The officer made my 72-year-old husband lie face-down on scorching asphalt as the sun beat down with 97-degree heat, his arthritic knees grinding against pavement hot enough to blister skin. Four squad cars boxed him in, lights flashing, while passing motorists slowed to stare at “the dangerous biker” who was nothing more than a gentle veteran heading to a VA appointment. Harold—my Harold, a Bronze Star recipient who had survived two tours in Vietnam—lay motionless as the young cop pressed a boot near his head and sneered,…CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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