Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 13: Unfounded
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 13: Unfounded - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa
Sergeant Justin Yamato was halfway through the morning blotter—half-reading, half-daydreaming—when his desk phone buzzed once, followed by a ring from the intercom.
He pressed the button. “Yamato.”
The voice on the other end belonged to Janine, the civilian secretary who screened every complaint before it hit his desk.
“Hey, Sarge. Got a guy on hold—says it’s urgent. Civilian complaint. His kid got arrested Tuesday morning and wants to make a complaint.”
Yamato frowned slightly. “Really now?”
“Yeah. He’s fired up. Wants to talk to IAD. Says it was excessive force and a false arrest.”
Yamato sighed. “Alright. Put him through.”
A pause. Then the desk phone rang again.
He picked up and answered in his usual clipped tone.
“IAD. Sergeant Yamato.”
“Yes, my name is Bartholomew Winthrop the Second. I’m calling to lodge a formal complaint against two deputies who assaulted my son during a false arrest early Tuesday morning. The deputies were female. One of them is named Winslow.”
Yamato’s stomach twitched slightly at the name. Winslow. One of his academy kids from back in the day. And he already knew the incident.
Not because anyone had flagged it, but because he’d seen the use-of-force entry in the system yesterday while doing routine audits. Simple entry. Wrist lock. Takedown. Minor injury. Suspect cleared at hospital after receiving two stitches in his lip from smoking some asphalt during the takedown. The kind of thing that usually got dumped into the review queue and forgotten.
But now...
“I see,” Yamato said. “What’s your son’s name, sir?”
“Bartholomew Winthrop the Third.”
Of course it is.
“And what would you like to report?”
“That he was dragged from his vehicle, thrown to the ground, handcuffed, and injured by two lesbian officers who had no legal cause to detain him. He has stitches in his lip, a bruised shoulder, and was publicly humiliated in the middle of the night for no reason. Furthermore, I have reason to believe narcotics were planted on his person to justify the arrest.”
Yamato didn’t respond right away. He leaned back slightly, pulling up the use-of-force log again.
Case #2-1104-049
Arrested by: Deputy M. Winslow
Assist: Deputy D. Boulder
Charges: 11377 HS (Possession), 11364 HS (Paraphernalia), 14601 VC (Suspended DL), 148(a)(1) PC (Resisting)
He remembered Winslow well. She was sharp. Quiet. Absurdly fit. Good on tactics, even better on judgment. She wasn’t one to cowboy an arrest. He had reviewed her tackling some moron on a bicycle not too long before. That one had been a jerkoff, if he recalled correctly. Or had it been a shitcan? He couldn’t remember now. Lot’s of unfounded complaints had been filed and reviewed by him since then.
“Okay,” Yamato said. “And you’re lodging a formal complaint?
“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “Why else would I call you?”
“Good point,” Yamato said, shaking his head a little. “And you’re making this complaint on behalf of your son?”
“That is correct.”
“Your son is eighteen years old, isn’t he? Legally an adult.”
“He still lives at home under my care,” the man said.
“But he is still legally an adult,” Yamato said. “He really should make the complain on his own behalf.”
“I am speaking for him in this matter,” Winthrop II informed him. “He is currently unable to speak at length due to the severe mouth injury he sustained at the hands of your two lesbian deputies.”
“I see,” Yamato said. “Is he able to speak enough to verify for me that it is he, not you, who is making this complaint? It’s kind of one of those legal things. You know how lawyers are.”
“I certainly do,” he said and then his voice was away from the phone but still clearly audible. “Barty! Come and talk to this man and tell him I can speak for you about the complaint.”
There was a shuffle of the phone, silence for a few moments, then another shuffle. Finally, a perfectly fine male voice came on the line. “I’m Bartholomew Winthrop the Third and my father is speaking for me.”
“Very nice,” Yamato said. “Please put him back on the line.”
Yamato then listened to a five minute rant about how the two lesbian cops had interrupted him while he was taking a nap in the park to avoid driving home while fatigued. They then broke the window on his car, dragged him out, beat him, threw him to the ground, and then planted a baggie of fentanyl on him to justify it all.
“That’s a very disturbing story,” Yamato said, making the jerkoff motion with his hands. “What exactly was your son doing in Northwood Park, which is in quite a sketchy neighborhood, at 1:30 AM?”
