James Johnson, Aisha’s father, was a respected figure in the community. A tall, distinguished man with an air of quiet authority, he was known for his work as a civil rights attorney. As he approached, the crowd parted, sensing a shift in the atmosphere.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “What seems to be the problem here?”
Daniels stiffened, the confidence in his posture slightly wavering. “Just a routine check, sir,” he replied, trying to maintain his authoritative façade.
James looked down at his daughter, seeing the fear in her eyes, and felt a familiar anger rise within him. “Routine? With a child? Standing alone in a public park?” His voice was measured, but the edge was unmistakable.
