Chapter 3 - Red and Blue on Oakridge Lane
The flashing lights painted the dining room walls in rapid, violent strokes of crimson and cobalt.
Aunt Linda shrieked, knocking over her wine glass. Red wine seeped into my mother’s prized hand-embroidered tablecloth like fresh blood. Michael leaped out of his chair, backing away from the windows as if the glass itself might burn him.
"Richard, do something!" my mother shrieked, her aristocratic composure completely shattering. She grabbed her husband’s arm, her voice climbing into an octave of sheer panic. "The neighbors! The Thompsons are outside! Everyone is going to see!"
Even with the police pulling into her circular driveway, her first thought wasn't that she had struck my daughter. It wasn't that my son was curled in a fetal position, sobbing silently into my chest. It was the neighbors. It was her country club status.
"Shut up, Elaine!" my father snapped, shaking her off. He whirled on me, his eyes wild with desperation. "Rebecca, listen to me. We’re family. Families fight! It was a misunderstanding! You got hysterical, and I had to restrain you—"
"You choked me, Dad. And you kicked a little boy."
"He got in the way!" my father yelled, saliva flying from his lips. "You provoked this! You know how Natalie is, you know she’s under pressure! Just tell the officers it was an accident. We'll pay for Tyler's doctor bills. I'll write you a check right now—ten thousand dollars! Just tell them it was an argument that got out of hand!"
"Keep your money," I said, my voice dead. "You're going to need every penny for your bail."
Heavy boots pounded up the front porch steps.
The heavy front door was unlocked. It flew open with a thunderous slam against the foyer wall.
"POLICE! NOBODY MOVE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
Four uniformed officers swept into the hallway, their hands on their holsters, followed immediately by three paramedics wheeling jump bags and a collapsible stretcher.
Leading the pack was Sergeant Miller, a veteran officer with a jaw carved from granite. Behind him was Marcus Reed himself, wearing an overcoat over a dark suit, his face thunderous.
"Drop your hands to your sides, sir!" Sergeant Miller barked, training his eyes instantly on my father, who was still towering over us.
"Now wait just a minute, Officer," my father began, attempting to put on his jovial, influential-citizen tone. He raised his hands defensively, offering a greasy, trembling smile. "There’s no need for all of this drama. It’s Thanksgiving. My daughter here has a history of emotional instability, and we were just having a family dispute—"
"Shut your mouth, Richard," Marcus Reed interrupted, stepping into the dining room. Marcus looked at me, then at the livid red finger marks wrapping around my throat, and finally at Tyler, who was gasping for air against my ribs. Marcus’s jaw tightened. "We heard every single syllable through the encrypted patch. Don’t speak another word."
"Marcus?" my mother gasped, recognizing him from several charity galas. "Marcus, be reasonable! Rebecca is lying! She attacked Richard first! She lunged at her sister over money!"
"Ma'am," Sergeant Miller said, his voice dropping into a dangerous chill, "the audio feed logged your husband threatening to kill her, the sound of blunt impact, and your voice telling your daughter that being choked would teach her respect. Furthermore, we have audio of you striking a minor child."
Miller unclipped his handcuffs.
"Richard Vance, turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"You can't arrest me in my own house!" my father roared, his mask of civility instantly slipping back into raw, feral arrogance. He pulled his shoulders back, puffing out his chest. "Do you know who I am? I know Mayor Higgins! I’ve funded the PBA gala for ten years! Get your hands off me!"
He took an aggressive step toward Sergeant Miller.
It was the worst mistake of his life.
In a fraction of a second, Miller and another officer closed the distance. They grabbed my father’s arms, swept his legs out from under him, and slammed him face-first onto the polished hardwood floor. The sound of his heavy frame hitting the ground was deafening.
"STOP! GET OFF HIM!" Natalie shrieked, leaping up from her chair, her wine glass shattering on the floor. "DAD! MOM, DO SOMETHING!"
"Stay where you are, miss, or you will be detained for obstruction!" the second officer barked, pointing a warning finger at her.
"Richard Vance, you are under arrest for felony domestic violence, aggravated assault by strangulation, and felony child abuse," Sergeant Miller said loudly, wrenching my father’s arms behind his back and clicking the steel cuffs tightly around his wrists.
My father groaned, his cheek pressed flat against the floorboards where Tyler had been lying moments before. "Rebecca... you ungrateful bitch... you’re dead to me... you hear me? Dead!"
May you like
"Watch his head," Marcus ordered the officers coldly. Then he turned to the paramedics. "Get the kids. Now."
---
