When the first police cruiser arrived it launched a whirlwind of activity. The cops on the scene peppered Marty with questions while they waited for paramedics to arrive to tend to his arm. He kept his answers short and decidedly incomplete, determined to avoid volunteering any information on his true motives for being there even if that reticence would only lead to more trouble in the end. At least now, surely Sarah would be protected.

The cops had provided him with a towel and told him to keep pressure on his bleeding arm. The now fiery throbbing made him slightly sick to his stomach and he took deep breaths to keep from embarrassing himself by throwing up. At least the bleeding seemed to have slowed, so hopefully the injury wasn't serious. As he sat on the curb in front of the store in his white t-shirt, his ruined dress shirt having been removed and discarded, the flashing lights of an increasing number of police cars transported him back to his only previous experience with guns and cops.

From the haze of his overwhelmed eleven-year-old brain, Marty took in the sight of swirling police lights coming through the thin living room curtains and he heard the police pounding on the front door, but it never occurred to him that he should get up to answer it. He remained in place, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. He held onto the gun just in case his father, who lay bleeding and cursing on the floor a few feet away, got the idea to reach for the shotgun near his head. His mom was still passed out next to him as he waited to be carted away to jail.

He heard a bang as three policemen broke open the front door and barreled in with their guns drawn. One kicked the shotgun away from his dad. Marty's huge blue eyes tracked the men, who all now had their guns raised in his direction, and he gulped in a deep breath, followed by a shuddering exhale. Would they shoot him on the spot? Maybe that's what happened to boys who shot their fathers. The older policeman in the middle took a step forward and slowly lowered his gun, while the other two looked at one another in apparent confusion about what to do.

The older policeman crouched down so he was closer to Marty's eye level. He said in a gruff but quiet voice, "My name is Officer Di Angelo. What's your name?"

The man might be trying to be nice, but he was still there to take him to jail. Resignedly, he replied, "Marty."

"Marty, OK," replied Di Angelo. "Listen Marty, we'd like to talk to you about what happened, and bring in some paramedics to help you and your dad and your mom. But we can't do that until you put down the gun. Would you do that for us, so we can help make sure everyone's safe?"

Marty sighed. On TV, the last thing the bad guy did before he got arrested was to give up his gun, but he didn't have any better ideas and he really wanted someone to help his mom, so he gently set the gun down on the floor beside him.

"Great, thanks Marty. I'm gonna come over and pick the gun up, but I'm not gonna touch you or make you move unless you want to. OK?" Di Angelo asked.

Marty nodded numbly, and Di Angelo moved forward and picked up the gun and handed it to another officer. The act unleashed a flurry of activity as paramedics entered and immediately began assessing his parents, gently pulling his mother away from his side. Di Angelo crouched down right next to Marty and just before he began to hold out his arms for the handcuffs, Di Angelo gestured down to his bloodied pajama top and asked, "Are you hurt?"

Marty looked down and his eyebrows rose at the disturbing and unexpected sight of all the blood. It made him queasy. He shook his head and said, "It's my dad's blood."

Di Angelo told him, "OK. I'm glad you're not injured. Marty, how about we go outside and sit on the front porch. We want to make sure you're doing OK too, alright?"

It was nice of the police officer to make sure he wasn't hurt, but of course once he confessed that he'd shot his dad, they'd certainly take him to jail. With tears in his eyes, he gazed over at his mom, who had just started to rouse. Maybe they'd let him see her again before they took him away. He got up on shaky legs and followed Officer Di Angelo outside to the porch.

"Let's sit down here," Di Angelo said, gesturing to the top step. Marty sat down next to him. He could hear the activity in the living room and looked back, ready to spring back up and run to his mom's side. Di Angelo diverted his attention, asking him, "Will you tell me what happened, Marty? It's OK to tell me. It will help us make sure everyone gets taken care of properly."

Marty sighed, then shivered in the cool evening air. Telling went against everything he'd been taught about staying silent about his dad's violence. How many times had he covered for him in the past? How many emergency room visits had there been where he'd pretended to have done something clumsy or reckless that had resulted in injury? Should he do that now? But if he did, then he'd definitely be the one getting in trouble. He was completely torn.

Di Angelo told him, "You know, if your dad was hurting you or your mom, it's OK to tell me. We can make it so he stops hurting you, so he doesn't get a chance to hurt you anymore… Was he hurting you, Marty?"

Marty shook his head, his unfocused gaze trained in the general direction of the concrete walk at the wooden stairs' base. But then he whispered "He was hurting my mom." Telling the truth was dangerous. If his dad didn't get sent to jail, he would definitely come home and kill him. What had he just done? He struggled to keep from throwing up.

Di Angelo nodded and said, "I could see that. Can you tell me what you saw happen?"

With a shaky breath and eyes still looking at the ground, Marty said, "I don't want to get my dad in trouble."

Di Angelo nodded again. He seemed to understand Marty's dilemma. "I understand that, Marty, I do. It appears to me you've been a very brave boy tonight, and I need you to be brave just a little bit more, and tell me the truth. It's the best way for me to be able to protect you and your mom, I promise."

Marty looked up and studied Di Angelo. All the other times, the police had come to the house and done nothing to help. There was nothing to indicate that this particular officer, as nice as he was, could do anything to help save him and his mom from their fate. Still, he'd gone this far. His dad was going to kill him for shooting him, so it probably didn't matter anymore if he kept his mouth shut too.

Looking out at the whirling lights of the squad cars, he said, "I was sleeping. I woke up because my mom and dad were fighting. He was hitting her."

"Was that the first time that happened, or have there been other times?"