“What he was doing there is not important,” Winthrop III informed him. “It is a public park and he has every right to be there. Your cops were doing nothing but harassing him and when he didn’t play along he was manhandled and beaten and framed. I want nothing less than a public apology from both of these so-called cops and I want them terminated if you want to avoid a costly lawsuit.”
Yamato sighed. “Well, we wouldn’t want a costly lawsuit now, would we? How about I collect some basic information for the record?”
“Absolutely,” Winthrop II said.
They spent the better part of five minutes verifying the name, date of birth, social security number, and other information.
“I’ll begin a review of the report and accompanying body cam footage,” Yamato said when all the pertinent information was gathered. “I’ll contact you after that process is complete.”
Winthrop II then said, “I certainly hope your deputies remembered to activate their cameras.”
Yamato’s voice stayed level. “I’m sure they did, sir.”
“I’ll expect a response by the end of the day,” Winthrop said.
The line went dead.
Yamato exhaled slowly and leaned forward again. He tapped the keyboard, pulled up the full digital packet: narrative reports, booking sheet, body cam metadata.
He muttered to himself as he clicked through the initial logs. “Probably shouldn’t shitcan this one. It deserves at least a jerkoff report.”
He looked over the reports—everything there was. Everything looked clean. Proper articulation. Medical clearance. Charges matched. Nothing sloppy or angry in the language.
Still ... if there was one thing he’d learned in his years at IAD, it was this:
Even a textbook arrest could turn into a political shitshow—if the wrong last name was attached to it
He clicked “Request Footage” and selected:
Winslow Body Cam Boulder Body Cam Winslow Dash Video
Estimated availability: 72:03 minutes.
He stood up, walked to the break room, and poured himself a fresh cup of the horrible department coffee. By the time he got back, the first two clips would probably be waiting. He would need to review it all in its entirety.
He returned from the break room with a steaming cup of bitter sludge. He dropped back into his chair, gave the mouse a quick nudge to wake the terminal, and checked the archive request queue.
Footage Available: D. Boulder – Body Cam – 01:42 to 02:13
He clicked it. Let it buffer. Maximized the window.
Play.
The screen opened on darkness, grainy and faintly greenish from the parking lot floodlights. The camera was moving—jostling rhythmically with Boulder’s stride. They were approaching the rear of a dark Mustang, already boxed in nose-to-bumper by the ambulance rig. Engine still running.
Deputy Winslow was already in frame, standing on the driver’s side. Her flashlight was angled low. Posture calm. Nothing cowboy about it.
“Sheriff’s Department,” she said. “Open the door.”
The driver stirred but didn’t comply. Yamato watched the silhouette of a young man through the lightly tinted window—head lolling, unfocused, one arm waving halfheartedly.
“I’m fine,” he slurred. “Just need ... sleep, okay? Go away.”
Winslow didn’t rise to it.
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Open the door.”
Still calm. No edge. No raised voice.
Yamato sipped his coffee, eyes narrowing slightly.
The suspect turned away, grumbling. Then snapped back around with a burst of indignation.
“Fuck you! You’re harassing me! My dad’s gonna have your fuckin’ job!”
Yamato smirked faintly. There it was. The entitlement. He’d heard it a hundred times before, usually from kids who’d had everything handed to them on a silver platter their entire lives and thought their every whim was a preordained destiny.
Winslow didn’t flinch.
She reached into her belt and produced a window punch. She explained to him what she was going to do with it if he did not open the door by her deadline.
“You have ten seconds,” she told him.
“Do it,” the suspect sneered. “I fuckin’ dare you.”
Winslow counted down. Boulder moved into flanking position, flashlight raised but not threatening.
“Three ... two...”
“YOU’RE GONNA PAY FOR THIS, CUNT!”
“One.”
Pop.
The tempered glass collapsed instantly. Thousands of dull-edged cubes dropped into the suspect’s lap and scattered onto the pavement.
That’s when the suspect truly lost it.
“You fucking BITCH! You stupid cunt! You fucking NAZI WHORE! You’re DEAD! You hear me? I’m calling my lawyer! I’m calling my dad! You’re gonna lose your pension, you dyke piece of shit!”
