Rollins opened his own door loudly.
“We can do it downtown.”
Miller lowered the radio.
“What possible reason do we have to transport him?”
Rollins turned.
“Officer safety and identification.”
“He’s handcuffed.”
“He was confrontational.”
Mrs. Whitaker said, “He asked you questions.”
Rollins looked at her.
“Ma’am.”
She crossed her arms.
“I was a librarian for forty-one years. Questions never killed anyone.”
That almost got Miller.
I saw him suppress a smile.
Rollins did not.
His pride had become the most dangerous object on the scene.
I had seen this pattern before.
Mistake.
Challenge.
Escalation.
Justification.
By the time people recognized the original decision was wrong, they had invested so much authority in defending it that reversing course felt worse than continuing.
I leaned back against the cruiser seat.
That was when my phone began ringing inside the house.
I could not hear it.
But later I learned what happened.
At 7:31 a.m., Deputy Director Celeste Monroe called my secure number.
No answer.
At 7:33, she called again.
No answer.
At 7:35, she called my personal cell.
Still no answer.
That was unusual.
I did not disappear.
Not in my position.
If I was sleeping, traveling, sick, showering, or standing in a grocery store aisle deciding between two types of cereal, somebody knew how to reach me.
At 7:37, my protective liaison received an automated check.
At 7:39, an agent called my house.
No response.
At 7:41, the security system showed the front door had not opened since 6:58.
At 7:42, another system showed an unknown patrol vehicle stationary at the edge of my property.
That was when things moved quickly.
I knew none of this while sitting in the back of the cruiser.
Rollins climbed into the driver’s seat.
Miller remained outside.
“You coming?”
Miller looked toward me.
Then toward the house.
“We need to verify him first.”
Rollins started the engine.
“I’ll see you at the station.”
“You’re serious?”
“Get another ride.”
Miller stepped to the driver’s window.
“Derek, don't do this.”
Rollins stared straight ahead.
“Move.”
That was the moment Miller had to decide what kind of officer he wanted to be.
Not tomorrow.
Not during an internal review.
Not when someone asked afterward.
Right then.
He reached through the window and switched off the ignition.
Rollins whipped around.
“What the hell?”
Miller removed the key.
“Run the name.”
“You touch my vehicle again—”
“Our vehicle.”
“You’re out of line.”
“Then write me up.”
Mrs. Whitaker said, “I like him.”
Miller almost smiled again.
Rollins got out.
He walked around the cruiser.
“This isn’t your stop.”
“We’re partners.”
“I’m senior.”
“By eleven months.”
“You’re interfering.”
Miller raised the keys.
“I’m preventing you from transporting someone before we verify basic facts.”
Rollins stepped closer.
“You want to lose your job over this guy?”
That sentence reached me through the closed glass.
This guy.
Not Mr. Pendleton.
Not the homeowner.
Not the person in custody.
This guy.
Miller looked at me through the window.
Then back at Rollins.
“No.”
He paused.
“I don’t want to lose my job because of you.”
Rollins’s face hardened.