It was going on midnight. The car-radio was singing low music. My eyelids were heavy. I'd spent my day in federal court listening to testimony about some of society's worst predators and my evening at the newspaper office writing about them. Now, almost home, I suddenly realized I had a tail.

 It first hit me when I glanced in my rearview mirrors as I slowed for the turn into my driveway and glimpsed the white Buick LeSabre passing under a streetlight a quarter-block behind me. Nobody in my subdivision drives a white Buick LeSabre.

     My adrenalin gushing, I came wide awake. I flipped off my turn signal, hoping I hadn't already tipped the whereabouts of my home, my sanctuary, my family's safehouse.. I hit the gas pedal, screeched on down the street, and took three right turns. When I slowed again, my mirrors showed headlights still behind me.

I turned left, pondering. Tails were for jewelry salesmen toting samples, for guys carrying cash to or from payoffs, for married men suspected of maintaining mistresses. So who would tail me? What did I have that anyone could covet or what did  I know that anybody would want to learn?

I reviewed what I'd written for tomorrow's paper. My story reported evidence publicly presented and testimony publicly recited against crime boss Joseph "Big Ears" Bigetti during the first day of his federal trial for murder, extortion and racketeering. At least a hundred other people saw everything I saw and heard everything I heard.

I punched numbers into my cellular phone..

After a moment, Harold "Handy" Carruthers' voice said "Hello" in the speaker. He's the Chronicle's crime reporter, covering cop shops and criminal activities in our circulation area like tinfoil covers candy bars. I'm Sam Stillson, on the courts beat.

"It=s Sam," I told him. "Somebody's tailing me."

"Really? Who? And why?"

"No idea. I=m heading for your house. Catch the license number when I bring him by, okay?  It's a white Buick LeSabre."

"Give me five minutes," Handy said. "I'll get my car out."

"No need," I said. "Leave your car in the garage and just watch from the window. All I want is a plate number."

"Give me five."

"Forget the heroics, Handy. I don't have any interest in confronting the guy or anything. I just want to know who he is. I'll bring him by your house and then head for the cop shop. He'll take off when he sees the station sign and I'll have the duty sergeant run his plate for me."

"Give me five." Handy hung up.

I checked the headlights. They were close. I hit the accelerator. The lights fell behind. They drew closer again. I slowed a bit. So did they. I drove in circles for a while. The lights stayed with me. I neared Handy's place. His car was parked in front of his house. He was in it. I turned right at the next corner. So did my tail. Half a block farther, another pair of headlights appeared behind his. My phone rang.

"Got him," Handy's voice said.

"Great," I said. "Can you read the plate?"

"It's out of state. Kansas. And the car's carrying a rental logo."

"Damn." Out-of-state makes can be tough. Local cops are normally generous with their license-plate information, but foreign fuzz isn't usually so friendly. And car-rental agencies can be downright hostile in protecting their customers' identities when newspapers call to ask about them. "Maybe we're screwed."

"Not to worry," Handy said. "Head for the cop shop and alert the duty officer we're coming."

"The tail'll take off when he spots that big neon police-station sign."

"He won=t get far. I'll call you from the accident scene. Bring cops."

"Accident scene...." I started.

Handy hung up.

I called the station. The duty officer answered.

"Hi, Sarge," I told him. "Sam Stillson of the Chronicle. I'm in my car. I=ve got a white Buick LeSabre with a Kansas plate tailing me. We'll be coming by your station in a couple minutes. Would you send a couple uniforms outside to pull him over, please?"

"Nobody=s here," the sergeant said. "Everybody's out patrollin' or either havin' coffee somewheres."

"So tell despatch to rush a squad in," I said. "Or flag the guy down yourself. I need help."

I hung up and checked the mirrors. There was a pair of  headlights a block behind me on the deserted street. There was another set behind them. Six blocks ahead was the police station. Then three blocks. One block. I braked for the corner and looked for the fuzz. There was no fuzz, no squad car, no uniform.

I braked, parked, and dove out to get a look at the driver of the LeSabre. It flashed by, northbound, accelerating, its unseen driver presumably spooked by the cop-shop sign.

Handy's car roared past behind it.

I ran into the station, told the duty sergeant what I thought of him, ran back to my car, and headed after them. I punched in Handy's car-phone number. It rang. It rang again. A synthetic-sounding voice said, "Your call can not be completed at this time." I kept going. I rang again. Same response.

Blocks ahead, I spotted Handy's car stopped under a street lamp. When I got closer, I could see the driver's-side door was open and the interior light was on. I stopped behind the car and ran to it. Handy lay sprawled on the pavement alongside it. He wasn't moving.

