Raylan's Argumentative Essay

Raylan Givens was holding a federal warrant to serve on a man in the marijuana trade known as Angel Arenas, forty-seven, born in the U.S. but 100 percent of him Hispanic.

“I met him,” Raylan said, “the time I was on court duty in Miami and he was up for selling khat. That Arab plant you chew on and get high.”

“Just medium high,” Rachel Brooks said, in the front seat of the SUV, Raylan driving, early morning sun showing behind them. “Khat’s just catchin on, grown in California, big in San Diego among real Africans.”

“You buy any, you want to know it was picked that morning,” Raylan said. “It gives you a high for the day and that’s it.”

“I have some friends,” Rachel said, “like to chew it now and then. They never get silly, have fun with

“Guy wakes up missin a kidney. Has no idea who took it. People bring it up from time to time, but nobody ever proved it happened.”

“It has now,” Raylan said.

“You can’t live without kidneys,” Tim said.

“Be hard,” Raylan said. “Less you get on dialysis pretty quick. What I don’t see, what these pot growers are doing yanking out people’s kidneys. They aren’t making it sellin weed? I’ve heard a whole cadaver, selling parts of it at a time? Will go for a hundred grand. But you make more you sell enough weed, and it isn’t near as messy as dealin kidneys. What I’m wondering . . .” He paused, thinking about it.

Tim said, “Yeah . . . ?”

“Who did the surgery?”

About noon Art Mullen, marshal in charge of the Harlan field office, came by the motel to find Raylan still poking around the room.

Art said, “You know what you’re looking for?”

“Techs dusted the place,” Raylan said, “picked up Angel’s clothes, bloody dressings, surgical staples, an empty sack of Mail Pouch, but no kidneys. How’s Angel doing?”

“They got him in intensive care, maintaining.”

“He’s gonna make it?”

“I think what keeps him alive,” Art said, “he’s half out but mad as hell these weed dealers ripped him off. Took what he paid for the reefer—if you believe him—and left him to