But we did.
I didn’t let them near my bike because it felt like a set up, but six MPD officers hung out with us for a solid hour, acting just as fucking stupid as we were. They took pictures of the bikes, they asked for recommendations on which models they should start with; a couple of them even rode backpack.
As my ear rings and the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, I think about how different this moment might be had it been one of those guys who pulled me over tonight.
I’m moving, but I’m not sure if I’m walking or if I’m being dragged. I blink, forcing my eyes open, and I’m not on the side of the road anymore. I’m moving through a grey building, past an equally-grey desk.When did I black out?The floor squeaks underneath my bloodied Chucks – half dragging, half walking, then – and a few muffled voices stream into my still-ringing ears.
What the hell did you do to him?
Are you okay?
I hope the camera was off.
“Phone call,” I groan.
“Oh,nowhe’s awake. Yeah,” he scoffs, “I’ll make that a priority, buddy.”
“Know…” I groan again as a sharp pain shoots through my side. “…My rights.”
“Yeah, guys like you always think you do, don’t you,” he chuckles. “Above the law until the law benefits you, isn’t that right?”
I slip in and out of consciousness as I’m booked, and I’m not sure how many times I say the words ‘lawyer’ and ‘phone call,’ but neither are offered to me before I’m taken to a holding cell and locked inside.
It’s not the first time that I’ve been arrested, and it likely won’t be the last, but this time admittedly fucking sucks the most.
Sunlight is spilling into the pitifully-small, single window on the far wall before someone finally comes to get me to make my phone call.
The only sleep I managed to get last night was the few minutes in which I blacked out again.
“This is Brody Montgomery,” my brother greets me as he picks up the phone.
“I only have a minute and I need a favor,” I tell him.
“Tripp?” He sounds equal parts disappointed and furious. I guess I can’t really blame him for that. “What the hell are you—”
“I punched a cop, B,” I say, rubbing my fingers along my aching forehead with a grimace.
The only thing that comes through the receiver is the sound of my brother cursing under his breath, followed by the slamming of a desk drawer.
“Was it an act of self defense,” he demands.
Fuck-up little brother fucked up again. Alert the presses.
I sigh. “I think he was trying to cuff me and—”
“Stop talking,” he barks. “I’m sending a colleague out to you. Don’t speak toanyonewithout an attorney present. Don’tlookatanyone the wrong way. Just shut the fuck up and wait for him to get there.”
“I need you to—”
“That doesn’t sound like shutting the fuck up,” he scolds. “I will get you home, but right now, you need to be quiet. Your attorney’s name is Ezra Amato and you will not speak to anyone unless he is present, is that clear?” After a few long beats of silence, he says, “You can answer that one.”
“Crystal clear.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him with a sigh.
“Ezra will be there in a few hours,” he says with relief in his voice. “I’m going to call Julia – don’t fight me on that – and I’ll have you home by dinner time.”
