I stopped beside the rear passenger door.
“You still have not stated the legal basis for arrest.”
“It’s detention.”
“You're placing me inside a locked police vehicle in handcuffs.”
“You want to argue definitions?”
“I want your camera to record your explanation.”
His eyes moved briefly toward his body camera.
The red indicator was active.
Good.
Rollins leaned close.
“You think saying legal words makes you smarter than me?”
“No.”
“That’s how you’re acting.”
“I asked a question.”
“You’re obstructing.”
“How?”
“By refusing to cooperate.”
“I am in handcuffs.”
Miller rubbed his face.
“Derek, just run him.”
Rollins slapped the top of the cruiser.
“Get in.”
I looked toward my house.
The hose still ran.
Water collected near Margaret’s flowers.
Something about that bothered me more than the cuffs.
My wife had loved those plants.
Every spring she had complained that I watered them incorrectly.
Too little.
Too much.
Wrong time.
Wrong nozzle.
I used to tell her hydrangeas had survived millions of years without her supervision.
She always answered that ours had higher standards.
A ridiculous memory.
The kind grief preserves.
Rollins opened the door.
Then he kicked the back of my right knee.
Not hard enough to injure.
Hard enough to force the joint forward.
I caught myself against the vehicle.
Miller’s face changed.
“Derek!”
Rollins pushed me downward.
“Sit.”
I turned my head.
“Your camera caught that too.”
His mouth tightened.
Then he shoved me into the rear seat.
The door slammed.
For a few seconds, the world became tinted through reinforced glass.
I watched Rollins walk toward the front of the cruiser.
Miller stayed where he was.
He looked at me through the window.
Then looked toward my house.
The front door opened.
My neighbor, Mrs. Whitaker, hurried across her lawn wearing slippers and a blue robe.
She was seventy-three.
Retired librarian.
Five feet two.
Zero fear.
“What are you doing?”
Rollins turned.
“Ma’am, go back inside.”
“That man lives there.”
“Please step away.”
“He has lived there for years.”
“Ma’am.”
“I had Thanksgiving dinner in that house.”
Rollins pointed toward her property.
“Go home.”
Mrs. Whitaker planted both feet.
“This is my home.”
I almost laughed.
Rollins did not appreciate her precision.
Miller walked toward him.
“That’s confirmation.”
Rollins shook his head.
“No.”
“No?”
“She could know him.”
“She does know him.”
“That doesn’t verify ownership.”
Mrs. Whitaker stared.
“He lent me his ladder last Tuesday.”
Rollins ignored her.
Miller took out his radio.
“I’m calling dispatch.”
Rollins grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t undermine me.”
Miller looked down at Rollins’s hand.
“Let go.”
For the first time, Rollins seemed surprised.
He released him.
The dynamic between them had shifted.
Miller stepped away and keyed his shoulder mic.
“Dispatch, unit fourteen requesting resident confirmation at—”