The officer recounted his version of events, puffing up the drama. “Caught her swerving on the road. Pulled her over and found all this in her trunk,” he said, holding up the replica pistol. “Looks like the missing stuff from the museum.”
Jenny stood frozen. The surreal absurdity of it all battled with the very real fear gnawing at her.
Her voice finally returned, but it felt small. “That’s not stolen property. I’m a teacher. These are props. I have the documentation.” But no one seemed to hear her. Or maybe they just didn’t want to.
They saw a suspect—not a person. Not a teacher. Just someone to be processed, to be interrogated.
Soon she was led into a sterile, windowless room. The heavy door closed behind her with a thud. Three officers sat across from her, eyes hard, their postures rigid. The tension in the room was suffocating.
“Tell us about these artifacts,” one of them said bluntly.
Jenny swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m a history teacher. Those are educational replicas—just props for class.” Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. “I’ve used them for years. My students can confirm that. My school can confirm it.”
They didn’t blink.
Another officer leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “You expect us to believe these aren’t part of the museum theft?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
Jenny’s hope started to slip. She could feel it—her words weren’t being heard. They had already made up their minds.
“Please,” she said softly, “you have to believe me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
It was then that Jenny remembered her secret weapon — the recording.
“I have a video,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling but hopeful. “It shows everything that happened.”
The officers exchanged wary glances. The senior officer — a grizzled man with a silver mustache and years of wear on his face — leaned forward with quiet curiosity. “Alright,” he said gruffly, “Let’s see it.”
Still shaken, Jenny unlocked her phone and handed it over with unsteady hands. The room grew silent, thick with tension, as the video began to play. Every word, every aggressive command, every plea from Jenny was captured. The officer’s voice barked through the speakers, his unjustified actions laid bare in front of the stunned officers.
But Jenny wasn’t finished.
She opened her email and scrolled through her inbox. “Here,” she said, pointing to a series of recent messages from students — essay submissions, assignment questions, even thank-you notes. Every email addressed her as Ms. Jenny — their history teacher.