The call had come at the worst possible time. In the middle of a late patrol briefing, my thoughts were focused on shifts and routes until the trembling voice of my seventeen-year-old son broke through. Dylan was on the line from the police station, his voice a mix of fear and frustration.
“Dad… I’m at the police station. Mark hit me. He filed a report saying I attacked him. The officers believe him.”
My heart dropped. “Which officer?”
“Sergeant Miller.”
“Stay where you are. Twenty minutes,” I instructed, my mind already racing through the possible scenarios. I didn’t think to call a lawyer. I didn’t even think to change out of my uniform. I got into my car and drove straight to the small precinct on Lincoln Avenue with my siren silent, my badge feeling like a lead weight on my chest.
