Chapter 2 - The Fracture in the FamilyWhile federal agents fanned out across the precinct, seizing hard drives and pulling shift logs, I uncuffed my mother myself. The cheap steel cuffs had bitten deep into her frail wrists, leaving ugly, purple bruises that crossed over her thin veins.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered, gently rubbing her wrists as the metallic clicks echoed. "I should have checked in sooner. I let my guard down."
"It's not your fault, baby," Mom breathed, wincing as she tried to shift her weight. "They planned this. For weeks, Brooke has been trying to get us to fight. She wanted the deed to the house, Clara. She said if I didn't sign the property over to Arthur and her, they'd make sure I spent my final years in a nursing home—or worse."
My blood ran cold. The house. Mom’s modest, fully paid-for home where we grew up. Brooke had been angling for it for months, and when Mom refused to be coerced, they escalated to violence.
Across the room, Captain Landry was frantically whispering into his cell phone, pacing behind the booking counter while two federal agents stood guard directly behind him, watching his every keystroke.
Arthur shuffled over, looking miserable, standing a few feet away like a whipped dog. "Clara, please... can we just handle this like a family? You don't need to ruin lives over a heated argument. Mom tripped over the porch step, that's what we told the patrol unit, and that's what we're sticking to. If you push this, you're going to destroy our family."
I turned slowly, looking my brother dead in the eye.
"What family, Arthur?" I asked quietly. "The one where you watch your wife beat an elderly woman and help cover it up? That family died the moment you let Brooke lift that bat."
Brooke, realizing her tears were no longer working, dropped the innocent act entirely. Her face twisted into a venomous sneer. "You think you're so smart with your federal badge, don't you? You can raid this station, you can bully these cops, but at the end of the day, it's our word against a senile old woman's. The local prosecutor is a personal friend of Thomas. Nothing is going to stick!"
"Is that right?" A cool, deep voice echoed from the doorway.
Stephen Vance, the senior federal prosecutor assigned to my oversight division, walked into the precinct, flanked by two armed U.S. Marshals. He was holding a thick manila folder stamped with red classification seals.
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"Because as of three minutes ago," Vance said, opening the folder and reading the header aloud, "my office took direct jurisdiction over Westbridge PD's entire active case file, under the federal anti-corruption and civil rights violations statute. Local prosecutors don't have jurisdiction anymore, Mrs. West."
Brooke's color drained entirely. The smug defiance vanished from her face, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic.
