One Sunday, ten years or so back, the police knocked on my door. It was a muggy summer’s morning, around 7 a.m. My fiancée-at-the-time pretended to be asleep so that I would deal with it. I was still in my jeans from the night before, and my mouth felt like an ashtray. My forehead and my hair were damp with alcoholic sweat. I remember my calves cramped when I stood up, then I put on a shirt, and opened the front door. There was a brief moment of tranquillity when I saw their uniforms, their pistols. I felt that beautiful…