They weren’t foster parents. They were running a drug operation out of our basement, using foster kids as lookouts and mules.
Five of us total – me at seventeen, twins Jake and Emma at fifteen, little Sofia at twelve, and tiny Marcus at eight. We lived in the basement, came upstairs only when social workers visited.
We’d tried telling our caseworker. She’d reported us for “making false allegations” and threatened to separate us.
That morning, Dale had beaten me for dropping a package during a delivery. Split my lip, blackened my eye, told me if I ever talked again, little Marcus would pay for it.
I was done being quiet.
I stole twenty dollars from Dale’s wallet while he slept. Walked three miles to the highway. Made my sign from a cardboard box. Stood there for two hours while cars passed, people staring but never stopping.
Then the motorcycle pulled over.
Big guy, gray beard, wearing a leather vest covered in patches. I thought maybe he’d give me money, maybe call someone. I didn’t expect him to read my sign, look at my face, and immediately make a phone call.
“Need the whole club at my location,” he said into his phone. “We’ve got a code red situation. Foster kids in danger, corrupt cop involved.”
He hung up and looked at me. “I’m Detective Paul Morrison, son. I work narcotics. Your foster father has been on my radar for years, but he’s slippery. Tell me everything.”
Continue reading…