I reached into his car to snatch his phone from its cradle, punched nine-one-one, and screamed for help. Then I lugged Handy out of the street and onto the grassy parkway between the sidewalk and the curb. He sat up, groaning.

"Are you okay?" I asked, squatting down beside him.

"No. I think they broke my head."

"They who?"

"They in the tail car. Three guys. I rammed their rear fender when they slowed to turn the corner. They stopped, like I planned, but they wouldn't talk insurance. They just beat me up and took off again."

"Three of them?"

"Three of them. One humongous SOB and two little ones."

"Little ones? Kids? Midgets?"

"Not kids or midgets. Regular-issue tough guys. Only one was gigantic and two were tiny. Genuine torpedoes, but little torpedoes, like five-four, five-five. Hundred-twenty pounds tops. The big guy dragged me out of my car and the little guys beat on me."

The ambulance arrived. So did a squad car. Handy told the uniforms and the paramedics the white Buick that hit him didn't stop. The uniforms took down his description. The paramedics shone lights in his eyes, had him count their fingers, and toted him off to the hospital. A tow truck rumbled up to haul his car away.

I went home. This time I watched for a tail. I didn't see any. During the night I thought I heard noises. I decided I was dreaming and went back to sleep.

I was awakened by the telephone alongside my bed.

"Morning," Handy said in my ear. "They haven't found the Buick."

"Oh," I said, clinging to my dream.

"I'm at St. Anthony's. Pick me up on your way by. When'll that be?"

"Uh ... not for a while. I go straight to court this morning, not to the office first. I don't need to be there until ten. How's your head?"

"Hurting. You'll be coming by around nine-thirty, then? Pick me up outside, in front of the visitor's entrance."

"Have they released you?"

"Who asked them? I wouldn't miss this morning for anything."

"Huh?" I said. "What's that mean?"

Handy hung up.

I watched for a tail on the way to the hospital. I didn't spot any: no white Buick or anything else. Handy was waiting outside the double doors marked VISITORS  wearing an unwrinkled brown sport coat, spiffy beige trousers, a crisp white shirt, and his usual tie-it-yourself red bow tie.

"Audrey brought them," he whispered, reading the question on my face as he climbed into the car.

"Something wrong with your voice?"

"No."

"Then why are you whispering?  And what the hell did you mean, you wouldn't miss this morning for anything?"

Handy reached over to switch on the radio. He turned the volume up high. There was a newscast going.

"... security is unprecedentedly tight at the federal-court trial of reputed crime-boss Joseph >Big-Ears= Bigetti," the radio reporter was saying. "Spectators are screened for weapons by walk-through metal-detectors set up in the corridor outside the courtroom. Only court attaches are exempt, with even lawyers and news-media personnel required to pass its sensors. The defendant, housed in the county jail fifteen miles away from the federal building between trial sessions, is transported here each morning and taken back to his county jail cell each evening in an armored vehicle led and followed by patrol cars manned by heavily armed guards. He is brought into the courtroom in handcuffs and leg irons. Outside the courthouse, the fenced-in parking area is closed to all except official vehicles and those of accredited news organizations. Civilian cars and even delivery trucks are barred by security police guarding each of the two gates. The news will continue after these commercial messages...."

Handy punched the radio to a music station. He turned the volume up.

">Except official vehicles and those of accredited news organizations,=" he whispered in my ear. "Does that tell you anything?"

"Like what?"

"Shhh. Don't you see it?"

"No I don't," I said, ignoring his shushing. "So why don't you tell me about it?"

 "Shhh. Later." Handy turned the radio up still louder. "For now, just drive."

I did, pulling around the corner and stopping at the gate leading into the federal building's parking lot. I ran down the car window and held my press credentials out for the uniformed guard to inspect. Handy didn't bother to produce his.

"Mornin', Sir"  the guard said. I remembered him from the day before. He scanned my picture, eyed my face. After an almost imperceptible nod, he bent down to peer past me. Suddenly grinning, he said, "Well, hi, Handy. Haven't seen you in a while."

"Morning, George," Handy said. "How're Myrna and the boys?"

"Never better." He returned my credentials. "Okay, Sir, you can drive on in."

I did, parking in one of the few remaining vacant spots, my front bumper touching the brick wall of the three-story building a dozen feet to the left of its barred double-door rear entrance. Most of the lot was filled with TV trucks and radio vans.

"Leave the windows open and let's walk back to the gate," Handy whispered. I did and we did.

"George," Handy said to the guard. "Is this where they bring Big-Ears Bigetti for his days in court?"