"Lots of times," Marty told him. God, he lived in such a messed up family. He waited for Di Angelo to judge him, to say something that would increase his humiliation even more. Instead, the man just nodded.

"What happened next?" he prompted Marty.

In a halting voice, Marty slowly explained what had happened, with Di Angelo gently prompting him for information. When he was done, he would have crawled away and hid from the world if he could, but there was no escaping the future he'd just set for himself. He asked, "Am I gonna go to jail now?"

Just then the first pair of paramedics came out with his father on a gurney. Di Angelo led Marty down the stairs and out of their way, to stand in the grass by the sidewalk. His dad was still cursing and when he saw Marty, he said, "You're a loser, you little punk, I'm ashamed to have you as my son." Marty didn't react. His dad's words were nothing new. He'd heard them many times before. What was new was the way Di Angelo stepped in front of him as his father was wheeled away.

Di Angelo steered him back to sit on the porch steps and asked another officer to stay with him while he went back inside to check on his mom. He was gone for a while and it was all Marty could do to keep from running inside to see if his mom was hurt worse than he'd thought. Finally Di Angelo came back outside with a blanket in his hand and sat down next to him again. He told him, "It's cold out here, Marty. Let me put this blanket around you." Marty made no move to stop him, even if his shivering was due as much to shock as to the temperature. The cop told him, "Your mom's doing fine. They want to take her to the hospital to make sure she's OK. In the meantime, you're going to come with me. But Marty," Di Angelo paused and waited for him to make eye contact. "You're not getting arrested, OK? You're not in trouble. You're not going to jail."

An ambulance finally pulled up beside the store and a police officer interrupted Marty's thoughts, telling him, "Sir, do you want to come with me, over to the ambulance?" Marty took a moment to shake off the painful memory and allowed himself to be escorted over to the paramedics, who proceeded to examine his arm and assess his vitals.

When they were nearly done, the first of the pair told him, "We need to take you to the hospital. Your arm doesn't look too bad, a flesh wound really, but we need to take you in to properly clean and suture it and make sure you're OK."

He told them, "OK. Let me check in with the detectives first, alright?"

The paramedic put the final touches on the pressure bandage and turned Marty loose. His deep breathing along with the reassurance offered by the paramedics had served to calm his quivering stomach and his feet felt stable underneath him. He walked over to where two recently arrived men in suits were conferring with the patrolmen. They noticed him and the taller of the two, a downright youthful looking man who couldn't have been older than thirty, said, "You going to the hospital?"

"Yeah," Marty responded, pushing his now bedraggled hair out of his eyes. "I wanted to check in with you guys to see if you needed anything else from me before I go."

"Do you feel up to a few more questions?"

Marty tried to hide his sigh as he told the man, "Sure."

"I'm Detective Laurens and this is Detective Espinosa."

Marty nodded at the second stockier man with buzz cut dark hair. "What can I do for you?"

"Tell us about your evening. Why were you here tonight?"

"I stopped in after work, thought I might pick up a gift."

"A gift for…?"

"A friend," Marty hedged. Lying to the cops could get him into trouble, yet at this point, if he unraveled his deception it would create a whole new mess of problems for himself. He decided to go on the offensive. "Why is that important?"

Laurens chuckled at Marty's challenge, telling him, "I hear from the officer who took your statement that you're an attorney."

"Yes, I am." Marty reminded himself to stay calm, to keep his cool.

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a public defender." This information wouldn't win him any points with the cops. If anything, they would hold it against him. Cops were plenty cozy with the attorneys at the District Attorney's office, but the PD's Office was often seen as the enemy.

"So you live in…" he checked his notes, "…Venice, and work downtown. What made you drive all the way out here after work?"

Marty tried to stay calm. If he embellished his original lie with more untruths, it could make things worse in the end, but if he became completely uncooperative, he'd look even more suspicious. Once again, he chose offense.

"Listen, Detective, I don't know why the details of my comings and goings have any bearing on the fact that I was nearly killed tonight getting in the middle of whatever was going on with the store and its staff. I'd like to get my arm looked at sooner rather than later, so if there's any way we could continue this conversation some other time, I'd really appreciate it."

Laurens shared a look with his partner that told Marty he hadn't won any fans, but they had no real reason to keep him there when he needed additional medical attention.

"Sure, Mr. Deeks. We'll be in touch if we need more information."

Espinoza handed him his card and Marty walked away, still trying to shake off the ghosts of past memories as he headed back to the ambulance and its waiting paramedics. As he climbed into the back, pain and exhaustion began to pull at him as the remaining adrenaline running through his veins finally dwindled away. He saw Sarah in the distance with a blanket wrapped around herself looking shaken, shell-shocked. Two officers were putting her in a police vehicle and he assumed they'd take her someplace safe.

His heart went out to her. She was an innocent victim in all of this. She didn't deserve for her life to be turned upside down. And he'd almost allowed her to be killed. He represented a man who expressed no remorse at all at the idea of ending her life. He had represented lots of guilty clients in his short time as a PD. He'd seen crime scene photos and heard testimony about their actions. But there was something about seeing the crime happen right before his eyes – and at being the victim himself – that made him question his motivations for doing what he did. Someone did need to represent those accused of crimes; it was vital to making the criminal justice system work. But he now found himself second guessing his decision to work in that part of the system.

He'd have plenty of time to think through these bigger picture questions, but first he'd have to address the looming problem of quitting his client, and hoping Nikolai Petrov didn't figure out he'd been here tonight. If he did, well, he'd have bigger problems on his hands than just mulling over possible career changes.