The fifteen foot high metal gates of Folsom Prison opened and a tall muscular man with raven black hair and blue-green eyes emerged toting a small black canvas bag. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, a coiled cobra adorning his left arm. He wore a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with a pack of non-filtered Camels rolled up in the left sleeve. He removed the pack, extracted a cigarette and lit it with the Zippo lighter he pulled from the Levi�s pocket. Five minutes later, a man with long straggly brown hair and a beard to match pulled up to the curb in a white four door 1973 Chevy Caprice. The man in the black T-shirt opened the rear door, tossed the bag into the back, slammed it shut, opened the passenger door, flicked the lit cigarette at the prison gates and climbed in. Before the driver could speak, the man in black said, �I have something I need you to do for me. I have been waiting twelve years for this.� �Whatever you want, Snake,� the driver answer. �You saved my bacon more than once while I was locked up.� The Snake slammed the door and began laying out his plan of revenge as the driver sped down the narrow windy road. *** Chapter One It was a chilly overcast January morning in 1979. The smell of winter hung in space. President Jimmy Carter and Russian Premier Alexsei Kosygin were in control of the nuclear button. Ted Bundy had been captured in Florida but the Hillside Stranger had just killed his tenth victim. The NY Yankees defeated the LA Dodgers in the World Series and Grease was last year�s top movie release with Superman and Animal House coming in second and third. Robert Banks IV sat idle at a �J� Street stop light on his way to work. The heater coil in his prized 1969 black Ford Mustang Boss 302 had a slow leak and was fogging up the windshield every few minutes. �Damn� I�ve got to fix this thing,� he muttered to himself as he wiped the windshield with a tattered red towel. He loved this car and wasn�t about to part with it. A young boy and girl bundled up for the winter, walked across the street and an old white haired woman wearing a dark blue wool coat, a bright red knit cap and scarf, sat outside the donut shop. Robert is a sergeant with the Sacramento Sheriff�s Department. He is a tall muscular black man in his late twenties. After high school, in August of 1968, he had enlisted in the Army and spent two tours of duty as a sniper with the 9th Infantry in the Mekong Delta of Viet Nam. On leave in 1969, Robert spent thirty days at home, married his high school sweetheart Pamela Thomson, and today they have a set of eight year old twins, Allison and Andrew. The light turned green as Rob eased the Mustang into the intersection. From the corner of his eye, Rob detected the shape of a large truck as it impacted the passenger�s side of his car. The car spun around twice before slamming into a new copper colored Camero parked at the curb. Rob was pinned under the steering wheel as he watched the faded green Peterbilt tractor-trailer scurry from the scene. He could barely make out the form of a man with long straggly hair and a thick beard in the truck�s driver�s seat. Rob felt a warm sticky liquid dripping down his face and could taste the blood in his mouth. Also, something was jabbing into his left inner thigh and inched itself farther in as he tried to tug himself free. Rob decided to just wait for the firemen or the paramedics to arrive. Ten minutes later he heard a siren screaming up the boulevard before he blacked out. *** Gary Debronsky drove the green sixteen wheeler into the James Auto Wrecking Yard, rolled under a large gray tarp covered driveway and shut off the diesel engine. He climbed from the rig, closed the gate behind him and walked into the office. The yard was located in the tiny town of Antelope near the Roseville railroad yard ten miles northeast of Sacramento. Gary was a large man with long stringy brown hair, brown eyes and a filthy beard to match. His potbelly stretched the limits of the black Grateful Dead T-shirt and his Levi�s hung down below his gut. He wore a motorcycle chain for a belt and sported a pair of dusty well-used black motorcycle boots. Gary smelled like he hadn�t taken a shower in months, and probably hadn�t. He marched into the empty office, flopped down into a worn-out tan leather chair with wheels and lifted his boots onto the messy old hardwood desk. The place had the look and musty odor of age. Gary snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed. The phone rang five or six times before anyone answered. �Hey Snake, dis is da Animal,� Gary established. �I hit da target dis mornin� but I�m not sure if da contract was met or not. I saw him duck just before I slammed into him. Da car spun around a couple times and crashed into anudder car. I will find out what happened and get back to you�s.� Gary listened for a moment as the Snake spit venom into the other end of the phone. �Yes�Yes�Yes� OK � I�ll get right on dat,� Animal answered, and then the Snake hung up. Gary was angry with himself. He had never missed a target and he wasn�t about to start now. He locked his fingers behind his neck, leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. �Now where da hell are dey gonna take you, Mr. Banks?� Gary thought to himself. *** Pam dashed through the emergency entrance doors of the Sutter Memorial Hospital and flashed her FBI credentials to a heavyset black woman dressed in Minnie Mouse scrubs sitting at the Nurses� Station. �I�m here to see my husband, Robert Banks,� she shouted. �He was in a car accident this morning.� The nurse looked down at the chart on her desk and pointed to the elevators. �He�s on the fourth floor Mam, Room 423. Take the elevator, turn left as you exit. It�s the second door on the right.�

The fifteen foot high metal gates of Folsom Prison opened and a tall muscular man with raven black hair and blue-green eyes emerged toting a small black canvas bag. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, a coiled cobra adorning his left arm. He wore a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with a pack of non-filtered Camels rolled up in the left sleeve. He removed the pack, extracted a cigarette and lit it with the Zippo lighter he pulled from the Levi�s pocket. Five minutes later, a man with long straggly brown hair and a beard to match pulled up to the curb in a white four door 1973 Chevy Caprice. The man in the black T-shirt opened the rear door, tossed the bag into the back, slammed it shut, opened the passenger door, flicked the lit cigarette at the prison gates and climbed in. Before the driver could speak, the man in black said, �I have something I need you to do for me. I have been waiting twelve years for this.� �Whatever you want, Snake,� the driver answer. �You saved my bacon more than once while I was locked up.� The Snake slammed the door and began laying out his plan of revenge as the driver sped down the narrow windy road. *** Chapter One It was a chilly overcast January morning in 1979. The smell of winter hung in space. President Jimmy Carter and Russian Premier Alexsei Kosygin were in control of the nuclear button. Ted Bundy had been captured in Florida but the Hillside Stranger had just killed his tenth victim. The NY Yankees defeated the LA Dodgers in the World Series and Grease was last year�s top movie release with Superman and Animal House coming in second and third. Robert Banks IV sat idle at a �J� Street stop light on his way to work. The heater coil in his prized 1969 black Ford Mustang Boss 302 had a slow leak and was fogging up the windshield every few minutes. �Damn� I�ve got to fix this thing,� he muttered to himself as he wiped the windshield with a tattered red towel. He loved this car and wasn�t about to part with it. A young boy and girl bundled up for the winter, walked across the street and an old white haired woman wearing a dark blue wool coat, a bright red knit cap and scarf, sat outside the donut shop. Robert is a sergeant with the Sacramento Sheriff�s Department. He is a tall muscular black man in his late twenties. After high school, in August of 1968, he had enlisted in the Army and spent two tours of duty as a sniper with the 9th Infantry in the Mekong Delta of Viet Nam. On leave in 1969, Robert spent thirty days at home, married his high school sweetheart Pamela Thomson, and today they have a set of eight year old twins, Allison and Andrew. The light turned green as Rob eased the Mustang into the intersection. From the corner of his eye, Rob detected the shape of a large truck as it impacted the passenger�s side of his car. The car spun around twice before slamming into a new copper colored Camero parked at the curb. Rob was pinned under the steering wheel as he watched the faded green Peterbilt tractor-trailer scurry from the scene. He could barely make out the form of a man with long straggly hair and a thick beard in the truck�s driver�s seat. Rob felt a warm sticky liquid dripping down his face and could taste the blood in his mouth. Also, something was jabbing into his left inner thigh and inched itself farther in as he tried to tug himself free. Rob decided to just wait for the firemen or the paramedics to arrive. Ten minutes later he heard a siren screaming up the boulevard before he blacked out. *** Gary Debronsky drove the green sixteen wheeler into the James Auto Wrecking Yard, rolled under a large gray tarp covered driveway and shut off the diesel engine. He climbed from the rig, closed the gate behind him and walked into the office. The yard was located in the tiny town of Antelope near the Roseville railroad yard ten miles northeast of Sacramento. Gary was a large man with long stringy brown hair, brown eyes and a filthy beard to match. His potbelly stretched the limits of the black Grateful Dead T-shirt and his Levi�s hung down below his gut. He wore a motorcycle chain for a belt and sported a pair of dusty well-used black motorcycle boots. Gary smelled like he hadn�t taken a shower in months, and probably hadn�t. He marched into the empty office, flopped down into a worn-out tan leather chair with wheels and lifted his boots onto the messy old hardwood desk. The place had the look and musty odor of age. Gary snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed. The phone rang five or six times before anyone answered. �Hey Snake, dis is da Animal,� Gary established. �I hit da target dis mornin� but I�m not sure if da contract was met or not. I saw him duck just before I slammed into him. Da car spun around a couple times and crashed into anudder car. I will find out what happened and get back to you�s.� Gary listened for a moment as the Snake spit venom into the other end of the phone. �Yes�Yes�Yes� OK � I�ll get right on dat,� Animal answered, and then the Snake hung up. Gary was angry with himself. He had never missed a target and he wasn�t about to start now. He locked his fingers behind his neck, leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. �Now where da hell are dey gonna take you, Mr. Banks?� Gary thought to himself. *** Pam dashed through the emergency entrance doors of the Sutter Memorial Hospital and flashed her FBI credentials to a heavyset black woman dressed in Minnie Mouse scrubs sitting at the Nurses� Station. �I�m here to see my husband, Robert Banks,� she shouted. �He was in a car accident this morning.� The nurse looked down at the chart on her desk and pointed to the elevators. �He�s on the fourth floor Mam, Room 423. Take the elevator, turn left as you exit. It�s the second door on the right.�

