Story code: ST-000340
Part 2: Trial by Pavement
Mark threw his weight backward, his boots slipping in the icy slush. The woman’s acrylic nails caught the edge of his plastic safety glasses, ripping them from his face and leaving a sharp, burning scratch across his right cheekbone. His glasses clattered into the gutter. Freezing rain immediately began stinging his bare eyes, but he didn’t blink. He crushed the thick, glossy receipt in his fist, shoved it deep into his heavy jacket’s zippered breast pocket, and yanked the zipper all the way up to his chin.
“Give that back! That is proprietary store information!” the boutique owner shrieked, her voice cracking with a desperate, raw panic that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She scrambled forward, uncaring that the knees of her pristine beige trench coat were now soaking up the freezing puddle.
Before Mark could push her away, the man on the ground erupted into violent motion.
The Narcan had hit his brain all at once, tearing him out of the opioid overdose and throwing him straight into acute withdrawal. The man gasped, a horrible, wet sound, and his back arched off the cobblestones. His eyes snapped open-bloodshot and wide with terror. He thrashed blindly, his elbow catching Mark hard in the ribs.
“Whoa, hey, you’re okay, you’re safe!” Mark shouted, trained instinct taking over. He shifted his weight, trying to pin the man’s shoulders to the ground to keep him from cracking his skull against the brick walkway. The patient fought with wild, uncoordinated strength, coughing up foam and rainwater.
“Help! Someone help me!” the boutique owner screamed, instantly pivoting away from Mark and turning toward the street. “This EMT is assaulting him! And he’s stealing from my store!”
The commotion, amplified by the woman’s theatrical screams, had finally drawn the attention of the evening foot traffic. Mark looked up through the blinding rain to see a half-circle of onlookers closing in. Umbrellas formed a dark canopy blocking the streetlamps. Beneath them, a dozen smartphone screens glowed, their camera lenses all aimed directly at him.
“I saw him,” the boutique owner yelled to the gathering crowd, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at Mark’s chest. “He pulled that man out of the alley, dumped him on my property, and then started digging through his pockets! He stole a receipt from my counter to frame my business!”
“Ma’am, step back!” Mark ordered, struggling to hold the thrashing patient down. The man was kicking furiously, his heavy leather boots splashing mud across the onlookers’ shins. The oversized military parka rode up further, completely exposing the tailored cashmere sweater and the gold glint of the luxury watch.
A man in the crowd, wearing a fitted suit and holding a golf umbrella, stepped forward with his phone raised. “Hey, man, back off him! You’re choking him out!”
“I’m securing his airway!” Mark yelled over the rising murmur of the crowd. He reached for the lapel mic on his shoulder. “Sarah, where are you? Patient is conscious and combative. I need the restraints and the cot, now.”
Static hissed in his ear before Sarah’s voice broke through, tight and frustrated. “Mark, I’m trying. I’m fifty feet away, but this crowd is completely blocking the sidewalk. They won’t move.”
Mark glanced over the wall of onlookers. Through a gap in the umbrellas, he could see the flashing red and white strobes of their rig, and Sarah furiously shoving the metal stretcher against a solid line of well-dressed pedestrians who were refusing to yield.
The boutique owner realized her audience was captivated. She knelt closer to the struggle, keeping her phone camera angled perfectly to capture Mark pinning the coughing man into the mud. “They want to silence me,” she narrated loudly to her live stream, tears welling in her eyes. “They are bringing the city’s drug problem to my doorstep to ruin my livelihood.”
While the crowd was distracted by her performance, Mark saw her foot slide subtly through the muck. She was aiming for the velvet-lined electronic fob and the heavy brass key still lying in the puddle. With a practiced, casual drag of her leather boot, she began sweeping the keys toward the iron grate of the storm drain just three feet away.
She was trying to destroy the only physical evidence linking her directly to the man in the mud.
Mark knew he couldn’t let the keys disappear. If they went down the drain, it was his word against a wealthy business owner and a dozen angry bystanders. He dropped his right knee hard onto the pavement, pinning the velvet fob against the stone just inches from the grating.
The boutique owner’s boot collided with his shin. She didn’t apologize; she just dug her heel in harder, trying to scrape the keys out from under his kneecap.
“Get off her!” someone in the crowd shouted.
A hand reached out from the mob and yanked hard on Mark’s radio strap. The heavy nylon dug into his neck, choking him backward. As Mark lost his balance, the patient suddenly stopped thrashing and grabbed Mark’s wrist. The man’s grip was like a vice. Through the mud and the freezing rain, the man stared at Mark. His pupils were still pinned, but there was a terrifying clarity behind them.
He pulled Mark closer, his tailored white collar now completely stained with gutter water, and opened his mouth to speak as the crowd surged forward.