Still, she couldn’t help but watch with growing dread as the officer crouched inside his vehicle, his movements frantic and deliberate. Then she saw it—and her blood ran cold. He was fiddling with his dash cam. Her eyes widened. No. He’s turning it off.
Her stomach dropped like a stone. This was far worse than she imagined. The moment he disabled the dash cam, Jenny knew she had to act—and fast. Every second counted now.
She turned her key in the ignition. Nothing but a sputter. “No… please, not now,” she whispered. Panic clawed at her throat as she tried again. Another groan from the engine. Still nothing. Her fingers trembled as she jiggled the key, pleading silently for the car to start.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered, barely holding back tears.
She was trapped—alone, in the middle of nowhere, with an unpredictable officer and a useless engine. Jenny could barely breathe. Her car had never failed her before, but now, in this terrifying moment, it had betrayed her. Her mind scrambled for a plan.
“What now?” she whispered, glancing back at the patrol car. The officer was already on his way back toward her, his face like stone. Her body tensed.
This didn’t feel like a routine stop anymore. It felt like something out of the headlines she always prayed she’d never star in.
In her mind, she saw the viral videos—the grainy footage of terrified drivers, powerless against authority gone wrong. She had studied these incidents. She had taught about power, civil rights, injustice. But never had she imagined herself living it.
She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t resisted. She hadn’t been disrespectful. And yet, somehow, here she was—cornered by fear, waiting for a moment she didn’t think she could control.
Was she about to become one of those stories?
She thought of the countless victims whose names she had read aloud in her classroom, whose stories she had encouraged her students to question and remember. Their stories were only known because someone had captured the truth—on a phone, a camera, a witness’s voice.
That’s when the idea hit her.
She had to record. Now.
Heart pounding, Jenny slipped her hand into her purse, fingers brushing against her phone. She didn’t hesitate. Her thumb swiped across the screen and tapped the camera icon. She angled it subtly, making sure it captured the view just beyond the steering wheel.