The fifteen foot high metal gates of Folsom Prison opened and a tall muscular man with raven black hair and blue-green eyes emerged toting a small black canvas bag. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, a coiled cobra adorning his left arm. He wore a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with a pack of non-filtered Camels rolled up in the left sleeve. He removed the pack, extracted a cigarette and lit it with the Zippo lighter he pulled from the Levi�s pocket. Five minutes later, a man with long straggly brown hair and a beard to match pulled up to the curb in a white four door 1973 Chevy Caprice. The man in the black T-shirt opened the rear door, tossed the bag into the back, slammed it shut, opened the passenger door, flicked the lit cigarette at the prison gates and climbed in. Before the driver could speak, the man in black said, �I have something I need you to do for me. I have been waiting twelve years for this.� �Whatever you want, Snake,� the driver answer. �You saved my bacon more than once while I was locked up.� The Snake slammed the door and began laying out his plan of revenge as the driver sped down the narrow windy road. *** Chapter One It was a chilly overcast January morning in 1979. The smell of winter hung in space. President Jimmy Carter and Russian Premier Alexsei Kosygin were in control of the nuclear button. Ted Bundy had been captured in Florida but the Hillside Stranger had just killed his tenth victim. The NY Yankees defeated the LA Dodgers in the World Series and Grease was last year�s top movie release with Superman and Animal House coming in second and third. Robert Banks IV sat idle at a �J� Street stop light on his way to work. The heater coil in his prized 1969 black Ford Mustang Boss 302 had a slow leak and was fogging up the windshield every few minutes. �Damn� I�ve got to fix this thing,� he muttered to himself as he wiped the windshield with a tattered red towel. He loved this car and wasn�t about to part with it. A young boy and girl bundled up for the winter, walked across the street and an old white haired woman wearing a dark blue wool coat, a bright red knit cap and scarf, sat outside the donut shop. Robert is a sergeant with the Sacramento Sheriff�s Department. He is a tall muscular black man in his late twenties. After high school, in August of 1968, he had enlisted in the Army and spent two tours of duty as a sniper with the 9th Infantry in the Mekong Delta of Viet Nam. On leave in 1969, Robert spent thirty days at home, married his high school sweetheart Pamela Thomson, and today they have a set of eight year old twins, Allison and Andrew. The light turned green as Rob eased the Mustang into the intersection. From the corner of his eye, Rob detected the shape of a large truck as it impacted the passenger�s side of his car. The car spun around twice before slamming into a new copper colored Camero parked at the curb. Rob was pinned under the steering wheel as he watched the faded green Peterbilt tractor-trailer scurry from the scene. He could barely make out the form of a man with long straggly hair and a thick beard in the truck�s driver�s seat. Rob felt a warm sticky liquid dripping down his face and could taste the blood in his mouth. Also, something was jabbing into his left inner thigh and inched itself farther in as he tried to tug himself free. Rob decided to just wait for the firemen or the paramedics to arrive. Ten minutes later he heard a siren screaming up the boulevard before he blacked out. *** Gary Debronsky drove the green sixteen wheeler into the James Auto Wrecking Yard, rolled under a large gray tarp covered driveway and shut off the diesel engine. He