Chapter 7 - Handcuffs on the Pristine Porch
It was 4:00 p.m. on December 26th when three unmarked police cruisers rolled silently onto Maplewood Avenue, pulling up directly in front of my parents' house.
Word had already leaked to local reporters through police scanner feeds, and two news vans from Chicago affiliates were parked fifty yards down the block, their satellite dishes pointed at the pristine white door.
Officer Ramos, accompanied by two armed deputies, stepped out of the lead vehicle. They walked up the exact same stone path Maisie and Ruby had walked down two nights before.
Ramos didn't bother knocking gently. He slammed his heavy fist against the wood.
“Police department! Open the door!”
A minute passed. Finally, the deadbolt turned.
My father opened the door, wearing the exact same plaid bathrobe. When he saw three police officers standing on his porch with cold, professional expressions, his haughty demeanor faltered for a fraction of a second.
“What is the meaning of this?” my father demanded, puffing out his chest. “Do you know who I am? I demand to speak to a supervisor!”
“Richard Sterling, you have the right to remain silent,” Ramos said clearly, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You are under arrest for felony child endangerment, criminal conspiracy, and reckless endangerment.”
“This is an outrage!” my father shrieked, thrashing his arms as the deputies grabbed his wrists and slammed the cold steel cuffs onto his aging arms.
From down the hallway, my mother rushed toward the door, her face pale with horror as she saw her husband being hauled backward down the porch steps in front of the flashing cameras of the local news crews.
“Eleanor Sterling, you are also under arrest on the same charges,” another deputy announced, stepping inside the foyer and snapping the cuffs onto her wrists before she could retreat.
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As they were marched down the pristine white steps—past the chipped flowerpot and the neat hedges—the cameras flashed blindingly in their faces. My mother tried to shield her face with her cuffed hands, screaming obscenities at the reporters, while my father stared straight ahead, his mask of untouchable dignity shattered forever.
They were tossed into the back of the police cruiser, the heavy doors slamming shut with a final, echoing thud.
