‘He said it was in the car,’ Veronica said, pointing.
Rodriguez found the inhaler in the center console and administered it, but Isaiah was too far into the attack. His oxygen saturation was dangerously low. His body wasn’t responding.
‘We need to transport immediately,’ Rodriguez said. ‘This kid is critical.’
Dunham approached as they loaded Isaiah onto a stretcher. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
Rodriguez looked at him with undisguised contempt. ‘He might die. He’s in severe respiratory distress and has been for several minutes without proper treatment. Did he tell you he had asthma?’
‘He said something about it,’ Dunham said defensively. ‘But he was also acting like he was high on something. I thought he was lying.’
‘He wasn’t lying,’ Rodriguez said coldly. ‘He was dying, and you stood there and let it happen.’
The ambulance raced toward Emory University Hospital with lights and sirens. Isaiah was intubated upon arrival. The doctors would later determine that his brain had been deprived of oxygen for approximately seven to eight minutes.
Veronica stayed at the scene to give her statement and sent her video to multiple people, including the phone number she found in Isaiah’s contacts labeled ‘Dad.’
Ten minutes after the ambulance departed, a silver Audi pulled into the parking lot. Marcus Harper, 46, got out wearing an expensive suit and an expression of barely controlled rage. He walked directly to Veronica.
‘Are you the one who called me?’ he asked, his voice tight. ‘Are you Isaiah’s father?’
‘Yes. Marcus Harper. Where is my son?’
‘They took him to Emory,’ Veronica said. ‘It’s bad. He couldn’t breathe, and the officer wouldn’t help him.’
Marcus turned and looked at Dunham, who was still sitting in his patrol car writing his report. Their eyes met through the windshield. Dunham would later testify that in that moment, he understood something fundamental had shifted.
Marcus didn’t say a word. He got back in his car and drove to the hospital.
At Emory, Marcus found his son in a trauma bay surrounded by medical professionals. Isaiah was intubated, a breathing tube down his throat connected to a ventilator forcing air into his lungs. Monitors beeped urgently, showing oxygen levels still critically low.
‘Are you family?’ a doctor asked.
‘I’m his father,’ Marcus said, his voice breaking. ‘Is he going to live?’
The doctor’s face was grim. ‘He had a severe asthma attack that went untreated for too long. His brain was deprived of oxygen for approximately seven to eight minutes. We’re doing everything we can, but the next few hours are critical.’
Marcus looked at his son’s face, swollen from being slammed into the pavement, abrasions on his forehead and cheek, marks on his wrists from the handcuffs.
‘What happened to him?’ the doctor asked quietly.
‘A police officer put a knee on the back of his neck while he was having an asthma attack,’ Marcus said, ‘and refused to give him medical help.’
The doctor’s expression shifted from professional concern to shock, then anger.
