Dorothy nodded slowly. Said nothing more. She understood.
Diane Foster arrived at Dorothy’s house the following morning, a thick manila folder tucked under her arm and exhaustion written across her face.
“I got the complete personnel file through open records, and five years of arrest statistics. You need to see this.”
They spread the documents across Dorothy’s kitchen table. Coffee percolated on the counter, filling the small room with its familiar aroma.
The personnel file confirmed what Pamela already suspected. Wayne Hollister graduated from the police academy in 2006. Joined the Holbrook County Sheriff’s Office as a deputy that same year. Rose steadily through the ranks, collecting commendations and political allies along the way. Elected sheriff in 2012. Reelected twice since then by comfortable margins.
But there was something else buried in the file. Something that made Pamela’s breath catch in her throat.
Before Holbrook County, Hollister worked as a deputy in Mercer County from 1998 to 2002.
Mercer County. That’s where Pamela’s family lived in 1999. That’s where Curtis was beaten during a traffic stop by officers who were never identified, never disciplined, never held accountable.
She set that thought aside for now. One investigation at a time. Focus on the evidence in front of her.
The arrest data told an even clearer story. Between 2019 and 2024, Sheriff Hollister personally conducted eighty-nine arrests. Not arrests made by his deputies while he supervised from a distance. Him. Directly. Personally.
Of those eighty-nine arrests, sixty-one involved Black residents. Sixty-eight percent. The population of Holbrook County is thirty-one percent Black.
“This disparity doesn’t happen by accident,” Pamela said quietly, her academic training kicking in despite everything. “This is systematic targeting. Deliberate. Documented. Undeniable.”
“He profiles openly,” Diane agreed, “because he doesn’t believe anyone will ever hold him accountable. And for twelve years, he’s been absolutely right.”
They began contacting the victims on the list, one by one.
Derek Wilson answered on the second ring. Thirty-four years old. Works at an auto-repair shop now, but once had bigger dreams.
“I was arrested in 2021 for jaywalking,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of exhausted resignation. “Jaywalking. I was crossing the street to get to my own car parked on the other side. Broad daylight. No traffic. He drove up, told me I was breaking the law, put me in cuffs before I could say a word.”
He paused, collecting himself.
“Charges got dropped after twenty hours, but that arrest showed up on every background check afterward. Lost a job offer at a distribution warehouse. Good job, too. Benefits. Retirement plan. Gone because of a mug shot for crossing the street.”
Another pause.
“You know what he said to me while he was cuffing me? Boy, you people need to learn to stay in your lane. I stopped fighting after that. Figured nobody cared what happens to people like us.”
Teresa Dawson is twenty-nine. Has a degree in business administration that she’s never been able to fully use.
“I was arrested in 2022 for suspicious behavior,” she said with a bitter laugh. “You know what I was doing? Sitting in my parked car outside a convenience store, waiting for my friend’s shift to end so we could grab dinner. That was the crime. Sitting in my own vehicle. Being Black in public.”
She paused, steadying her voice.
“He called me girl. Told me women like me always have something to hide. Made me feel like a criminal for existing. Charges dropped, of course. But when my employer Googled my name during a promotion review six months later, guess what came up? My mug shot. I had to sit in an HR meeting and explain why I’d been arrested, like I was the one who did something wrong.”
Three more victims agreed to go on record. Then four more. Each story different in its details, but identical in its essence. Manufactured charges. Public humiliation. Lasting damage. Zero accountability.
The pattern became impossible to deny.
Then Pamela reached the eighth name on the list.
Jerome Atkins. Age at time of arrest: twenty-two. Arrested in March 2022. The charge: loitering. According to the police report, he was standing outside a convenience store waiting for a friend. Charges dropped after eighteen hours in a holding cell.
At the bottom of his file, typed in small, cold letters, a notation that stopped Pamela’s heart.
Deceased. September 2022.
She looked up at Diane, a chill running through her despite the summer heat.
“What happened to Jerome Atkins?”
Diane was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Jerome Atkins took his own life six months after his arrest.”
The words hung in the air like a physical weight.
“His mother, Gloria Atkins, told me the whole story when I was researching this pattern last year. After the arrest, Jerome changed completely. Couldn’t find steady work because every application asked about criminal history. Had to explain the arrest over and over again to strangers who looked at him like he was lying. Like he must have done something wrong even if the charges were dropped.”
Pamela stared at Jerome’s mug shot. Twenty-two years old. Scared eyes looking into the camera. A young man who committed no crime more serious than standing on a public sidewalk.
