Mara hated the word “accused.”
Not because it was weak.
Because it was necessary.
Evidence still needed investigation.
She understood that professionally.
Emotionally, she had watched the bag come from his hand.
David continued.
“Potential false imprisonment.”
“Assault.”
“Official misconduct.”
“Maybe filing issues depending on what he documented before IA arrived.”
Mara rubbed her forehead.
“What about the younger officer?”
“Officer Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Cooperating.”
“Discipline?”
“Too early.”
“He stood there.”
“I know.”
“He knew.”
“Apparently.”
Mara looked toward him.
“That matters.”
David nodded.
“Yes.”
“But so does the fact he told the truth immediately when IA arrived.”
“Both can matter.”
Mara looked away.
Complexity annoyed people who wanted stories.
She made a career from complexity.
Now she hated living inside it.
Her mother called.
Mara almost did not answer.
Then did.
No greeting.
“What happened?”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Hello, Mom.”
“I saw you on television against a car.”
“I’m okay.”
“Why is there a police officer holding drugs near your head?”
“Long story.”
“I am your mother.”
“That makes it longer.”
Her mother ignored the joke.
“Were they yours?”
Mara stared.
“Mom.”
“I know they weren't.”
“Then why ask?”
“I wanted to hear you say it.”
Mara exhaled.
“No.”
“Good.”
Her mother’s voice broke slightly.
Mara noticed.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I spent thirty years telling you what to do if police stop you.”
Mara looked down.
Her mother continued.
“Hands visible.”
“Don’t argue.”
“Say what you're reaching for.”
“Call later.”
“Survive first.”
“I did all that.”
“I know.”
“And it still—”
Her mother stopped.
Mara felt her throat tighten.
The anger she had controlled on the street changed shape.
“Mom.”
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
“Your father would have—”
She stopped again.
Mara’s father had died four years earlier.
Heart attack.
Fast.
Unfair.
He had been a public defender for thirty-two years.
He taught both daughters to understand rights without confusing legal correctness with street safety.
“You can be right,” he used to say, “and still need to get home before you prove it.”
Mara had hated that sentence as a teenager.
Understood it by twenty-five.
Resented it again at thirty-four.
Her mother said:
“He would be furious.”
Mara looked toward the ice pack.