Remember these excerpts are unedited and not the complete portion I wrote today. Here's the opening paragraphs:
“Nooo…” the six foot, two inch dark-skinned man howled across the front lawn.
His arms were held back by two uniformed police officers who were both as tall and muscular as he. They slapped the cuffs on him with a metallic snick. The sweat on his forehead glistened in the moonlight and headlights from the police cruiser parked in the driveway.
The flashing lights lit up the house, surrounding fence, and trees on the property. It also illuminated the faces of those curious neighbors who stood huddled in their pajamas on the sidewalk across the street.
“Calm down Mister Bankole,” the first officer said through gritted teeth.
“Let me finish. Let us finish it before it’s too late,” Pumbaa Bankole pleaded in a voice quivering with desperation.
The second officer commented, “Oh, it’s finished all right. You’re not going to hurt those kids anymore.”
The two officers wrestled the struggling man to the waiting cruiser. Inside the back seat sat his wife. Her head down would’ve been held in her hands were they not cuffed behind her back. Tears dripped off her nose and chin, staining her silk dress as they fell.
She openly sobbed and cried out, “My babies. Please! My babies.” At the sight of her husband being shoved onto the seat next to her, she burst out in fresh tears. His eyes locked onto hers, instantly silencing her.
Then one of the officers slammed the cruiser door shut, blocking them from view. He turned to the onlookers, scowled, and said in a southwestern drawl, “Go home. Mind your own ranch. There’s nuthin’ to see here.” He waved them off with his hands for emphasis.
Grumbling among themselves, the neighbors shuffled off to their respective homes. The officers climbed into the front seat of the cruiser and drove off. Their destination: the local station.