Cops laughed as I bled out, thinking I was worthless. I was an undercover prosecutor.

The Incident and Cover Blown

After getting stabbed during a six-month undercover operation investigating a trafficking ring, I ended up crawling onto the main street with blood pouring between my fingers. I stumbled forward with my insides on fire from the blade wound.

My tight dress soaked through with blood. The wire that blew my cover still taped to my ribs beneath the fabric.

Two uniforms finally arrived and relief washed over me until I saw how officer Howard’s face twisted when he registered my outfit. The disgust in his eyes hit harder than the blade had.

“Another hooker got herself stabbed,” rolled off his tongue like he’d said it a hundred times before. Brooks was still stretching beside the patrol car while I bled out 10 ft away.

They started pulling on gloves with zero urgency. Howard actually waved me forward like I was bothering him by dying too far from his vehicle. I pressed harder against the wound and made the choice to survive.

My legs shook as I forced myself upright because apparently bleeding to death wasn’t enough to warrant them walking over. When I finally reached the patrol car, Howard looked me up and down with this cold assessment.

“What did you expect working these streets?” he asked like we were having a casual conversation about the weather. I tried to speak but only managed to gasp out, “Please help!” between the waves of pain.

Brooks actually mimicked me in this high-pitched voice that made Howard laugh. “We’ve heard every sob story, sweetheart”.

“What happened? Your pimp hit you up? Job get too rough? Save the tears for someone who cares? You chose to spread your legs for money”.

My vision started tunneling, but Howard wasn’t done. “What’s your real name?”.

When I struggled to answer through the pain, he made me repeat it three times while they both laughed. By the third time, my hands were going numb, and I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore.

Howard looked at me like I was literal garbage that had somehow learned to bleed. “These all have AIDS,” he said, backing away from the blood pooling around me.

He grabbed his radio and I heard him tell dispatch that they got a probable OD. Working girl, low priority.

I forced myself to speak up, begging him to make it high priority, but he used his boot to push me back when I reached for him. Next thing I knew, he was tossing me a disgusting rag from the gutter.

He told me to apply pressure if I wasn’t high enough. I refused to let that rag touch my skin and just left it on the floor.

That seemed to offend Brooks more than the blood. “Maybe this is your wakeup call to get a real job,” Brooks offered like he was doing me a favor.

“Could have been a waitress or something, but no, you wanted to be a war so bad”. Howard nodded and launched into how these people were ruining the whole neighborhood.

Property values tanking. Kids can’t even walk to school without seeing this filth.

Their voices were starting to fade in and out as I felt my body shutting down and knew I was losing the fight. Everything was going cold.

“I’ve got a daughter,” Howard said suddenly. “15 years old”. “I’d call her before I’d let her end up like this”.

Brooks agreed and said something about tough love.

They went back and forth about how I’d chosen this life while my blood kept pooling wider on the concrete. The conversation died when they realized I was barely conscious.

Brooks saw an opportunity. “Perfect timing,” he said, getting his phone ready for my buddy and vice who collects these. He crouched down to get better angles while Howard watched approvingly.

The camera flash felt like needles in my brain as they discussed my upcoming death.

“Bet she’ll lay here till morning. The rats and junkies will strip her before anyone reports it,” Howard said casually. Brooks agreed and added his own prediction.

“Maybe they’ll find her in a dumpster next week. These streets clean themselves”.

He switched from photos to video and narrated for his buddy. “Another day, another dead hooker”.

Then he grabbed my wrist, pretending to be professional. “Let me check vitals”. Brooks used checking my pulse as an excuse to dig his thumb into my wrist until I whimpered.

“Still ticking”. One officer even dug his thumb into my wound while checking my pulse and said, “These cockroaches are hard to kill”. Cops laughed as I bled out because they thought I was a worthless junkie, not knowing I was an undercover prosecutor.

My whole body betrayed me then with convulsions so violent they tore the wire from my ribs. The recording device slipped out from my dress and crashed onto the street.

They both froze. Brooks stopped mid-sentence about cockroaches. Howard’s laugh died in his throat.

The device sat there recording everything with “property of DA’s office” etched across the metal. They both recognized what they were looking at.

Howard bent closer and read the full inscription. “Special prosecution’s unit”.

His face went from confused to horrified. “Oh god,” he said backing away. “Oh god, no”.

Brooks started shaking. “The trafficking prosecutor,” I heard Brooks whisper before I blacked out completely. Two cops laughed and took photos as I bled out on the street, calling me a worthless hooker who deserved it and making me crawl to their patrol car.

Then they found the wire taped to my ribs that said property of DA’s office, special prosecutions unit, and realized I was the undercover prosecutor who’d been investigating a trafficking ring for 6 months.