Yamato blinked once and made a mental note: timestamp that. The language alone was enough to kill any excessive force complaint in the cradle.
Boulder’s cam picked up the entire removal from the vehicle. Winslow reached in and pulled the interior handle. Door opened. The suspect stayed put.
“Get out of the car.”
“Fuck you! I’m not getting out of anything. I’m fine! This is unlawful detention!”
“Get out of the car, or we’re going to take you out.”
“There’s no way a couple of lesbian cunts can take me out of a car.”
Yamato froze the footage. Jotted another note.
Jesus.
He hit play again.
Winslow moved fast. No hesitation. She seized the suspect’s left wrist with her off-hand and rotated it smoothly into a textbook wristlock—just like all deputies were taught in the Arrest and Control portion of the academy and at least yearly in mandatory training classes. The suspect yelped and twisted.
Boulder stepped in from the right, catching his other arm and stabilizing.
They extracted him in a practiced flow—no flailing, no slamming, no taser. Just physical skill.
Two steps back from the car.
“GET OFF ME! I’LL SUE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!”
“Stop resisting or we’re taking you to the ground.”
He didn’t stop resisting. The camera showed quite clearly that he was trying to break free of them.
Boulder kicked his feet cleanly from underneath him—another department approved technique taught in A&C training. The camera jolted slightly, catching the full impact as the suspect hit the pavement face-first with a wet grunt.
There it was. The cut lip.
Yamato leaned in. The owie on the lip wasn’t from a baton or a boot or a fist—it was from the pavement. All gravity and dumbass momentum coupled with the fact that his arms were pinned and he couldn’t put his hands out to break his fall.
Bummer, dude, Yamato thought with a smile. You just learned that certain decisions you make in life have consequences. You don’t have to like them, but you have to live with them.
Winslow dropped to a stabilizing knee across the upper shoulder. Boulder did the same on the legs. They moved in tandem, clean and quick.
“TIME OUT! TIME OUT!”
“There’s no fuckin’ time out here,” Winslow replied. “This is the real world you’re dealing with, sunshine.”
Yamato watched this part four times, not because he was upset by Winslow’s language or how she had responded, but because it was so fucking funny. Time out? Seriously? Maybe you should’ve tried Kings-X instead.
Finally, he resumed the footage.
Cuffs clicked on. Winslow and Boulder both stood.
The suspect rolled, bleeding slightly, still ranting.
“UNNECESSARY FORCE! I’M CALLING MY LAWYER! YOU’RE DONE!”
Winslow didn’t engage. Just keyed her mic.
“12-Adam. One in custody.”
Winslow searched the suspect incident to arrest for 148 and found the little baggie of white powder in his pocket.
“What do you have here, my friend?” she asked him.
“You fuckin’ planted that!” the kid screamed at her. “You won’t get away with this! You fuckin’ lesbian cunt! You just put that in my pocket!”
The kid sounded quite indignant, almost as if he really believed she had planted the dope on him. Which she hadn’t, of course. The body cam footage plainly showed Winslow’s empty fingers reaching into the pocket and pulling out a little white rabbit in a baggie.
The footage from Boulder’s cam then showed the kid being read his Miranda rights. He didn’t listen to them. He was too busy yelling and screaming about false arrests and lesbian cunts who were going to be working in a whorehouse in Detroit.
The medics moved into frame next. They checked vitals, examined the lip. The suspect continued to curse and spit accusations. The two cops ignored him for the most part. The footage ended when he was placed in the back of Winslow’s patrol unit and buckled up.
Yamato reviewed the rest of the footage with clinical focus and a growing sense of satisfaction.
The dash cam was up next—Winslow’s front unit view. It offered a wide-angle perspective of the scene: the Mustang idling near the back fence, the ambulance rig blocking it in, Winslow and Boulder moving through the sequence just as their reports described. Nothing close-range, nothing intimate—just clean, external context. No help on confirming that the drugs were not planted, but he didn’t need that kind of help. It did show that no excessive force was used, supporting that Winslow was issuing a lawful order to the suspect and was getting no cooperation, and showed the long view of a retraction and takedown that was thoroughly and indisputably within the bounds of department policy and California state law.
Winslow’s body cam, however, was where the true masterpiece of cinematography lived.
