Dark Rivers of the Heart

face.
        Ventilation didn't help. The air wasn't stuffy but thick, like the heavy vapors of something odorless but toxic.
        He endured the city revolving around the BMW, his heart bursting into fits of tachycardia, the air so syrup-thick that he could inhale only an inadequate drizzle, the oppressive intensity of light that forced him to squint against the sunshine that he had so recently enjoyed, the feeling that a crushing weight was hovering over him-but then he was enveloped by nausea so intense that he cried out for his brother to pull to the curb.
        They were crossing Robertson Boulevard. Darius engaged the emergency flashers, swung out of traffic just past the intersection, and stopped in a no-parking zone.
        Harris flung open his door, leaned out, regurgitated violently.
        He had eaten none of the jailhouse breakfast that he'd been offered, so he was racked only by the dry heaves, although they were no less distressing or less exhausting because of that.
        The siege passed. He slumped back in his seat, pulled the door shut, and closed his eyes. Shaking.
        "Are you all right?" Darius asked worriedly. "Harris? Harris, what's wrong?"
        With the spell past, Harris knew he'd been stricken by nothing more and nothing less-than an attack of prison claustrophobia. It had been infinitely worse, however, than any panic attacks that had plagued him when he had actually been behind bars.
        "Harris? Talk to me."
        "I'm in prison, little brother."
        "We're standing together on this, remember. Together, we're stronger than anybody, always were and always will be."
        "I'm in prison," Harris repeated.
        "Listen, these charges are bullshit. You were set up. None of this will stick. You're a Teflon defendant. You're not going to spend another day in jail."
        Harris opened his eyes. The sunshine was no longer painfully bright.
        In fact, the February day seemed to have darkened with his mood.
        He said, "Never stole a dime in my life. Never cheated on my taxes.
        Never cheated on my wife. Paid back every loan I ever took.
        Worked overtime most weeks since I've been a cop. Walked the straight and narrow-and let me tell you, little brother, it hasn't always been easy. Sometimes I get tired, fed up, tempted to take an easier way.
        I've had bribe money in my hand, and it felt good, but I just couldn't make my hand put it into my pocket. Close. Oh, yes, a lot closer than you ever want to know.
        And there've been some women… they would've been there for me, and I could've put Jessica way back in my mind while I was with them, and maybe I would've cheated on her if the opportunities had been just the littlest bit easier. I know it's in me to do it-"
        "Harris-"
        "I'm telling you, I've got evil in me as much as anyone, some desires that scare me. Even if I don't give in to them, just having them scares the living be-jesus out of me sometimes. I'm no saint, the way you kid about.
        But I've always walked the line, walked that goddamned line. It's a mean mother of a line, straight and narrow, sharp as a razor, cuts right into you when you walk it long enough. You're always bleeding on that line, and sometimes you wonder why you don't just step off and walk in the cool grass. But I've always wanted to be a man our mother could be proud of.
        I wanted to shine in your eyes too, little brother, in the eyes of my wife and kids. I love you all so damned much, I never wanted any of you to know about any of the ugliness in me."
        "The same ugliness that's in all of us, Harris. All of us. So why are you going on like this, doing this to yourself."
        "If I've walked that line, hard as it is, and something like this can happen to me, then it can happen to anyone."
        Darius regarded him with stubborn perplexity. He was obviously struggling to understand Harris's anguish but was only halfway there.
        "Little brother, I'm sure you'll clear me of the charges. No more nights in Jail. But you explained the asset-forfeiture laws, and you did a damned good job, made it too clear. They have to prove I'm a drug dealer to put me back in jail, and they'll never be able to do that because it's all trumped up. But they don't have to prove a damn thing to keep my house, my bank accounts. They only have to show 'reasonable cause' that maybe the house was the site of