Phoebe's POV
The police station buzzed with activity even as evening settled in.
The lobby, already packed with commotion, grew even more chaotic when a bunch of handcuffed punks with neon-bright hair stumbled in, followed by several clean-cut, well-dressed college kids who looked like model citizens.
Since we were the victims, they seated us along a row of chairs by the wall. Each of us clutched a paper cup of water while a female officer spoke softly to Harriet, trying to calm her obvious nerves.
The thugs didn't get the same treatment. Officers dragged them to a corner and barked orders for them to squat down. Even the guy with the busted arm—though they couldn't cuff him because of his injury—still had to crouch with the rest.
These lowlifes had rap sheets longer than grocery lists and were already on the local cops' shit list.