“He started believing what the system kept telling him he was,” Diane continued. “A criminal. A suspect. Someone who needed to be watched. Controlled. Contained. Someone who didn’t belong in decent society. The arrest became part of his identity, no matter how much he tried to escape it.”
“And no one helped him?”
“He filed a complaint. Internal Affairs, run by Undersheriff Bridewell, investigated for exactly two weeks and ruled it unsubstantiated. No action taken. Case closed. Jerome got a form letter. That was it.”
Pamela set down the photograph gently, as if it might break.
“Sheriff Hollister didn’t need a prison sentence to destroy Jerome’s life. He didn’t need a conviction or a trial. He just needed a mug shot and a booking record. That was enough to break a twenty-two-year-old who had his whole life ahead of him.”
She thought about her own mug shot, taken eight days ago. Still somewhere in the system despite Hollister’s panicked order to delete it.
“Gloria Atkins. Jerome’s mother. Would she be willing to talk to us?”
“I asked her last year. She wasn’t ready then. Said she was tired of talking to people who expressed sympathy but never actually did anything. Tired of being a story instead of a cause.”
“Ask her again. Tell her this time might be different.”
That night Pamela sat alone on her mother’s front porch. Fireflies drifted lazily across the darkened yard. The ceiling fan clicked its slow rhythm overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell silent.
She thought about Jerome Atkins. Twenty-two years old. She thought about Curtis. The complaint he never filed. The resignation that settled into his eyes and never left. She thought about her own recommendation letter, written twenty years ago with such optimism.
Wayne Hollister demonstrates genuine interest in law enforcement. I believe he has the potential to serve with integrity.
She was wrong. She helped create the monster. And now she had to stop him.
The threats began Thursday.
An anonymous post appeared on a local forum. Dorothy Crawford’s full name. Her address on Maple Street. A photograph of her house. The caption: She wants to destroy our sheriff. Let’s see how her family likes feeling unsafe.
Pamela reported it to law enforcement. To the Holbrook County Sheriff’s Office. A deputy took her statement.
“We’ll monitor the situation, ma’am.”
Nothing happened.
The emails arrived next. Five of them over three days. Watch your back, professor, and your mother should watch hers. Why are you protecting this cop-hating— Nice house on Maple Street. Does the old Black lady live alone?
Pamela saved every email. Documented everything. She hired a security company to check Dorothy’s locks. Installed a motion-sensor light. Dorothy waved it off.
“I’ve lived here fifty years. Nobody’s scaring me out of my own home.”
A statement arrived from Sheriff Hollister’s attorney. Sheriff Hollister has no connection to any threatening communications. These allegations are baseless and defamatory. He has served Holbrook County with dedication for twelve years and will continue to do so.
The statement said nothing about the fourteen arrests. Nothing about Jerome Atkins. Nothing about sixty-eight percent.
Friday night. Pamela stayed at a motel outside the county line. She needed quiet to work.
Her phone rang at 3:52 a.m.
“Ms. Crawford, this is Holbrook General Hospital. Your mother has had a stroke. She’s being stabilized. You should come immediately.”
Pamela drove ninety minutes through darkness, hands shaking on the wheel. The hospital is small. White walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and fear.
A doctor met her in the hallway.
“Your mother experienced a hemorrhagic stroke around 2:30 a.m. We’ve stabilized her, but she hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“What caused it?”
“Severe stress appears to have been a factor. Her neighbor found her on the kitchen floor after hearing glass break.”
Glass break.
Pamela walked to Dorothy’s room. Her mother lay motionless. Monitors beeped. An oxygen mask covered her face.
A police report sat on the bedside table. Vandalism reported at 2:18 a.m. Brick thrown through front window. Note attached: Stop or else. Homeowner found on kitchen floor. Transported to hospital following cardiac event.
2:18 a.m. While Pamela slept sixty miles away.
She sat beside Dorothy’s bed. Took her mother’s hand. The skin felt paper-thin and cold.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry.”
The monitors beeped. Dorothy didn’t respond.
Sheriff Hollister’s attorney released an additional statement. These attacks are deplorable and Sheriff Hollister condemns them. However, there is no evidence linking these incidents to the Sheriff’s Office. Dr. Crawford’s continued accusations are reckless and legally actionable.
The investigation into the brick attack remained open. No arrests have been made.
Three days passed. Dorothy remained unconscious. Pamela slept in the vinyl chair beside her bed. Barely ate. Didn’t leave.
On the fourth day, Dorothy’s hand moved. Her eyes opened. Slowly. Her lips moved beneath the oxygen mask.
Pamela leaned close.
“Did—did we win?”
Tears streamed down Pamela’s face.
“Not yet, Mama. Not yet.”