The police officers on duty that night at a Newark police station were stunned when a harried-looking woman in her late thirties walked in, literally dragging a scruffy teen by the arm.
“Let go…” the kid who looked about 14 whined, tugging at the woman’s arm, but she dragged him right up to the sergeant’s desk.
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“Officer,” she said in a trembling voice. “You have to help me. I can’t keep him anymore, please, you have to take him.”
The sergeant’s mouth hung open. After twenty years on the force, he believed he’d heard everything, but this was a first. “Ma’am,” he said, “I don’t understand.”
“My son,” the woman said with tears in her eyes, “I can’t have in my house anymore. Please, you have to take him.”
“Ma’am,” the sergeant protested, “we can only ‘take’ people who’ve committed crimes.”
“He’s going to,” the woman cried desperately. “Can’t you see that?” The boy who’d been listening to his mother with a sneer on his face laughed.
“You’re such a loser,” he said. “They can’t do ANYTHING to me! I’m a minor.”
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“He’s been stealing,” said the mother. “I know that, and this afternoon… He pulled out a knife!”
“A knife?” asked the sergeant. “What kind of a knife?”
“A big knife, my husband’s K-Bar,” the mother explained. “I told him to clean his room, and he took out the knife.”
“I didn’t do nothing!” the kid sneered. “I didn’t threaten her, I just showed her what I had in my jacket pocket!”
The sergeant nodded. “That’s different, Ma’am,” he said crisply. “That’s carrying a concealed weapon, and THAT’S a crime.” Before long, the desperate mother, Mary Trenton, was sitting with a police officer, telling her story.
Sometimes grief and anger can make us act out and hurt those around us.
“My husband passed away a year ago. He was a Marine,” she explained. “And that’s when Donny started acting up. He started staying out late, hanging out with some older boys.
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“Then he started skipping school. I found some expensive things in his room, things we could never afford and he said a friend gave it to him.” Mary was crying. “I didn’t know what to do!”
“I tried a curfew, but he just ignored it. This morning he pulled out that knife. My daughter Rita is just eight and she was frightened.” Mary cried, “He was such a sweet boy, but now I don’t know what to do! I have to work two jobs now, and I know he probably needs me there more, I know he’s in pain, but I can’t handle it!”
The police officer listened to what Mary had to say. “I have an idea,” he said. Then he got up and made a phone call. Two hours later, a belligerent-looking Donny was sitting opposite the officer and a man who identified himself as a social worker.
“Now Donny,” said the officer calmly. “We’ve been talking to your mother, and we have a proposition for you.”
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