30 KentKent steered his Jeep Cherokee along the unlined blacktop road fronting the organic farm that the Fletcher family had been operating for forty years.
He’d reached the cyclone fence that marked the boundary between the organic fruit and vegetable farm and the outdoor m*******a growing operation.
He registered the green privacy screening and razor-wire additions to the fencing.
The Jeep passenger seat squeaked as Evergreen County Sheriff Bill Whitworth straightened up.
Like Kent, Bill wore a jacket with no markings over jeans and a flannel shirt. His body shift forced a puff of air from that side of the vehicle.
Kent picked up the familiar scent of stale cigarette smoke.
The sheriff’s ground floor office at the county courthouse had an exit directly to the parking lot. Bill had
