The third biker pulled out a phone. “Ma’am, we’ve been trying to find you for three days. The police won’t listen to us. They already decided we’re guilty. But we have proof. Please. Just watch.”
My hands were shaking. Everything in me said don’t trust them. But something in their eyes—the genuine pain, the desperation—made me pause.
He handed me the phone. Pressed play.
The video was shaky at first. Helmet cam footage from the front of a motorcycle. I could see the road. Our neighborhood. The familiar houses and trees.
Then I saw Connor. My baby. Riding his little bike on the sidewalk.
And I saw the car.
A black SUV with tinted windows was following him. Slowly. Deliberately. Keeping pace with my son as he rode along the sidewalk.
“What…” I whispered.
“Keep watching,” the bald biker said quietly.
The SUV suddenly accelerated. Jumped the curb. Headed straight for Connor.
But then the motorcycles appeared. Four of them. They’d been riding behind the SUV. And when it jumped the curb, they reacted instantly.
The lead biker—the one whose camera this was—gunned his engine and cut in front of the SUV. His bike clipped the front bumper, sending him sliding across the pavement. But it slowed the vehicle just enough.
Another biker grabbed Connor off his bicycle. Just reached down at full speed and scooped my son into his arms. The momentum sent them both tumbling across someone’s lawn.
The SUV swerved. Crashed into a mailbox. Then reversed and sped away.
The video showed the bikers scrambling. One was injured from laying down his bike. Another was holding Connor, who was unconscious and bleeding from where he’d hit his head during the tumble.
“Call 911!” someone was yelling. “Get an ambulance!”
“The kid’s breathing but he’s hurt bad!”
The video ended.
I was sobbing. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Someone tried to kill my son,” I whispered. “Someone in that car tried to murder my baby.”
The tall biker nodded slowly. “We were riding through your neighborhood. Saw the SUV acting suspicious. Following the kid. We didn’t know what was happening but something felt wrong. Then it jumped the curb and…” He paused. “We reacted. Thomas grabbed your son. I tried to block the vehicle. Marcus and David called 911.”
“But the witnesses said you hit him. They said bikers—”
“They saw bikers and assumed the worst.” The bald one—Marcus—sounded bitter. “We were there when the ambulance came. We told the paramedics what happened. But then the neighbors started screaming at us. Calling us murderers. Someone threw a rock. Hit Thomas in the head.”
He gestured to the fourth biker, who had a bandage on his temple. “We tried to explain but no one would listen. Then the cops showed up and immediately assumed we were the bad guys. Put us in handcuffs. Wouldn’t even look at our helmet cam footage.”
“We spent six hours in custody,” the tall one continued. “By the time they released us—no charges because they couldn’t prove anything—your son was already in surgery. We’ve been trying to reach you ever since. Hospital wouldn’t let us in. Said family only.”
“So how did you get in now?”Continue reading…
