Fenno yawned. He’d been riding around with the men and women of law enforcement for three hours, and nothing had happened. Participating in COPS: Cambridge was shaping up to be a very disappointing experience. Despite repeated requests, the policemen had yet to use the nightsticks or the tear gas.

“Hold it,” said one of the cops from the front seat as the car rolled up the track between Hastings and Griswold. He flipped on the spotlight to illuminate a lanky figure crouched next to Griswold.

A grinning B.J. Trach, covered in dirt and sweat, tossed the shovel aside and began pulling drums of oil and bags of fertilizer out from underneath the building.

“It’s all good!” he shouted to the police, waving them along cheerfully. “John Manning is coming!”

Ah, though Fenno, that explains the enormous pyramid of Tab cans the Federalist Society had erected on Jarvis Field. Fenno had been initially disappointed when he heard that three 1Ls had been ritually sacrificed in its dedication, but then he learned the identities of the victims and was nonplussed.

Taking B.J. at his word, the police rolled away, one officer shaking his head at these crazy law school antics. “Crazy kids. We get a lot of zany stuff around here. You know how these college kids can get,” said the cop, mugging for the camera. Fenno rolled his eyes.

The radio crackled and the police were informed that a strange short person was behaving oddly around the Gropius complex. “Let’s do this on foot,” said one of the cops, unlocking the shotgun and removing it from its rack on the dashboard. Fenno eagerly followed the policemen, hoping that at last the night would get interesting.

After a few minutes of patrolling they came upon Dean Kagan. The dean attempted to look inconspicuous as she deftly stood in front of a pile of explosives labeled “Kirkland & Ellis,” a name that would be all too familiar to HLS students once the plaza was renamed.

“Excuse me, ma’am, just what are you doing out here?” asked one cop.

“It’s cool, man, she’s the dean. She runs the law school,” explained Fenno, hoping that some swift ass-kissing here could be leveraged into a lifetime extension on his third year paper.

“Dean or not, that’s enough explosive to level a fairly large building or connected set of buildings,” replied the second cop. It slowly dawned on Fenno that the Gropius Complex had been close to getting the treatment it deserved, and desperately tried to think of a way to cover for the dean while she prepared to level the twisted legacy of the abominable architect.

Fenno was not a terribly bright man, so when in desperation he spied a taser on one of the policemen’s belts, he reached for it and zapped himself in the leg. As Fenno convulsed, the Dean made her escape, taking most of the explosives with her. The police let her go, being more concerned with their charge. The camera crew zoomed in on Fenno twitching.

“You okay, son?” asked one policeman. When that failed to elicit a response, he poked Fenno gently with his toe. “Wake up there, kid.”

When Fenno came to, he was in Dunkin Donuts and the officers were halfway through a dozen donuts. Fenno snagged a donut and tried to ignore the arc lightning when his hand strayed too close to a spoon. Suddenly, the police radio crackled again.

“All units to Frost Street! All units to Frost Street!” urged the dispatcher. The camera crew smiled at the thought of juicy footage as the cops polished off their donuts and rose.

“Frost Street is walking distance from here,” said one cop. The other stared him down, and they headed to the cruiser to drive over.

They passed a number of students trying hard to walk straight and not look drunk as they approached Frost Street. Seven police cars were already on the street when they arrived. The action seemed to be focused around one particular house, from which more students staggered. Fenno recognized the BSA members among them by their “Rakoff Sucks” shirts.

Fenno followed the cops inside. The policemen joined a large number of their brethren telling students to leave the party.

“This is a crock! This is about civil rights. Not just here, but everywhere. We gotta stand up to these guys. I bet these guys are the guys who didn’t get invited to their own birthday parties when they were kids!” raged Anjan Choudhury at a uniformed officer, who was rapidly losing his patience.

Fenno could sympathize with the poor victim of jack-booted persecution. He harbored painful memories of his abrupt deportation from the Czech Republic (the infamous de-Fennostration of Prague).

After trying to reason with Anjan, the cop finally whacked him quickly on the head with a nightstick and then whistled innocently. “I think your friend here needs to be put to bed,” the cop called to Dave Harkin in the next room.

The cops offered Fenno a ride home, which he gladly accepted. As they cruised toward his apartment, they passed a couple locked in argument on the sidewalk. The girl wore very hip shoes, while the guy ran his fingers through his hippie haircut in exasperation. The cops slowed down, but Fenno waved them on.

“Only the direct intervention of God himself could end that argument,” Fenno cautioned. The cameraman looked despondently at the waning prospect of a dramatic domestic argument as the car continued on its way.

Fenno exited the car at his apartment and thanked the policemen for dropping him off. A flash of light brightened the sky to the southeast, followed closely by a dampened boom. “God bless you, Dean Kagan,” Fenno murmured as the police car squealed into high speed and accelerated toward the explosion.

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