From the moment she stepped up to the window, the footage was a mirror of Boulder’s—but tighter, clearer, and more immersive. Yamato made note of Winslow’s posture, tone, distance. Calm. Compliant with policy. One F-bomb from Winslow but there was no policy or law against that. No chest-thumping.
The takedown played again, but this time the angle caught everything.
The suspect’s face hitting the pavement—clear as day.
The lip split—instant. There was no strike, no palm, no knee. Just momentum, gravity, and the absence of hands to break his fall.
Yamato paused. Rewound. Watched Winslow’s right hand reaching into the suspect’s jeans pocket during the search. He froze the frame and zoomed.
Palm empty. Fingers empty.
She retrieved the baggie of fentanyl just as she’d written in her report.
The search of the vehicle followed. Body cam view swept across the Mustang’s interior. Yamato caught the glint of glass wedged between the console and the driver’s seat—exactly where she’d said she saw it from the outside.
He nodded to himself. Two legal justifications for Winslow to search BWIII and his vehicle: Incident to arrest and probable cause, courtesy of plain view doctrine. Rock solid.
The pipe was recovered with gloves, photographed, and bagged.
Then there was a brief skip in the footage—camera off and back on again as they arrived at the ER.
The last twelve minutes were almost a comedy reel.
BWIII, handcuffed and sitting on a gurney in a busy hallway, performing for the crowd. Loud, obnoxious, over-the-top.
He slung every misogynistic and homophobic insult he could conjure. Called Winslow everything from a “man-faced dyke” to a “lipstick fascist.” Told her she’d be “turning tricks in Detroit” within the week. Made loud, exaggerated comments for the benefit of the surrounding patients and staff.
Yamato watched Winslow through it all.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t give him a thing. Just let the kid burn himself out in front of an audience.
Yamato took copious notes during that stretch—marking time stamps for language, behavior, and control. Some of it, he’d quote verbatim in his report. A few clips might get sent to the academy for training purposes—to show the new recruits what kind of abuse they were expected to take if they wanted to be cops.
When the final timestamp rolled over and the footage ended with BWIII being handed off to custody, Yamato sat back in his chair, stretched once, and marked the entire file set for permanent archival.
He composed the official jerkoff report next—tight, clinical, and fully annotated. All the time stamps were there. Key quotes. Visual confirmations. Policy references. Nothing creative. Nothing extra. Just enough to show that he had done the homework, watched every frame, and checked all the boxes.
He saved it as a PDF, attached the evidence log, and dropped the file into the Pending Approval – Internal Affairs folder on the shared drive. From there, it would sit quietly until Lieutenant Mears logged in, skimmed the conclusion, clicked the “Approved” button, and filed it away into the central archive without a word.
That’s how it usually worked. Yamato hunted the heads. Mears signed the tags.
Mears was the detective lieutenant in charge of IAD, Backgrounds, and Metro—which was just a lazy way of saying everything else. He had been a cop for twenty-nine years and wasn’t going any higher, which didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. His current role came with three things he valued above all else:
A $160,000 annual salary A Monday–Friday schedule with no nights or weekends The ability to “work from home” whenever he goddamn pleased
And “working from home,” in Mears-speak, meant sitting on his couch with SportsCenter on, drinking a Modelo from a souvenir Dodgers cup, and keeping one eye on his department phone while his unmarked take-home county car roasted in the driveway. If Yamato texted him, he’d respond within ten minutes. If Yamato called, he’d answer in under thirty seconds.
That was the deal.
Normally, Yamato wouldn’t bother the LT with anything like this. This wasn’t a real headhunt. Nobody got hurt, nobody lied on their reports, nobody dropped the ball. Just a screaming trust fund kid with a bruised ego and a daddy complex.
Still...
This one felt like it might grow legs. The Winthrops had money, and rich pricks had a way of digging their little fingers deep when they felt slighted—especially when they thought the rules were supposed to bend for their last name.
Yamato drummed his fingers once on the desk. Then tabbed over to the department status app.
Mears was green.
Status: Working from home
Of course he was.
Yamato picked up the phone and dialed Mears’ department cell. Two rings.
“Mears,” came the familiar voice on the other end—gravelly, low, and underslept.
“Hey, El-tee. It’s Yamato.”
