Against the objections of the paramedics, Clay squirmed on the stretcher. A deep moan escaped his mouth, which was held closed by a strap under his chin. “U-ugherarr.” The mournful sound drew looks of concern from Jackie and Sally.
The paramedics leaned back in shock, then rallied. “Stay still, sir,” one of them urged.
One of the paramedics answered the officer’s question. “He just regained consciousness. Stable but agitated, not responding to questions. We need to get the scoop stretcher into the ambulance and then to the emergency room. Now. He looks like he has a concussion. We are also concerned about internal bleeding. He has a bloody eye. His reflexes are not good. He is in and out. Also, his legs seem to be paralyzed.”
Streets’ gaze widened, then he motioned toward the trio standing behind him.
“Hopefully temporarily,” the paramedic added after a quick glance at the worried faces standing nearby.
Hearing this, Sean’s lower lip trembled and his eyes welled up. The emotional roller coaster from the morning catching up with him as he stood there in cuffs.
Streets knew that Clay wasn’t just someone who had given Sean a job. He had been a mentor. Over the two years they had worked together, Clay treated him with respect, shared his knowledge of the business, and paid him well.
With Elena still clutching her around the waist, Jackie reached out and put a hand on Sean’s shoulder, that motherly tenderness returning. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”
“Can we get these cuffs off him?” she asked Streets.
Streets looked at his younger brother. He wanted to get those damn cuffs off him right now. But, as his own man, Sean needed to stand up and face the consequences of his decisions. Streets recalled one of their mother’s sayings that had stuck with him over the years, “Sometimes, too much helpin’s more a hindrance than it is helpful.” Instead of always being there to solve Sean’s problems for him, Streets had tried to simply be there, and let Sean work things out. He only stepped in if his younger brother ran out of options, which wasn’t often. Besides that, he might have to justify his actions later. Better to be cautious.
“I’m working on that now.”
𓂓
The paramedics had worked slowly and methodically to stabilize Clay on the scoop stretcher so that his spine and neck would not move in transit. As they lifted then walked him to the ambulance, Elena let go of her momma, a look of urgency on her face. During the conversation, Elena’s intent gaze had been resting upon Clay’s form and the people working over him. She knew that Clay had helped her. She wanted to thank him. She just didn’t know how. “Momma, who is that man over there? Is he hurt?” Elena asked.
“Yes, he’s hurt, honey.”
“Like Evan?” she asked.
“No, honey... it’s different. That man had an accident. He’s been working across the street with Sally.” Jackie looked over at Sally with a cue that the question had been passed to her.
“His name is Mr. Clay Thompson,” Sally responded.
“Mr. Clay, Mr. Clay!” Elena burst out as she rushed from her mother’s side and over to his stretcher with a sense of urgency.
Clay could not turn his head, which had been secured within a head immobilizer and strapped to the stretcher for his protection. But he raised his hand slightly. Elena saw the gesture and rested her hand on his. “Thank you, Mr. Clay, for helping me.” She jerked her hand back quickly as the stretcher moved past her, and then used it to cover her mouth as she choked back a sob and looked down.
Elena breathed in sharply, then sighed. She visibly struggled to understand the complex emotions boiling inside her—a mixture of thankfulness, fear, anger, and sadness that this man had been hurt trying to help her. She barely understood the meaning of ‘hurt’. When Evan passed away, her mother had been straightforward about what happened to him. Jackie had explained ‘illness’ to Elena, and that Evan needed to move on because of it. But it all seemed like ‘hurt’ to her. She had felt hurt when Evan left, and she felt hurt now as she watched Clay being taken away.
Elena secretly hoped something similar didn’t happen to Mr. Clay. She didn’t know him but felt a familiar connection. As they pushed him into the ambulance, she breathed in deeply, and then murmured to herself, “Please come back.” With tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, she ran back over and embraced her mother, who looked down on her with a deep sense of pride.
The sirens of the EMS gave a brief blurt announcing departure, then pulled away from the scene. Everyone, except Officer Hines and John, looked toward the ambulance in concern. Once the ambulance disappeared from view, Officer Street started organizing the next few steps.
𓂓
After a status check with their Communications Officer, Streets looked over to Officer Hiney as he was known around the precinct. Hines spent a lot of time brown-nosing a grizzled long-timer known as Sarge. The two men were part of a departmental clique that kept to themselves. Aside from Sarge, Streets didn’t trust any of them.
Setting that aside, he assessed the situation. He narrowed his eyes and drew in his breath with the intent of focusing on the task at hand. Something isn’t right here.
A different energy came over Streets as he walked toward the two men. “All business,” he muttered to himself, as was his habit when approaching a suspect or a task at hand. Although he partially understood what had occurred, Streets decided to play naïve in order to get an unfiltered side of the story from Hiney and this driver.
With his hand perched on his sidearm, Streets walked up to stand in front of the two men, his presence imposing on them so effectively that they leaned back slightly as he approached. “Officer Hines, do you mind explaining why you have that young man cuffed over there?”
Hines snorted, “Don’t play games, we all know that’s your little bro.” He glanced at John with a conspiratorial grin and snickered.
John decided to join in and leaned toward Streets, directing a lecherous look at Jackie before whispering conspiratorially, “Yeah, and tell the lady maybe we can work somethin’ out. Maybe I won’t press charges if she... you know...” John shrugged and pouted his lower lip. A short laugh made his belly bounce up and down.
On impulse, Streets’ hand twitched. His baser instincts urged him to smack John, tell him to shut his damn mouth. But he thought better of it, deciding to deflect and perhaps allow some of the bluster that might encourage the driver to talk. With a barely discernible look of contempt, Streets slowly turned to the ‘victim’ and growled, “She might be out of your league, big fella.” Then Streets cut Hines a warning glare, which made him shift in his stance. Hines risked a brief glance at John, then quickly returned his attention back to Streets, who held eye contact in silence long enough to make it uncomfortable. Inclining his chin slightly, Streets established his authority with one subtle motion. Hines nodded, then looked away.
Streets turned his attention back to John, who stood silent with a smug grin on his face. Streets regarded him up and down for a moment. The awful odor registered first. Filthy. But a quick glance into his eyes told him something else was off about this guy. “Okay, now tell me what happened here.”
Streets took out his notepad, flipped a page, and jotted down an outline of the conversation, referring back to confirm statements as they progressed. “So, you say that these men ran into the road to stop your truck, to... carjack you?” Streets looked over his shoulder at the faded beat-up dually diesel in disbelief.
“Probably.” John shrugged and looked over to Hiney for support. “It’s worth a lot.” Officer Hines looked back at the driver blankly.
Having embarrassed him several times before, Streets knew Hines would stop being a smartass now that he’d put him in his place. With a small smile, Streets nodded and maintained his casual demeanor as he thumbed a gesture toward Jackie and Elena. “Did you see the little girl run into the street for her soccer ball?”
“No.”
“Why?”
John snorted. “I don’t know, just didn’t.”
“And when you got out of your truck, you say you, um, politely asked them to move so you could leave?” Streets asked with a confused look as if the concept of manners would be lost on the driver.
“Sort of,” the driver said.
“What do you mean, sort of?” Streets demanded.
