I hadn’t brought a television or a video player to the office so I headed home. I lived by myself in a one-story ranch house in an old part of Urbana. It was half brick and half brown-painted cedar. The location allowed me to walk to the courthouse, the University of Illinois, and my office. The house itself was small and needed work but it was comfortable and who had the time, energy, or inclination for household maintenance?
I walked in my front door. It was unlocked; I had to remember to start locking the doors. Given my occupation I should know better. In my living room I turned on the television and slipped the videotape into the VCR. You would think by now they would use a DVD. The tape showed static first, but then the picture came on. It was a very clear tape. If you have ever seen store surveillance tapes, you know they tend to be grainy and poorly done, like the tapes you see of the Loch Ness Monster or the ones made by those people who claim to have proof that aliens are real. This looked like a primetime television program. Whatever equipment the police used was better than it used to be. I turned up the sound but none came on. Then I remembered the audiotape: they had used a wire because the video equipment could not pick up the audio from such a great distance. I threw the audiotape in the tape player.
A skinny white guy walked across the street and sat under the fountain in West Side Park. He had long stringy blond hair and a gleaming gold tooth and was wearing a dirty, orange t-shirt that said Muck Fichigan across the front. The sound was not in sync with the picture, but I could tell what was happening.
A large black man approached the confidential source. It was clear they knew each other. The man looked like Thomas Traver, but had an Afro that was maybe three inches long rather than a shaved head. A close-up of his face revealed the scar. So yes, this was Thomas Traver. He held his hand out, but I could not see the actual rocks of crack. I couldn’t tell if money changed hands. The audiotape at the point of sale was hard to hear, like a cell phone going in and out of range. The voice, however, sounded like Mr. Traver’s. I could make out a part of the conversation where Thomas was saying, “Why drag me out here? You can have whatever you want, whenever you want it, without leaving home. That’s the deal.” The skinny white guy said something I couldn’t understand and left. The tape went blank.
Before calling Mr. Traver, I called a friend of mine, Robert Sizemore. Bob ran a small company out of his basement turning old videotapes into DVDs. He picked up on the third ring.
“Bob, it’s Sam, do you have a second?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“How hard is it to manipulate a videotape?”
“What! Are you trying to put your head on someone else’s body to impress the ladies?”
“Whose body is more impressive than mine?” I joked.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Would you be willing to look at a tape if I brought beer?”
“What type?”
“The type of beer or the type of tape?”
“Beer.”
“Guinness.”
“Stop by anytime.”