“Too, ma’am,” Martinez said, and the patience was gone. “Based on the evidence, the video footage, the witness statements, and the owner’s receipt, you physically assaulted a minor and attempted to take property under false pretenses.”
Her jaw fell open. “That’s absurd. I was protecting our community. The Millers reported—”
“We’ve had no reports of stolen bicycles in this area,” the second officer cut in, sharp and finished. “And even if we had, that wouldn’t give you the authority to confront a child or seize property without proper verification.”
While they spoke with her, I knelt beside David. The pavement was warm through the knee of my jeans. His cheeks were still streaked. His hands were locked on the handlebars as if the bike might still be argued out from under him. “Are you okay, buddy?”
He sniffled and nodded, which was not the same as being okay. “Is she going to take my bike, Dad?”
I shook my head and put an arm around him. He smelled like grass and the soap he had used that morning because birthdays, in our house, still began with a shower. “No, son. That’s your bike. No one is taking it from you.”