“Morning, Justin.” Mears didn’t even pretend to mute the TV in the background. SportsCenter was up loud, some analyst yelling about red zone percentages vs actual wins in the win column. You could be the best in the league at getting close, maybe even scoring three points, but unless you were going all the way, you weren’t shit. Yamato remembered a similar discussion back in high school—only they hadn’t been talking about football.
“You got a minute?”
“For you, I got forty-five seconds.”
“Fair.” Yamato leaned back in his chair and turned slightly away from the monitor. “I’ve got a complaint—just filed the jerkoff. Kid got popped in Highland Park in Northwood. Tuesday morning. Rich kid from Gardenville in a car daddy bought for him.
“Highland Park huh?” Mears said. “It’s been a fuck of a long time since I worked street patrol in District 1—back when we still had to wear fuckin’ hats and a taser was something on Star Trek—but that place was notorious even then. Drugs?”
“You know it,” Yamato said. “Went out in the middle of the night from his happy home in Gardenville, scored himself a little fetty from one of the established dispensaries open in that lovely community at that time of night. Couldn’t wait until he got home, apparently, so he burned some in the park and passed out. EMS was called by some anonymous asshole and called for assistance when they arrived. Winslow and Boulder, two relative newbies out of the jail for about a year now, got the call. The kid was screaming about his rights and being generally uncooperative with the investigation. They had to punch the window and drag his ass out. Daddy Warbucks is alleging that our deputies used excessive force and planted the dope.”
“Jesus,” Mears groaned. “Who is this kid?”
“His name is Bartholomew Winthrop the Third.”
Mears let out a soft laugh. “Of course it is.”
“Yeah. Screaming rich boy, ran headfirst into the real world and didn’t like that it was a solid wall. Body cams show a clean wristlock, clean takedown, textbook arrest. I tagged the report for archive and was about to call the dad back to close the loop.”
“Just wanted to give me a heads-up in case it goes terminal?”
Yamato nodded. “Exactly. He’s the kind of guy who might ask to speak to ‘someone in charge.’”
“Well, I am someone in charge,” Mears said flatly. “Sort of.”
“I figured if he asks, I can point him your way.”
“Do it,” Mears said. “I’ll blow some smoke up his ass and remind him how seriously we take complaints from the good people of Gardenville.” A pause. “If he drops the word ‘lawsuit,’ I’ll throw in a few words like ‘transparency’ and ‘oversight.’ That usually settles the blood pressure.”
“Appreciate it.”
Mears made a soft grunt. In the background, someone on the TV was ranting about USC’s playoff chances and a defensive coordinator who was “coaching for his job.”
“By the way,” Yamato said, “we’re still good for the Niners game next month?”
Mears groaned. “Don’t even start. I dropped six-fifty for those tickets. Lower bowl. Not even club.”
“You bringing the wife?”
“Hell no,” Mears said. “She thinks the 49ers still play in Candlestick. I’m bringing Paulie from Metro. Guy hasn’t been out of the house in six months.”
“Just don’t let him drink stadium IPAs again. I’m not babysitting.”
“No promises,” Mears said. “But yeah—we’re still on.”
“Copy that, El-tee. I’ll let you know if this one kicks back.”
“You do that.”
Mears hung up without a goodbye, and Yamato smiled faintly. That went about how he figured it would.
Time to call a Winthrop.
Yamato pulled up the number from the complaint log and hit dial. The line rang once—only once—before it was answered.
“This is Bartholomew Winthrop.”
“Mr. Winthrop, this is Sergeant Yamato, Internal Affairs Division, Heritage County Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling to follow up on the complaint you filed with me earlier this morning.”
A pause. Then, coolly: “Yes. I assume you’ve reviewed the body camera footage and the arrest reports?”
“I have. I reviewed all deputy reports, medical documentation, dispatch logs, dash cam, and both sets of body cam footage.”
“And have those two officers been suspended pending charges? Or have you actually arrested them already?”
“Neither,” Yamato said evenly. “I cleared both deputies of any wrongdoing. I’m filing your complaint as unfounded.”
There was a moment of pure silence on the line. Yamato could hear the shift—the snap of restraint unraveling.
