Page 150 of Edge of Unbroken

The prosecutor clicked on a video, the still of which depicted Steve and Zack in Steve’s car, a smile on their faces. The date and time displayed was August 28 at 11:57 in the morning. After confirming that this was in fact the correct video, the prosecutor hit play. For a minute it was just Steve driving as he chatted with Zack, music playing softly in the background.

It was so surreal to watch the boys laughing, knowing that at that exact moment Ronan was already fighting for his life. In the footage, Steve came to a stop and honked his horn. My heart hammered furiously in my chest. It was like watching a scary movie, the music, the imagery preparing the viewer for a jump-scare.

Steve honked again. “Motherfucking Ran, hurry the fuck up.” He turned his head to look out the window, presumably to see if Ronan was emerging from the house.

“Let’s just go inside and get him. I need to take a piss anyways,” Zack said in the video.

“Why didn’t you just go at your own damn house?”

“I didn’t have to go then, Mommy.” Zack grabbed his camera from the dash, then got out of the car and followed Steve up the short walkway and the five steps to the familiar dark-green front door. As they approached, Onyx’s bark was clearly audible in the video. It made my hands clammy.

I know it wasn’t, but it sure felt as though the video was recorded in slow motion when Steve opened the front door and the boys stepped into the narrow hallway. I strained my ears and immediately heard the thudding sound Steve had described earlier in the day: “Relentless, like someone was kicking something.” I was sick to my stomach.

In the video, Steve turned to Zack, a crease on his brow. “What the hell?”

Steve moved into the living room, Zack just steps behind him. And then I choked on my own breath.

“What the fuck,” Steve shouted in the video just as Zack stepped out from behind Steve, and the camera’s angle brought into view an absolute horror scene.

I wasn’t the only one who gasped the moment Ronan could be seen on the floor by his mother’s feet. Rica, dressed in her light-blue hospital scrubs, was kicking her son so forcefully, so relentlessly that he had no chance of protecting himself. My eyes brimmed with tears, though I refused to blink as I watched the scene: Ronan’s body, already so visibly broken, on the floor, curled up on his right side, his right arm draped over his face and head.

“Mom! Stop!” Steve yelled at his mother.

She paused her rampage to look at Steve, then lifted her shoed right foot and violently stomped on Ronan’s side—his completely unprotected rib cage. The sound of his ribs breaking echoed through the courtroom as though amplified by a megaphone. It was horrific, though not nearly as devastating as the sound of Ronan gasping for air as he writhed in pain, his right hand over his broken ribs.

Steve pushed his mom away from Ronan, then dropped to his knees in front of his brother. “Ran, you’re alright. It’s okay.” He attempted to roll Ronan onto his back, but abandoned his efforts when Ronan cried out in pain.

“Fuck.” Steve was frantic as he looked Ronan over. “God, fuck, there’s so much blood. What the fuck did you do?” Steve screamed at his mother as Ronan struggled to breathe, coughing violently between gasps. “Zack, call 911!”

Zack, who was standing frozen to the spot, set his GoPro down with the scene squarely in view of the camera, then stepped toward Steve and Ronan.

“Call 911now!” Steve yelled again as he hovered over Ronan, whose coughing didn’t let up in between his desperate attempts to get air into his injured lungs.

“I’m calling!” Zack said, his phone already to his ear.

“Shit, Ran. Just breathe! You’re going to be okay, I promise. What the fuck did she do?” Steve’s voice cracked at his helplessness. “What the fuck, Mom!”

He was obviously freaking out, unable to figure out what to do, how to help his little brother. He made to reach for Ronan but pulled back knowing that any movement would hurt him further. There was a sickening amount of blood. It was all over Ronan’s face, hands, and shirt, the rug, and the hardwood floor. Glass and splintered wood lay scattered on the ground underneath Ronan, his fractured hockey stick just inches away from Steve.

Rica sat on the floor, unemotional, unmoving, watching her sons like a passive observer, an uninvolved spectator of a horrific scene.

Zack could be heard speaking with the 911 operator, providing basic information about what had transpired, Ronan’s name and age, his status. “He can’t breathe; he’s coughing up a lot of blood. Yeah, he’s bleedinga lot. No, he’s on the floor; I don’t think he can get up. It’s bad.” Zack went silent for a second or two. “Steve; he’s eighteen,” he said, then, “Ronan. He’s seventeen. Okay, hang on.” Zack kneeled behind Ronan, facing Steve, then put the phone on speaker.

“Steve?” the operator said.

Steve didn’t take his eyes off his little brother. “I’m here.”

“I am going to ask you some questions. Is your brother breathing?”

“Barely,” Steve said.

Ronan fought for air but was overcome by more coughing, his body tight, almost convulsing with the pain the violent coughs brought on. Blood ran down Ronan’s face as he coughed up more of the crimson substance, already pooling on the floor.

“Is he conscious?”

“Yeah, I mean…”

“Are his eyes open?”

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