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His breath was ragged, deep, and labored. "I was just like you once," he groaned, struggling to catch his breath. “I told you that. But the system; it's broken. Corrupt. I realized that I could either be a joke and lose at every fucking turn — or take a piece of the pie.”
His words punched me in the gut. I had always believed in the power of justice, in upholding the law and protecting the innocent. But now?
If Davis was dirty, who else was?
"Why didn't you try to fix it?" I demanded. "We swore an oath to protect and serve. We were supposed to be the ones fighting against this kind of shit, not becoming a part of it!”
He grunted in pain. "I tried, Anna. I did. But the more I fought, the more I realized that the system was rigged. The higher-ups were involved, pulling the strings. What chance did we have against that? Why not get ahead?”
My mind whirled with conflicting emotions. I didn’t understand becoming dirty.
But I did understand the frustration with the system.
It was the same frustration I felt all the time when I wanted to bring down the mob. I was told no at every turn.
Sometimes, I get it. You’re tired of being told “no.”
You’re tired of fighting an uphill battle, knowing there are people in the system who are dirty and need to go to prison just as much — or more — than the bastards you’re tracking down.
But to give up everything you believe in for money? For power?
I could never understand that.
I could never understand not protecting the innocent.
I could never understand compromising everything I stood for — all of my integrity.
I was driven by anger and hurt as I looked at him. I balled my fists tightly, my fingertips clawing into my palms, and unleashed a fury of punches.
The blows landed with satisfying thuds. Every strike was a release of pent-up frustration and disappointment that coursed through my body.
Part of me wanted to break through to him; another part wanted to knock his fucking teeth out.
It felt — for a moment — like I wasn’t fighting Davis.
It felt like I was fighting all of the corruption.
My body grew tired.
Weary.
More so with every lunging punch.
He was already unconscious, blood sputtering from his mouth.
The only thing that pulled me from my trance was the closing-in sirens.
How many of the police who responded were dirty?
How many were good?
It was all I could think about.
Breathing heavily, I stood over his limp form, relief and sorrow flooding in.
I was enraged. That’s why I did what I did.
But this man.
