“What’s going on!?” I said, stepping out. My legs wobbled, but I squared my shoulders. …”

In this issue of Copwatch Chronicle, 

We present the story of Marla Jenkins, a 45-year-old nurse from Pascagoula, Mississippi, who endured a nightmarish ordeal of police harassment and wrongful detention. Her experience—one of many she’s faced over the past three years—exposes the relentless grip of police misconduct in a small coastal town and the unshakable courage it takes to keep fighting back.

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Marla Jenkins, a nurse in Pascagoula, Mississippi-

For two decades, I’ve stitched wounds, held hands, and worked ungodly hours to keep this community breathing. But over the last three years, I’ve been the one bleeding—cut open by the same system I swore to serve. Ten felonious acts of police brutality and misconduct, they say in the reports I’ve filed. Ten times I’ve been targeted, harassed, humiliated. And that’s just the start of it—there’s a laundry list of “minor” abuses too: tailing me home, bogus tickets, whispered threats. But let me tell you about the night that broke me open, July 15, 2023. It’s the one I can’t shake, the one that keeps me up when the Gulf winds howl outside my window.

I’d just clocked out of a 12-hour shift at Singing River Hospital. My scrubs were damp with sweat, my feet screamed with every step, and the only thing on my mind was a hot shower. I was driving down Market Street, the air thick with salt and summer heat, when I saw the red-and-blue lights flash in my rearview. A Pascagoula PD cruiser. My stomach twisted, but I told myself to stay calm—I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I pulled over.

Two officers swaggered up, flashlights stabbing into my eyes. “License and registration,” one grunted, a stocky guy with a buzzcut and a smirk. I handed them over, hands steady from years of practice under pressure. “What’s the problem, officers?” I asked, polite as pie.

“Step out of the car,” Buzzcut barked. No explanation. I hesitated—big mistake. The other one, a wiry guy with a voice like gravel, yanked my door open. “Now!”

“What’s going on?” I said, stepping out.

My legs wobbled, but I squared my shoulders. “You got a broken taillight,” Buzzcut lied. I knew it was bullshit—my car was fresh from the shop. Before I could call it out, they spun me around, slammed me against the hood. The metal burned my cheek, still hot from the engine. Click—cuffs snapped on, tight enough to bruise.

“I haven’t done anything!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Gravel Voice snapped. “We ask the questions.” They rifled through my car, tossing my purse, my lunchbox, my stethoscope onto the asphalt like trash. I heard the Gulf lapping nearby, smelled the fishy brine, but all I could feel was the cold steel biting my wrists and the heat of shame creeping up my neck. A nurse, a Black woman, reduced to this—again.

They didn’t find anything, of course. After 40 minutes of their power trip, they uncuffed me with a lazy, “You’re free to go.” No sorry, no nothing. I drove home trembling, tears blurring the road. My wrists were red and raw, my pride in tatters. I kept hearing their voices—“Shut up, shut up”—like a loop I couldn’t stop.

That wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Over three years, I’ve been stopped 17 times—sometimes for “suspicious driving,” sometimes for nothing at all. I’ve been shoved, screamed at, had guns drawn on me twice. Once, an officer spat at my feet and said, “Know your place.” I’ve filed complaints—10 for the big ones, the felonies—but the department just shrugs. “Insufficient evidence,” they say, or “officers acted within protocol.” My word against theirs, and guess who wins?

It’s changed me.

I used to trust the badge, believe it stood for something. Now I flinch at sirens. I’ve got panic attacks, nightmares where I’m cuffed and drowning in the Gulf. But I’m not broken—not yet. I started going to town meetings, speaking out, linking up with others who’ve been through it. I’ve got a lawyer now, fighting the last case, though the odds are stacked. Every time I tell my story, it hurts like hell, but it’s fuel too. I’m not just surviving—I’m shouting.

Here’s what I’ve learned: this isn’t random. It’s a machine, grinding down folks like me—Black, female, unafraid to look them in the eye. And it’ll keep going unless we dismantle it. So, readers, don’t just feel sorry for me. Get angry. Get loud. Check your rights, record everything, join the fight. Because if a nurse who saves lives can be treated like this, what’s stopping them from coming for you?

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Marla’s account is one of ten documented felonious acts she’s endured—part of a staggering pattern in Pascagoula and beyond. In 2022 alone, over 1,000 police brutality cases were reported across the U.S., yet convictions remain rare. Marla’s not alone, and neither are you—visit copwatch Chronicle for tools to fight back. Stand with survivors. Demand reform. Let’s break this machine together.

Remember! We want to hear you police brutality or misconduct stories. Please follow this form link to tell your story on Copwatch Chronicle.

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❓ The Real Questions We Should Be Asking...

• Why was the call to police made in the first place? Over someone not standing in the exact spot the manager wanted?

• Why did deputies treat this situation like a felony stop?
  No crime. No victim. Just pure authoritarianism.

• How is it acceptable for law enforcement to lie about citizens' reputations? Accusing me of being associated with a crack house? That’s slander.

• How many more times will businesses weaponize 911 for personal preferences? And how long will police continue enabling this misuse of resources?

🗣️ Let Your Voice Be Heard

At Copwatch Chronicle, we believe in accountability, transparency, and the power of citizen journalism. If you’ve had a police encounter — good or bad — we want to hear about it.

📬 Submit your story to Copwatch Chronicles — anonymously if you prefer.
Because every voice matters. And every story like this — every overreach caught on camera — chips away at a broken system until we build something better.

Stay alert. Stay filming. Stay free.

 #PoliceMisconduct #WrongfulArrest #Accountability #CopwatchChronicle

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Important: Not All elements of reader testimonials has been checked for accuracy. The contents of this newsletter are for entertainment and all information should be considered satire. These works of fiction are meant to inspire creative new genesises of thought and activism. While we value good policing and we will have stories about that, we want to spread awareness on those who shame the badge too.