All of them. The first police cruiser arrived within 3 minutes, its flashing light slicing through the darkness of the suburban street. Officer Martinez emerged, her hand resting on her sidearm as she surveyed the scene. Three teenage boys on the ground in varying states of injury. One young woman standing calmly nearby and a knife glinting on the asphalt.
"Nobody move," she commanded. "Hands where I can see them." Zara raised her hand slowly. "Officer, my name is Zara Washington. These three boys cornered me and one of them brandished a knife. I was defending myself." Tyler was sitting up, blood streaming from his fractured nose.
"She attacked us. We were merely attempting to converse with her." "With a knife," Officer Martinez inquired, gesturing towards the weapon near Jake's unconscious form. That doesn't belong to us, Brandon protested, struggling to his feet with a grimace. She must have planted it. A second cruiser arrived, followed swiftly by an ambulance.
Officer Martinez's partner, Deputy Collins, commenced securing the scene while paramedics attended to Jake, who was groggy regaining consciousness. "I need to contact my father," Zara stated calmly. "You won't be contacting anyone until we resolve this," Officer Martinez replied. What transpired here? They followed me from my residence and cornered me.
They issued threats against my family earlier this week, and tonight they intended to follow through on those threats. That's a fabrication. Tyler spat blood onto the sidewalk. She has been fabricating incidents against us for weeks. She orchestrated Jake's arrest, got me apprehended for selling his cigarettes, and now she's attempting to frame us for assault.
Deputy Collins looked up from where he was photographing the knife. This matches the description of a blade that was stolen from Morrison's garage last week. The family reported it missing. Jake's eyes widened as he sat up against the bumper of the ambulance. I didn't steal anything.
Someone has been meticulously planning this. At that moment, Commander Washington's truck roared around the corner. He had been monitoring police scanners and recognized his daughter's name in the dispatch. He parked rapidly and approached the scene, his military bearing evident in every stride. "Sir, this is a crime scene," Officer Martinez cautioned.
"That is my daughter," he responded, withdrawing his identification. "Commander David Washington, retired Navy Seal. What is her status?" "She appears uninjured. She claims she was attacked by these three boys." Commander Washington surveyed the scene with professional acuity. Three larger adversaries incapacitated, his daughter standing composed, a weapon that clearly did not belong to her.
Pride and concern wared on his face. Zara, are you injured? No, Dad. I'm fine. Did you adhere to protocol?