Her evidence lay scattered and trampled on the floor. Through the glass doors, she saw more police cars arriving, lights flashing. News reporters shoved microphones forward, shouting questions. The scene felt surreal, like something from a movie. Just before they pushed her into a cruiser, Jada locked eyes with Luna, who was still filming.
She gave a slight nod. The truth was out there now, spreading through the digital ether. They could handcuff her, but they couldn't stop what was coming. The car door slammed. Through the window, Jada watched the Civic Center recede, its American flag hanging limp in the humid air.
Her wrists ached from the cuffs, but she sat straight, face composed. Let them film that, too. A 16-year-old girl, calm and dignified, being arrested for daring to speak truth to power. On phones and screens across the world, her story was already taking flight, sparking debates and divisions. Some called her a hero, others a troublemaker.
Stand with Jada trended higher by the minute, even as skeptics picked apart her claims. But Jada knew this was just one move in a longer game. The truth was, like water, it would find its way out, no matter how many dams they built to contain it. The holding cell's fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, flickering every few minutes to cast strange shadows on the bare concrete walls. Jada sat on the thin plastic mattress, her back pressed against the cold cinder blocks, trying to keep her breathing steady like she did before tournaments.
But this wasn't a competition. This was real. And she was alone. Her white blouse, carefully pressed this morning, was now wrinkled and dirty from being tackled to the ground. One sleeve was torn at the cuff.
She'd been allowed to remove her hair tie during processing, and now her braids hung loose around her face, providing a small curtain of privacy from the camera mounted in the corner. Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four. Release for four. She whispered to herself, repeating the calming technique her kung fu master had taught her.
But her mind kept replaying the town hall scene, her evidence scattered across the floor, phones recording her arrest, Chief Whitmore's satisfied smirk as they dragged her away. The cell was small, maybe 8 by 10 ft, with a steel toilet in one corner and a small metal sink. Every sound echoed. The drip of the leaky faucet. The squeak of rubber soles on concrete as guards passed by.
The distant slam of heavy doors. A wave of despair threatened to overwhelm her. What if she'd miscalculated? What if going public had only made things worse? Caleb was safe for now, but what about tomorrow?
And their father, still serving time on trumped-up charges, had she just proved everyone right about their troublemaker family? The lights flickered again, longer this time, plunging the cell into darkness for several heartbeats before sputtering back to life. Jada pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small like she used to do during thunderstorms as a child. But she wasn't a child anymore. She was 16, and she'd chosen this fight.
"Stay strong. Stay focused." She muttered, but her voice cracked on the words. The sound of boots approaching made her straighten up. A guard appeared.