CHAPTER THIRTY-TWODonald Jackson was a good cop. He walked the downtown beat for years and kept the peace in an unorthodox manner. He wasn’t arrest happy. He broke up fights and sent the combatants their separate ways. He arranged for drunks to get rides home. He didn’t yank kids out of cars and shake them down for dope. Bar and restaurant owners loved him because he protected their businesses without calling in backup and shutting down the entire street. He wasn’t a big man—five-ten, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. But everybody knew he could slam a perpetrator up against a wall or take him down and cuff him if need be.
Jesse knew Officer Jackson well because he worked security at Mother’s. They talked every night when the band stepped out back to take a joint break. Don (as everybo
