“You coppers don’t have nothing on me. I didn’t pirate songs by Dixie Chicks, face to face and and distribute them on the net. Just ask Mama.”

“We did. She spat on the ground on the mere mention of your name.”

“What about Papa?”

“He’s the one who started the investigation. Says he wants to stick you in the house of detention.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I believe in protecting intellectual property. I’d never rip off Black Oak Arkansas and Anthrax.”

“You’re going up the river for a long, long time.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re bluffing. Just wait until Father Berrigan gets here.”

“You mean the radical priest?”

“That’s the one. He’s gonna get me released.”

“Then I suppose you’ll all end up on the cover of one of those magazines like Time or Newsweek?”

“It could happen.”

“In your dreams, scumbag. We have proof you pirated songs by Sweet Honey In The Rock and Sir Mix-A-Lot.”

“You cops have nada.”

“We have motive, we have opportunity and we have witnesses.”

“Witnesses? Who?”

“Well, there’s Rosie, for one.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She hangs out with Al Jarreau and America. You may know her as the ‘Queen of Corona.'”

“Oh yeah. Queenie. What about her?

“She said she saw you and Jules.”

“Jules? Now I know you’re bluffing. I don’t know any dude named Jules.”

“Jules. AKA Stan the Plan. AKA Coy Roy. AKA Gus the Bus.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“AKA Julio.”

“Oh, oh.”

“What about it, kid. Got something you want to get off your chest?”

“What can I say? You caught me dead to rights.”

“Then you’re ready to confess?”

“Me and Julio didn’t mean any harm. We were just trading MP3s of Steely Dan, Martina McBride and Rage Against The Machine down by the schoolyard.”

“You’re looking at some serious time, kid.”

“Why? I mean, the way you cops make it sound, you’d think I ripped off Paul Simon.”