Police Report
I heard the doorbell and knew it was the officer. I opened the door and asked if he’d like to come in. - He declined.
There was plenty of seating on my patio, but he chose to remain standing. A small move, but a decisive one. It set the tone.
I handed him a carefully prepared set of documents. He barely looked at them—flipping through each page like it bored him, never stopping longer than five seconds.
“This is a civil matter,” he said with a smirk.
Duh.
That’s why I made a checklist—to verify everything I submitted. I asked him to sign it.
He refused.
He gestured to his body camera and told me it would capture everything. As if that was enough.
In that moment, I realized this was the worst possible outcome: I was being dismissed again.
He said, “This is just going to go into some black box that no one will ever look at.”
“Cool,” I replied, shutting down.
It’s a survival skill I’ve perfected over the past seven years—after being turned away, ignored, and blamed during my custody nightmare.
He left to “get something from his car.”
Then nothing.
He was gone long enough for it to feel off. Suspicious. Something was happening out of view that I wasn’t meant to be part of.
Thirty minutes later, he returned and handed me a case number.
No explanation. No empathy. No next steps.