Page 195 of Yearn
"We still need statements," Morrison said, but his voice had lost some of its authority.
"Of course. My clients are eager to cooperate." Spencer gestured smoothly. "However, any questioning will be conducted with counsel present."
What followed after that was a blur of controlled chaos.
More photos.
More questions—carefully deflected and reframed by Spencer and his team.
Scott being read his rights while still crying and vomiting, still trying to explain what he’d saw, still not understanding that no one was listening to his version anymore.
The cocaine was bagged as evidence.
The gun catalogued and taken too.
Scott’s slurred protests about Dominic’s cock and my betrayal fell on increasingly deaf ears as the physical evidence mounted against him.
"The subject appears to be under the influence of multiple substances," Chang reported into his radio. "Cocaine visible at the scene. Subject admits to alcohol consumption. Weapon present. We're placing him under arrest."
"What? No. Arrest. . .him. Not me. . .you can't. . .I know my rights. . .I’m a lawyer. . .I am friends with. . .your superiors, asshole—" Scott tried to lunge forward and nearly fell.
Morrison caught Scott, turned him around, and then cuffed him. "Scott Harris, you're under arrest for possession of a controlled substance, reckless endangerment, and violation of a court protective order."
The Miranda rights faded into background noise.
I watched them lead him out—stumbling, crying, a broken man in handcuffs.
And I felt. . .nothing.
No satisfaction.
No victory.
Just bone-deep exhaustion of this insane night and the strange lightness of something heavy finally letting go.
Outside, I could see neighbors on their porches. Mr. Mason across the street shaking his head at the display as he stood next to his racist statues. The college kids from further across the street recording on their phones.
Blue and red lights painted everything in stark, judging colors.
My face burned with embarrassment.
Everyone would know.
Everyone would talk.
But underneath the shame was something else.
Freedom.
Scott was gone.
Really, truly gone this time.
I turned to the left.
What the hell?
There, sitting on her porch in the darkness just beyond the police lights, was Mrs. Patterson. For some reason. . .tonight, she looked. . .different.
