"I live here, officer. My ID is in my wallet inside," Marcus said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts to stay calm.
"We'll see about that," the officer replied, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Turn around."
Before the officer could take another step, the heavy oak front door of the house swung open. The noise drew everyone’s attention. Out walked two men. They weren't wearing suits or uniforms; they were dressed in weekend casuals—khakis and golf shirts. But they carried themselves with an unmistakable aura of absolute authority.
David Harrison and Deputy Chief Thomas Harrison stood on the porch, looking down at the scene unfolding in their driveway.
The lead patrol officer froze. He blinked, squinting against the morning sun, his eyes darting from the teenager to the two men on the porch. The color rapidly drained from the officer's face.
"Deputy Chief?" the officer stammered, his hand dropping away from his handcuffs as if they had suddenly caught fire.
Thomas walked down the steps, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury. "Officer Miller, isn't it?" Thomas said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Would you mind explaining to me why you are preparing to handcuff my nephew in his own driveway?"