Part 2: When she refused to sell her job-application phone to fund her sister's luxury Chicago trip, her mother smashed it directly into her face.

On Sunday evening at 6:30 PM, the Lexus pulled into the driveway of my mother's suburban home.

I knew this because Deputy Miller had set up a unit two blocks away, waiting for their return. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Rachel's car, parked down the street, watching through the trees.

The garage door went up.

My mother and sister got out of the car, laughing, carrying three large shopping bags from Nordstrom and Zara. Jenna was wearing her new leather jacket, her hair freshly styled.

They walked inside.

Five minutes later, Deputy Miller’s patrol cruiser pulled up to the curb, followed by a second county vehicle.

Two uniformed officers walked up the paved walkway to the front porch.

I watched from down the street as Deputy Miller knocked on the heavy wooden door.

The porch light flickered on. My mother opened the door, holding a glass of wine, wearing her silk house slippers.

Even from fifty yards away, I could read her body language. She looked annoyed, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back as if asking the police why they were bothering her on a Sunday evening.

Deputy Miller spoke for roughly thirty seconds. She produced the signed arrest warrant from her clipboard.

My mother’s posture changed instantly.

Her arms dropped to her sides. She took a step back, trying to close the door, but Deputy Miller’s boots held the threshold. The second officer stepped into the foyer.

Ten seconds later, my mother was brought out onto her own front porch in steel handcuffs.

Her silk slippers dragged across the stone steps. Her face was bright red, her mouth moving rapidly as she screamed at the officers, her voice echoing through the quiet, affluent neighborhood.

Jenna ran out onto the lawn behind them, wearing her pink robe, waving her arms, recording the arrest with her phone, shrieking at the deputies:

"You can't do this! This is my mother! Do you know who her attorney is?!"

Deputy Miller ignored her, opened the rear door of the patrol cruiser, guided my mother inside, and pulled the door shut with a solid, heavy thud.

The patrol car pulled away from the curb, its red and blue lights flashing against the manicured lawns of the cul-de-sac.

Jenna stood on the front yard alone, her phone held high in the air, her face pale with shock.

My phone chimed in my lap.

It was an unknown caller.

I answered it.

"Lauren!" Jenna’s voice shrieked through the speaker, tight, wild, and hysterical. "What the hell did you do?! The police just arrested Mom! They said it was for assault! Did you call the cops on your own mother?!"

I held the phone to my ear, my voice entirely calm.

"I didn't just call the police on Mom, Jenna," I said.

A pause on the line. "What?"

"I also filed a federal identity theft report with Chase Bank and the sheriff's financial crimes division," I continued, speaking clearly. "Regarding the credit card you opened in my name."

Silence. Complete, absolute silence fell over the line.

The sound of Jenna’s frantic breathing was the only thing coming through the speaker.

"You... you wouldn't," Jenna whispered, her previous arrogance vanishing like smoke. "I’m your sister, Lauren. It was just four thousand dollars... I was going to pay it back when my boutique hours picked up!"

"You maxed out my credit, ruined my job background checks, laughed while Mom smashed my phone into my face, and used my rent money to drink mimosas in Chicago," I said.

"Lauren, please—"