"Ma'am, we need you to step to the back of the vehicle."
"Why? What did I do?"
"Routine check."
They search her purse, find nothing. Then the Latino officer opens the trunk, pulls out an evidence bag, reaches into Kesha's purse while his partner blocks the street view. When he pulls his hand back out, he's holding a small plastic bag of white powder.
"Ma'am, you're under arrest for possession of a controlled substance."
Kesha's eyes go wide. "That's not mine! You just planted that!"
"Ma'am, turn around. Hands behind your back."
The handcuffs click shut. Cold metal. She's crying now, not from fear, but rage. "My daughter is ten years old! She's home alone! Please!"
They put her in the car. She watches through the window as her neighborhood disappears. Thinks of Zara coming home to an empty apartment. Thinks of CPS. Thinks of how easily everything can be taken.
At the station, she's booked, fingerprinted, photographed. Bail is set at $10,000. She has $63 in her account.
She's allowed one phone call. She dials Reaper.
"They arrested me. Planted drugs. I need bail."
"Where's Zara?"
"Home alone. CPS is going to take her."
"No, they're not. I'm on my way."
Reaper makes three calls: