I thought the world had betrayed me. My eight-year-old son, Connor, lay in a hospital bed—bruised, bandaged, hooked to machines—and four bikers I believed had hit him stood in the room. Rage and fear gripped me. I wanted them out, in cuffs, punished.
Then the tallest one—gray beard, tattoos up his neck—broke down. “Ma’am… we didn’t hit your son. We saved him,” he whispered.
I’m Rebecca Turner, and for three days, I lived in a nightmare. Neighbors reported seeing motorcycles tearing through the street the night Connor was struck. A black SUV had hit him and disappeared. Everyone assumed the bikers were guilty. I did too.
But then they showed me the helmet cam footage.
On screen, I saw my son wobbling on his bike, the SUV creeping dangerously close. Then four bikers rode behind—not ahead. One took the brunt of the SUV, flying across the asphalt, slowing it just enough. Another scooped Connor up, shielding him from harm as they crashed safely on a lawn. The SUV swerved and sped away.
I was stunned. “Someone tried to kill him,” I whispered.
Continue reading on next page…