Running was what criminals did. Running turned a clear-cut case of self-defense into an evasion charge. Agrippa wasn’t a criminal. He was just a father who had run out of pavement. He opened the passenger side door of the truck. The hinges squealed in protest. He hoisted Larry up onto the worn fabric seat, brushing a stray fleck of sand from the boy’s knee. “Sit tight, buddy.” Agrippa said softly. He reached into the glove box, pushing aside a stack of overdue utility bills, and pulled out a slightly crumpled box of apple juice. He punctured the foil hole with the tiny plastic straw and handed it to his son.
“Drink this. I have to talk to the police for a minute.” Larry took the box with both hands. He didn’t look scared. He looked intensely curious, his dark eyes shifting from his father’s calm face to the flashing red and blue lights that were now aggressively strobing against the darkening tree line of the park. Agrippa closed the truck door with a solid thud. He leaned his hips against the rusted quarter panel, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. Two cruisers hopped the curb, their tires tearing up the manicured grass as they angled their headlights directly onto the playground.
The beams cut through the growing twilight, illuminating a scene that looked like the aftermath of a localized bomb blast. Trent was just beginning to stir. He was on his hands and knees, swaying heavily, vomiting a vile mixture of cheap beer and stomach bile onto the concrete. The scrawny kid with the neck tattoo was still on the ground, curled tightly on his side, hyperventilating as his bruised liver screamed trauma signals to his brain. The heavy-set kid was sitting on the grass, his shirt entirely soaked in dark arterial blood, holding both hands over his shattered nose, and rocking back and forth in silent shock. Four officers exited the cruisers simultaneously, hands rested cautiously on the butts of their sidearms.
They scanned the playground, taking in the three broken bodies, the abandoned dirt bike, and finally, the solitary figure leaning against the beat-up Ford in the parking lot. A heavy-set sergeant with salt and pepper hair and a deeply lined face detached himself from the group and walked deliberately toward Agrippa. His boots crunched on the gravel. He stopped 10 ft away, his flashlight beam clicking on and sweeping quickly over Agrippa, checking hands, checking waistline, checking for blood. He found nothing but calluses and faded denim.
“You want to tell me what happened here?” the sergeant asked. His name tag read Hayes. The voice was flat, tired, and cynical. It was the voice of a man who had seen too many domestic disputes and bar fights to ever believe in a simple truth. “Five kids,” Agrippa said evenly, his voice carrying the same flat cadence as the cops. “They brought a dirt bike into the playground, harassing the mothers. Then they decided to harass me and my son.”