Monk on Patrol Mr. Monk Arrives in New Jersey We touched down hard in Newark at two a.m. and the jolt awakened Monk, who sat up straight in his seat and gripped his armrests for dear life. “Taking off is the part I hate most,” Monk said. “Then you can relax,” I said, “because we’ve just landed.” Monk looked out the window and saw for himself that we were heading toward the terminal, not away from it. When he turned back to us, he saw Sharona smiling at him. “Welcome to New Jersey,” she said. “You slept the whole way.” “You slipped me a mickey,” he said. “I did,” she said. “Do you feel an overpowering desire to score some crack?” “I used to trust you,” Monk said, then shifted his gaze to me. “Were you aware of what she was doing?” “No,” I said. “But I think you’re treating Sharona unfairly.” “She drugged me,” Monk said. “That’s an unforgivable betrayal.” “You didn’t feel that way when you drugged your brother with sleeping pills, kidnapped him, and dragged him across state lines in a motor home,”
