The Night a Cop Smashed My Twin Brother’s Face Against the Burning Hood of Our 1967 Mustang and Called Us Car Thieves Outside Our Uncle’s Mansion, I Thought the Blood on his lip was the ugliest thing I’d remember—until minutes later, when a federal judge stepped out of the house and said, “Officer, do you even know whose children you handcuffed?”
A woman approached, dressed in plain clothes, her badge clipped to her belt.
“I’m Detective Lauren Brooks,” she said. “Are you Naomi Hale?”
“Yes,” I replied, clutching my hospital papers. “Please tell me what’s happening.”
She didn’t soften her voice.
“We executed a search warrant on this property earlier today,” she said. “Based on evidence linked to narcotics distribution.”
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