frustration. “Our son, a minor, has basically been kidnapped by the police. There is no way to locate his whereabouts or know his status. It’s maddening.”
The mother’s face was drawn, her eyes becoming as desperate as her husband’s voice. “Do we need to go down there? Find someone to talk to in person? Make them locate our son?”
At one point in his fruitless barrage of telephoning, Gabe had come to the same conclusion, but then reconsidered. His web travels had made him realize the Harris County law enforcement infrastructure was gargantuan, with stations, sub-stations, incarceration facilities, and offices all over the vast area known as metropolitan Houston. In addition, if the detained individual required medical care, there was no specific hospital where he/she might be sent.
Manny had said Jacob was hurt. Had they driven the boy to an emergency room instead of a jail? There was no way to know.
“I hate to say this… the thought of doing this is about to drive me nuts, but I think we have to wait until our son calls, or the day-shift people start arriving at their desks and answer the phone. I think our driving around downtown is a waste of energy and time. Waiting seems to be our only option.”
Sandy didn’t like it either but realized she had to trust her mate’s judgment. Sipping their coffee, the distraught couple sat, their eyes shifting between the wall clock and Gabe’s cell phone charging beside the computer.
Jacob’s 6’5” frame was beyond the design of the squad car’s tiny back seat. When the tried and true Ford Crown Victoria police model had been retired a few years before, law enforcement agencies hadn’t had any choice but to go with the newer, smaller sedans offered from Detroit. Being handcuffed didn’t help the young man’s ergonomics.
He had no choice but to sit nearly doubled over, his head resting on the wire cage that separated potentially dangerous prisoners from the driver’s compartment. The officer transporting Jacob could only see the top of the boy’s head.
After several blows to the head and torso, loss of blood, and overwhelming waves of pain from his knee, the teenager was going into shock. While the arresting officers had attempted to clean his wounds at the site, they had completely misjudged the severity of his injuries, both internal and external.
The transporting constable arrived at the main jail’s unloading area, met there by the guards charged with assisting officers with their often-unruly passengers. They found Jacob unresponsive and unmoving.
“Look at that fucking mess in my backseat,” complained the officer. “This son of a bitch has bled and puked all over the place. Now I’ll be stuck here waiting on maintenance to hose this shit out.”
“He’s playing possum,” remarked one of the burly guards, trying to get Jacob to respond. “There’s not enough blood on the floor for him to be out. He’s faking it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we see them do it all the time. They think if they act as if they’re out cold, they’ll get a ride to the ER instead of our 5-star facility. Let’s yank his ass out of there. If he keeps it up, we’ll just carry him into the holding area. I’ll bet a cup of coffee he snaps out of it as soon as he realizes we’re onto him.”
The guard reached into the backseat and grabbed Jacob by the ear, pulling and twisting the boy’s head with the painful technique. But Jacob didn’t react, his body slumping sideways in the seat.
“Did this dude take a blow to the head or something?” the now second-guessing guard asked. “Twisting a handful of cartilage normally brings them right out of their little act.”
“I don’t know,” replied the deputy. “I arrived late to the scene, and since I was the junior man, I was given transport duty. He looks damn pale though.”
They lifted Jacob out of the car, a muscular jailer on each arm.
With feet dragging and head flopping, they carried
The mother’s face was drawn, her eyes becoming as desperate as her husband’s voice. “Do we need to go down there? Find someone to talk to in person? Make them locate our son?”
At one point in his fruitless barrage of telephoning, Gabe had come to the same conclusion, but then reconsidered. His web travels had made him realize the Harris County law enforcement infrastructure was gargantuan, with stations, sub-stations, incarceration facilities, and offices all over the vast area known as metropolitan Houston. In addition, if the detained individual required medical care, there was no specific hospital where he/she might be sent.
Manny had said Jacob was hurt. Had they driven the boy to an emergency room instead of a jail? There was no way to know.
“I hate to say this… the thought of doing this is about to drive me nuts, but I think we have to wait until our son calls, or the day-shift people start arriving at their desks and answer the phone. I think our driving around downtown is a waste of energy and time. Waiting seems to be our only option.”
Sandy didn’t like it either but realized she had to trust her mate’s judgment. Sipping their coffee, the distraught couple sat, their eyes shifting between the wall clock and Gabe’s cell phone charging beside the computer.
Jacob’s 6’5” frame was beyond the design of the squad car’s tiny back seat. When the tried and true Ford Crown Victoria police model had been retired a few years before, law enforcement agencies hadn’t had any choice but to go with the newer, smaller sedans offered from Detroit. Being handcuffed didn’t help the young man’s ergonomics.
He had no choice but to sit nearly doubled over, his head resting on the wire cage that separated potentially dangerous prisoners from the driver’s compartment. The officer transporting Jacob could only see the top of the boy’s head.
After several blows to the head and torso, loss of blood, and overwhelming waves of pain from his knee, the teenager was going into shock. While the arresting officers had attempted to clean his wounds at the site, they had completely misjudged the severity of his injuries, both internal and external.
The transporting constable arrived at the main jail’s unloading area, met there by the guards charged with assisting officers with their often-unruly passengers. They found Jacob unresponsive and unmoving.
“Look at that fucking mess in my backseat,” complained the officer. “This son of a bitch has bled and puked all over the place. Now I’ll be stuck here waiting on maintenance to hose this shit out.”
“He’s playing possum,” remarked one of the burly guards, trying to get Jacob to respond. “There’s not enough blood on the floor for him to be out. He’s faking it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we see them do it all the time. They think if they act as if they’re out cold, they’ll get a ride to the ER instead of our 5-star facility. Let’s yank his ass out of there. If he keeps it up, we’ll just carry him into the holding area. I’ll bet a cup of coffee he snaps out of it as soon as he realizes we’re onto him.”
The guard reached into the backseat and grabbed Jacob by the ear, pulling and twisting the boy’s head with the painful technique. But Jacob didn’t react, his body slumping sideways in the seat.
“Did this dude take a blow to the head or something?” the now second-guessing guard asked. “Twisting a handful of cartilage normally brings them right out of their little act.”
“I don’t know,” replied the deputy. “I arrived late to the scene, and since I was the junior man, I was given transport duty. He looks damn pale though.”
They lifted Jacob out of the car, a muscular jailer on each arm.
With feet dragging and head flopping, they carried
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