“Handled it?” I said, glancing down at Arthur. “Arthur Callahan? The man who repaired Thomas Rivera’s car when his family could not afford it? The man who has taught countless kids in this town for free?”
“He called us thugs,” the kid mumbled.
“No,” Arthur corrected from the ground, voice steady. “I asked you to move from the handicapped space. I have a permit. My oxygen—”
The punk raised his hand again. I caught his wrist gently but firmly. “Enough,” I said.
“Get off me! I am filming this!” he protested.
“Perfect,” said Brutus, our sergeant-at-arms. “We have your confession right here. The police will want to see.”
The kid tried to pull free. “We are leaving,” he stammered.
“You are not leaving until you apologize and fix what you broke,” I said.
Arthur, still on the ground, shook his head. “Let them go, Hank. Violence will not help,” he said softly.
Before anyone could react, a voice cut across the lot. “Connor, what have you done?” A young nurse in scrubs marched up. “Arthur Callahan on the ground?”
The punk paled. “Mia, I can explain,” he said.
“You put him there?” she demanded, kneeling beside Arthur. “Do you know what he has done for this town? For people like me?”