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“Then what were you doing inside the house, sir?” another officer asked.
Mike paused and tried to take a deep breath like his anger management coach had informed him to do, but it wasn’t working. His head was hot and pounding; the air that was supposed to flow through his nostrils and out of his mouth was caught in his throat and prevented him from speaking.
Mike was thankful that Manny always knew when to step in. “We thought maybe our client was in there and needed help. He’s elderly and lives alone, and we consider him a friend. Mike was trying to check on him since we hadn’t seen him all afternoon, and that’s not like Jim.”
“And how did you get in the house?” the female officer asked, her sharp stare directed at Mike, though it appeared as if she didn’t believe either of them. Her crude inspection began at the top of Mike’s head, roaming over his rugged appearance and his gang tattoos that he was no longer ashamed of. They were who he was, and it was his past. It couldn’t be erased. He wore those scars and tats as a reminder of all he’d overcome.
Manny let out a hushed curse after Mike answered, “I picked the lock on the back door, but I knocked first, and no one—”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back,” she instructed, and Mike felt his body temperature spike to a dangerous level.
“For what? I wasn’t stealing!” Mike bellowed. “I reacted in self-defense!”
“What’s going on?” Craig, one of Mike’s groundsmen, asked when he came from around the side of the house. “Shit… Big Mike, I swear I didn’t do anything—”
“Craig, be quiet. This has nothing to do with you. We got this,” Manny told their newest employee. Craig’s lanky body slumped with obvious relief. He was only twenty-four, and it was his first time having a legit job since pickpocketing on the Metro was no longer paying the bills or his extensive court restitution.
“Officers. Jim Reynolds has cameras all over his house. I’m sure if you check them, you’ll see—”
“All of that can be worked out at the magistrate’s office, sir. For now, I’m going to insist you comply and put your hands behind your back.” The woman’s voice held a tone of command that implied it was Mike’s last chance to do as she said before things turned ugly.
“Mike. Just do it.” Manny squeezed him hard on his shoulder, trying to turn him to face him, but Mike was seething, his glare still boring a hole through that lying asshole’s face. “I can get you out of this, Mike. Just do what they say.”
“It’s Thursday, Manny. I’m not spending a weekend in fuckin’ jail,” Mike gritted out.
“I promise you won’t.” Manny gripped Mike’s chin and forced his eyes to meet his. “Just don’t do anything stupid in there. I’ll get you out, you know I will.”
Yeah, he did know.
Mike finally turned around and crossed his hands behind his back. He knew the drill well. “I have a switchblade in my right pocket. No other weapons.”
Mike clenched his teeth the moment the cold metal cinched around his left wrist. “Sir, you’re under arrest for breaking and entering and assault. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used…”
Mike didn’t need to pay attention to his Miranda rights. He’d heard them countless times before. He’d had numerous arrests but zero convictions, and that shit wasn’t about to change today.
