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

Recovery and Internal Affairs

The world spun back into focus with harsh fluorescent lights burning through my eyelids. My throat felt raw and something plastic pressed against my face, an oxygen mask.

The beeping of machines filled my ears as I tried to move, but pain shot through my abdomen like lightning. A nurse appeared in my peripheral vision, adjusting an IV bag.

She noticed my eyes tracking her movements and pressed a call button. Within minutes, a doctor entered, followed by two detectives in suits, not uniforms. That was something.

The doctor checked my vitals while explaining that I’d lost significant blood, but the surgery went well. The blade had missed major organs by millimeters. Lucky, he called it.

The detectives waited until he finished before introducing themselves as internal affairs. Over the next hour, they took my statement.

I gave them everything from the moment I crawled onto that street to Brooks reading the inscription on my recording device. They exchanged glances when I described Howard’s comments about his daughter and Brooks taking photos for his buddy and vice.

The lead detective, a woman with graying hair, pulled back tight, assured me the wire recording survived intact. Every word those officers said was preserved in digital clarity.

She left her card on my bedside table and promised to return once I’d recovered more. My supervisor from the special prosecutions unit arrived that afternoon.

He looked exhausted, probably from damage control meetings. The trafficking case I’d spent six months building was compromised now that my cover was blown.

But we’d gathered enough evidence for multiple arrests. Small comfort while lying in a hospital bed with stitches holding my insides together.

He explained that Howard and Brooks were on administrative leave pending investigation. Standard procedure.

The way his jaw tightened when he said it, told me he wanted more immediate consequences. He also mentioned that word had spread through the department about what happened.

Some officers were appalled. Others were already circling wagons. Physical therapy started 3 days later.

The therapist helped me take my first steps since the stabbing, supporting my weight as I shuffled down the hospital corridor. Each movement pulled at the stitches, but I forced myself forward.

I had to get strong enough to see this through. My mother flew in from out of state, bringing clothes and toiletries from home.

She tried to convince me to transfer back home for recovery, maybe take a break from prosecution work. I let her fuss over me, adjusting pillows and organizing flowers from colleagues.

But we both knew I wasn’t going anywhere. The internal affairs detectives returned on day five with follow-up questions.

They’d reviewed the wire recording and needed clarification on certain timeline details. As we talked, I learned that Brook’s friend in Vice was also under investigation now.

Apparently, collecting photos of dying women wasn’t his only problematic hobby. A week into recovery, I had my first visitor from the department who wasn’t there officially.

A patrol officer named Wilt knocked hesitantly before entering. He’d heard about what happened and wanted to apologize on behalf of decent cops.

His partner waited in the hallway, equally uncomfortable, but wanting to show support. Their visit opened floodgates.

Over the next few days, officers and staff from various departments stopped by. Some brought cards, others just wanted to express disgust at Howard and Brooks’s behavior.

A few admitted they’d witnessed similar attitudes, but never reported it. The divide in the department was becoming clear.

My physical recovery progressed steadily. The nurses taught me to change my own dressings, warning signs to watch for, and exercises to rebuild core strength.

I practiced walking longer distances each day, first with a walker, then unassisted. The pain medication made everything fuzzy, but I started weaning off it as soon as possible.

2 weeks after the stabbing, I was discharged with strict instructions to rest. My mother had prepared my apartment, stocking the refrigerator and setting up a recovery area in the living room.

Everything I might need was within easy reach. She’d taken leave from her job to stay with me despite my protests.

The first night home, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Brooks’s thumb digging into my wrist.

Heard Howard comparing me to garbage. The wire recording played on repeat in my mind.

I’d spent months training for undercover work, but nothing prepared me for being left to die by the people sworn to protect and serve. My mother found me sitting at the kitchen table at 3:00 a.m.

Laptop open to news articles about the incident.

The department had released a carefully worded statement about officers under investigation for procedural violations. No mention of them assuming I was a SX worker.

No mention of the photos or their commentary about rats and dumpsters. She made tea while I vented about the sanitized version being fed to the public.

“Why would two cops be so quick to write off someone bleeding on the street?”. There’s something unsettling about how casual Howard and Brooks were, like they’d done this routine before.

The trafficking ring I’d infiltrated was getting more coverage than the officers who’d almost let me bleed out.

She listened without trying to fix it, just letting me process the anger that pain medication had been numbing. The next morning brought a call from internal affairs.

They needed me to come in for a formal recorded interview once I was medically cleared. The investigation was expanding.

Other complaints about Howard and Brooks had surfaced, dating back years. Women who’d been dismissed, mocked, or mistreated.

Most never filed official reports, knowing how it would go.

I spent the following days building my strength and reviewing case files. The trafficking investigation would continue without me, but I could still contribute from desk duty.

My supervisor called daily with updates, careful to keep me in the loop while respecting my recovery time. 3 weeks post stabbing, I returned to the office for the internal affairs interview.

Walking through the building felt different now. Conversations stopped when I passed.

Some colleagues offered supportive nods. Others avoided eye contact entirely.

The divide that started in my hospital room had spread throughout the department. The interview lasted 4 hours.

They wanted every detail, every word, every moment from when I first encountered Howard and Brooks. I walked them through it methodically, keeping my voice steady, even when describing the worst parts.

The lead detective took notes while her partner operated the recording equipment. When we finished, she informed me that Howard had hired a lawyer and was fighting the administrative leave.

Brooks was cooperating, but downplaying everything as a misunderstanding. They’d both given statements claiming they were following procedure for an unknown, injured person who appeared intoxicated.

I asked about the wire recording. She confirmed it captured everything clearly, but their lawyers were already arguing about context and interpretation.

They claimed their comments were taken out of context, that they were simply expressing frustration about crime in the area. The photos Brooks took were documentation for a potential crime scene.

The union was backing them, of course. Two officers with clean records versus one prosecutor who’d been undercover as a SX worker.

They were betting on bias to muddy the waters. The detective assured me the evidence was strong, but her tone suggested she’d seen strong cases fall apart before.

I left that meeting exhausted, but determined. My mother drove me home, glancing over with concern as I stared out the window.

She’d extended her stay indefinitely, worried about my physical and mental state. I appreciated her presence even as I itched to be fully independent again.

That evening, my phone rang with an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered.

Heavy breathing filled the line before a muffled voice spoke. They knew where I lived. They knew I was alone.

They suggested I think carefully about pursuing this complaint. The line went dead before I could respond.

I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt oddly calm as I called internal affairs to report the threat.

They’d warned me something like this might happen. Officers under investigation sometimes had friends willing to intimidate witnesses.

They promised to increase patrols near my apartment and suggested I vary my routines. My mother overheard the call and immediately began researching security systems.

By midnight, she’d ordered cameras, new locks, and a video doorbell. I let her channel her worry into action while I focused on what came next.

If they thought anonymous threats would make me back down, they’d severely underestimated me. The next few days passed quietly.

I continued physical therapy, gradually increasing my activity level. The stitches came out, leaving an angry red scar across my abdomen.

My mother documented everything for potential civil proceedings, though I hadn’t decided whether to pursue that route yet.