chin in her hand and gave a wry smile. “I know it sounds corny, but I always wanted to be a cop. That’s what the men in my family did. I was always pestering my uncles to let me sit in their patrol cars, or put on their caps, or wear their badges. My dad wasn’t a cop, but that’s only because he had this heart condition. Couldn’t pass the physical. He became a printer. You know, a linotype operator. He worked six days a week and late on Saturday, sitting at this enormous keyboard — like one of those big old movie theater organs. Whenever I visited him at work, he’d make me a lead slug with my name in it. He’d hand it to me, still hot. I’ve got a whole collection of them. He’d always say the same corny thing, ‘See, you’re already making headlines.’
    â€œAnyway, his employers were so grateful for all his hard work that when the linotype machine went extinct, they tried to fire my dad and all the people he worked with. Dad was a fighter. He’d take just so much abuse, and then, watch out. He walked picket lines. He’d lie down in front of the trucks trying to deliver newsprint. Quite a few times he got arrested. One time, when he was in jail waiting for the judge to set bail, he got beat up pretty badly. They didn’t even call a doctor. When he got out, he looked like a human punching bag. His kidneys were damaged and he had a detached retina. He never did say who did it and I didn’t ask. But I think it was cops who worked him over. Up until then, cops were family. That’s what broke his spirit. By the time I was in eighth grade, he’d retired without a fuss and turned into a TV junky.”
    â€œSo you didn’t want to be a cop after that?”
    â€œNo way. Arresting people and putting them in jail lost its
allure. Working for the public defender seemed like a logical choice. So you can see why going over to the other