Holt lowered his eyes.
“No.”
“Then open the door.”
And there it was.
The choice.
Holt opened the rear cruiser door.
Malik was placed inside.
The crowd shouted.
Ransom slammed the door.
Through the glass Malik could see phones still pointed toward them.
He found the red blinking light on Ransom’s body camera.
For one second he felt relief.
Then Ransom looked down, touched the camera with two fingers, and the red light disappeared.
Malik memorized the time on the dashboard clock.
4:13 p.m.
Seven minutes later, when the camera came back on, Malik would already be handcuffed in the back seat.
That missing seven minutes would break Cedar County open.
But first Malik had to survive the night.
His mother called at 4:26.
The phone rang from the evidence tray beside Ransom in the front seat.
Malik could see the name on the screen.
MOM.
Ransom looked.
Then silenced it.
Malik said:
“Please let me answer. She’s expecting me.”
“No.”
“She lives half a mile from here.”
“Should’ve thought about that before resisting arrest.”
“I didn’t resist.”
Ransom glanced in the mirror.
“Keep talking. I’ll add disorderly conduct.”
Malik leaned back.
The cuffs bit into his wrists.
He looked toward Holt driving the second cruiser behind them.
No help.
The station was twelve minutes away.
At intake, Ransom told the desk officer:
“Obstruction, resisting, disorderly, possible aggressive movement during stop.”
The desk officer looked at Malik.
“You injured?”
“My knee.”
“Need medical?”
“I’d like cuffs loosened first.”
Ransom said:
“He’s fine.”
The desk officer looked at him.
Then at Malik’s wrists.
Deep red marks.
“I asked him.”
Ransom said nothing.
The cuffs were loosened.
A medic later examined the knee.
Bruised.
No fracture.
Malik asked to call his mother.
The first call went unanswered.
She had stopped calling him because she was now calling hospitals.
The second call connected.
“Malik?”
Her voice broke on the first syllable.
“I’m okay.”
“Where are you?”
“County detention.”
“What?”
“I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes.
“Traffic stop.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Knee’s sore.”
“Did they hit you?”
“Mom.”
“Did they?”
“I’m okay.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Even in jail, he almost smiled.
“No serious injury.”
“Malik.”
“Mom, listen to me. I need you to call Aunt Renee.”
His aunt was an attorney in Atlanta.
Civil litigation, not criminal defense.
But she knew people.
“And call my unit duty desk.”
His mother became quiet.
“Your command?”
“Yes.”
“You want them to know?”
“They need to know I’m detained.”
“For what?”
“Obstruction and resisting.”
His mother inhaled sharply.
“You?”
“I know.”
“I’m coming.”
“Don’t.”
“Malik Turner.”
“Mom, please.”
He lowered his voice.
“There are cameras. A lot. Let Aunt Renee handle it.”
Silence.
Then:
“I made cobbler.”
That nearly broke him.