"Yup. They convoy through my gate here, park near that barred entrance over there beyond your Caprice, and take him in there. The armored carrier stops outside the door, and the escort cars sandwich-park ahead and behind. It's kind of interesting, the way they secure the mob guy."

"Fascinating," Handy said. "Aren't they about due?"

George looked at his wristwatch. "Soon. They generally pull in just minutes before ten. It's quarter of, now."

Handy pointed at the hand-held radio clipped to the guard's belt. "Can you raise the marshal's office on that walkie-talkie?"

"Sure." George looked puzzled. "Why?"

"You better get some troops out here." Handy pointed at my Caprice. "We think there's a couple of mafiosi in our trunk. We figure they're planning to pop it open and shoot up the place when the bus parks and Big Ears steps out. We think they intend to snuff anybody in the way and haul their Don the hell out of here in a white Buick LeSabre getaway car."

George looked blank, then puzzled, then outraged. He said, "You guys are hiding mobsters in your trunk?"

"Maybe. We're just guessing they're there." Handy looked at me. "Doesn't your tail make sense that way?"

"Wow," I said, the realization flooding my alleged brain. "It sure does. Mob guys can't get close to their boss, so they stake out the car of a reporter with parking privileges. They follow him home. They stash two hoods ... uh ... yeah, two little hoods in his car trunk during the night. These mini-mobsters are equipped with artillery, food, urine bottles, whatever they need. And when the armored car unloads the boss mobster,  they leap out firing, spring him, and ride him off into the sunset."

"Welcome aboard," Handy said approvingly. "How about it, George? You going to alert the troops, or are we going to be outgunned when the shooting starts ... IF it starts?"

The guard looked unhappy. "How sure are you, Handy? I call out the SWAT team, they'll be wearing aprons and waving weapons and gushing adrenalin. It turns out there's nothing in that trunk but a spare tire, they'll have me guarding Porta-Potties in New Jersey for the next nine years."

"You know what could be even worse?"

George sighed. "Yeah." He plucked the radio from his belt, checked its channel setting, and began talking into it.

Handy grabbed my arm and pulled me toward my car.

"Once the SWAT guys get set up, you=re going to reach in through the window and pop your trunk lid open with your glove compartment button, right?" he whispered.

"Right," I whispered back. "But not until after the good guys are deployed and ready. I'd rather not see miniature mobsters spraying lead around without we have some friendly fire on our side."

"Agreed." Handy led me past the car. We stopped with our backs against the bricks alongside the right front fender of the Caprice. I was a step away from the window and a reach away from the trunk-popping button.

"Listen,"  I said. "If the troops deploy over there and start shooting this way, we're in the line of fire."

"Not after you pop the trunk lid we're not," Handy whispered in my ear. "You push that button, and we're way the hell over there."

"Right," I told him.

There was a rumbling from the street. I knew what it was without looking. So did Handy.

"Damn," he said, as a police car sped around the corner, braked for the entry turn-in, and rolled through the gate into the lot. It was followed closely by an armored vehicle looking like an olive-drab Brinks truck and by another patrol car.

The armored vehicle swung toward us, rumbled to within twenty feet of where we stood, and ground to a halt. The lead car parked ahead of it, the trail car behind it. The armored truck's near front door started to open. It was within ten paces of the Caprice's trunk.

"NOOOOO," Handy yelled, and dove at the rear of my car. I took off behind him. We both landed atop the trunk lid of my Caprice at the same instant, weighting it down with our bodies. For a moment, I felt relief. Then came embarrassment. What if nothing was inside the trunk, as George put it, except a spare tire? Fear followed. Worse, what if two little mobsters, trapped under an unyielding trunk lid, decided to blow holes through it and us?

"We've got this tiger by the whatsies," Handy muttered in my ear, evidently sharing my thought.

"I know," I said.    

The barred doors to the building flung open. Half a dozen camouflage-clad bodies poured through the opening. The padded figures were a-bristle with riot guns.

"On three, we head for cover," Handy said in my ear. "One ... two ... three!"

I dove to the left, hit the ground, rolled to my feet, and came up running. When I reached the brick wall beyond the barred doors, I turned around to look.

I saw six men in camouflage clothing fanned out between the armored car and my Caprice, their gun muzzles converged on my trunk. Its lid was open, bouncing at the top of its travel. I couldn't see into it. The armored car's door was closed. There were faces peering through its bulletproof windows. Handy wasn't in my field of vision.

"I want to see hands," one of the camouflage-clad team was screaming. "I want to see FOUR empty hands. Don't let me NOT see four hands. All right, out of there, feet first, and let me see four empty HANDS!"