“Oh, so that’s it then?” Winthrop barked. “Cops protecting each other? Internal Affairs is just a PR division now? Badges watching badges? That it?”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” Yamato said, his voice completely even. “But the deputies were not harassing your son. They were responding to a call for assistance from EMS. Your son was found unresponsive in a vehicle in a public park and refused to cooperate with paramedics. Deputies were dispatched to ensure scene safety.”
“He was napping,” Winthrop snapped. “He was tired. He pulled over to rest because he was being a responsible driver. And for that, he’s dragged from his car and assaulted by two government thugs?”
Yamato let the silence sit just long enough before responding. “It appears the nap may have been induced by smoking fentanyl.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. Then it hit.
“You watch your tone, Sergeant. A Winthrop does not use illegal drugs. We do not abuse narcotics. We do not wallow in filth like some downtown gutter rat. My son is a clean, educated, well-bred young man and those women planted that dope on him to justify their thuggery!”
Yamato remained silent through the tirade. When the yelling paused long enough for him to insert a word, he did.
“Let me get this straight. Your theory is that our deputies—on duty, wearing cameras—just happened to have a baggie of fentanyl ready to go. In case they found someone worth framing.”
“I’m suggesting,” Winthrop snapped, “that not all deputies do that—but the lesbian who arrested my son certainly did.”
Yamato blinked once, slowly.
Then: “Why do you believe the two deputies were lesbians?”
Winthrop exhaled like he’d just been asked if the sky was blue. “Because my son said they were.”
“I see,” Yamato said. “And how did he know that?”
There was a pause.
“The same-sex aficionados in our department aren’t required to wear rainbow pins on their uniforms to identify themselves,” Yamato continued. “In fact, they’re not even allowed to if they want to. So how exactly did your son come to that conclusion?”
“Let’s stop talking about irrelevancies,” Winthrop snapped. “They’re female cops. Of course they’re lesbians. That has nothing to do with anything. They beat and framed my son.”
“Okay,” Yamato said, still perfectly level. “Let’s talk about that, then.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, voice unhurried.
“I reviewed the entire encounter between the two deputies and your son—from three different video angles. Complete with sound. Modern technology is amazing.”
He let the silence hang just long enough.
“Do you know what I saw?”
Winthrop didn’t answer.
Yamato continued, calm and clinical.
“I saw a young man from one of the exclusive suburbs—Gardenville, specifically—passed out behind the wheel of his Mustang. In Highland Park. One of the worst parts of the city. Middle of the night. Engine running. Doors locked.”
He let that land before moving on.
“I saw two MCSD deputies try their damndest to get that young man to step out so they could make sure he was okay. Not to arrest him. Not to interrogate him. Just to confirm he was conscious, coherent, and breathing.”
Yamato’s voice stayed low and even. No edge. Just the facts.
“They were required to act, Mr. Winthrop. That’s not my opinion—it’s Cady v. Dombrowski, U.S. Supreme Court, 1973. When someone appears unresponsive in a vehicle, law enforcement has a legal obligation to check on their welfare. That’s public safety. It’s not optional.”
“What are you talking about?” Winthrop shot back. “He was taking a nap. He was committing no crime.”
“The deputies were not investigating a crime,” Yamato said. “They were executing their public duty to act in the case where someone might be ill or injured. They didn’t know who your son was. They didn’t know he wasn’t a diabetic with low blood sugar just acting erratically. They were obligated by case law to make sure he was not having a medical emergency.”
He paused just a beat, then continued.
“And your son refused to follow their lawful commands to get out of the vehicle. Multiple times. Loudly. Belligerently. They removed him from that vehicle using the least amount of force they possibly could, and he resisted their attempts to take him into custody.”
Another pause.
“He was taken down to the ground and handcuffed. His injury occurred when his face hit the pavement. Two stitches. He’ll live.”
Yamato’s voice went even drier.
“Maybe even have a cool scar he can tell stories about later. It was as textbook of an encounter as I’ve ever seen.”
“They injured him,” Winthrop snapped. “That right there proves excessive force. He’s just a boy. There was no need to handle him like that.”
“From where I sit,” Yamato replied evenly, “it looks like the two officers displayed remarkable restraint in dealing with your son. They treated him with kid gloves, really—especially considering the language and insults coming out of his mouth.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.