“That’s convenient.”
“It’s normal.”
Malloy stepped closer. “Normal fathers can prove they’re fathers.”
Andre felt Hazel’s hand tighten inside his. “No, officer. Most parents sitting in parks do not carry legal proof of parenthood.” Hazel looked up at Malloy, her forehead wrinkled. “He is my daddy,” she said, small but clear. Malloy glanced at her for half a second, then looked back at Andre as if she had made a sound, not a statement.
“I need you to stand up.”
Andre did not move. “Why?”
“For the child’s safety.”
“My child is safe.”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“No,” Andre said. “You’re ignoring what she just told you.”
Malloy’s jaw tightened behind the sunglasses. “Sir, do not make this difficult.”
There it was. The phrase that turned a person into an obstacle. A woman pushing a stroller slowed near the walking path. A jogger removed one earbud, and two teenagers under the oak tree stopped sharing fries from a paper bag. Near the playground gate, a father holding a toddler shifted closer, not sure yet whether he was witnessing a misunderstanding or the beginning of something he would regret not recording.
Andre stood slowly. He knew sitting while Malloy stood over him could be called defiance, and standing could be called aggression. There was no perfect movement once someone else had written you into the wrong role. Hazel stood with him, still holding his hand, her bottom lip beginning to tremble.
“My name is Andre Lawson,” he said clearly. “This is Hazel Lawson. My wife, Morgan Lawson, is on her way here from the courthouse. She can verify everything.”
“We’re not waiting for some woman you claim is your wife.”
Andre’s voice cooled. “You need to be very careful.”
Malloy’s mouth twitched. “Are you threatening me?”
“No. I’m asking you to follow the law.”
“You people always want to talk about law when children are involved.”
The park seemed to lose ten degrees.
One of the teenagers whispered, “Record this.” A phone lifted. Then another. Hazel’s eyes filled with tears now, and she pressed herself against Andre’s leg. “Daddy, can we go home?” she asked. Andre looked down at her and forced the calm back into his voice. “Yes, bug. We’re going home.”
Malloy stepped in front of them. “No, you’re not.”
Andre looked at him. “Move.”
That word cost him.
Malloy grabbed his wrist.
Andre did not jerk away. He did not raise his voice. He did not pull Hazel behind him, even though every instinct in his body screamed to shield her from the officer’s hand, the radio, the gun, the crowd, the story being built around them. He knew what fast movement could become in a report. So he held still and spoke loud enough for the phones, the body camera, and his daughter to hear the truth.
“This is my daughter. She has told you I’m her father. There is no missing child report, no complaint, no probable cause, and no legal basis to detain me.”
Malloy twisted Andre’s arm behind his back.