climbed from the rig, closed the gate behind him and walked into the office. The yard was located in the tiny town of Antelope near the Roseville railroad yard ten miles northeast of Sacramento. Gary was a large man with long stringy brown hair, brown eyes and a filthy beard to match. His potbelly stretched the limits of the black Grateful Dead T-shirt and his Levi�s hung down below his gut. He wore a motorcycle chain for a belt and sported a pair of dusty well-used black motorcycle boots. Gary smelled like he hadn�t taken a shower in months, and probably hadn�t. He marched into the empty office, flopped down into a worn-out tan leather chair with wheels and lifted his boots onto the messy old hardwood desk. The place had the look and musty odor of age. Gary snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed. The phone rang five or six times before anyone answered. �Hey Snake, dis is da Animal,� Gary established. �I hit da target dis mornin� but I�m not sure if da contract was met or not. I saw him duck just before I slammed into him. Da car spun around a couple times and crashed into anudder car. I will find out what happened and get back to you�s.� Gary listened for a moment as the Snake spit venom into the other end of the phone. �Yes�Yes�Yes� OK � I�ll get right on dat,� Animal answered, and then the Snake hung up. Gary was angry with himself. He had never missed a target and he wasn�t about to start now. He locked his fingers behind his neck, leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. �Now where da hell are dey gonna take you, Mr. Banks?� Gary thought to himself. *** Pam dashed through the emergency entrance doors of the Sutter Memorial Hospital and flashed her FBI credentials to a heavyset black woman dressed in Minnie Mouse scrubs sitting at the Nurses� Station. �I�m here to see my husband, Robert Banks,� she shouted. �He was in a car accident this morning.� The nurse looked down at the chart on her desk and pointed to the elevators. �He�s on the fourth floor Mam, Room 423. Take the elevator, turn left as you exit. It�s the second door on the right.�

Social worker, Doug Roberts is forced to deal with a third generation of delinquent and mentally ill family that undermines treatment and placement for the sake of �the familia�. From the fi rst encounter of a gun pulled on him to a chase across rooftops and numerous Juvenile Court Hearings, Doug eventually gains the respect of the family which results in some stability in the home.

Social worker, Doug Roberts is forced to deal with a third generation of delinquent and mentally ill family that undermines treatment and placement for the sake of �the familia�. From the fi rst encounter of a gun pulled on him to a chase across rooftops and numerous Juvenile Court Hearings, Doug eventually gains the respect of the family which results in some stability in the home.

How certain can you be that the person who is claiming to be a police officer is really one? Who do you trust?

How Do You Know If It´s Officer Joe? is written with children´s safety in mind. It helps children to become more observant as they are approached by a police officer.

Children have a genuine trust for police officers, but they need to be able to know the difference between a real police officer and someone pretending to be a police officer. This book points out that a real police officer would have an official badge and picture identification to show. Additionally, there are preventive measures to follow when approached by someone pretending to be a police officer.

This children´s book is informative and fun to read for all ages and is wonderfully illustrated by Berkshire artist, Brian Bailey.