She nodded.
Then looked toward the officers.
"I was leaving the shopping center. I saw the officer hit the window."
Mercer stepped forward.
"Ma'am, you don't understand the circumstances."
The woman looked directly at him.
"I saw her hands on the steering wheel."
He stopped.
She continued.
"And I recorded part of it."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then I looked toward Lieutenant Halden.
"Please collect her contact information and preserve any relevant recording through the proper process."
He nodded.
But I saw the way his eyes moved toward Mercer.
And I began wondering whether the biggest problem standing on that roadside was the officer who broke my window or the supervisor who seemed far more concerned with how the incident would appear than with what actually happened.
A tow truck arrived near sunset.
My sedan couldn't be driven safely with the damaged window and broken glass scattered through the interior, so I arranged for it to be transported for inspection and repair after the scene had been documented.
Camille came to get me.
She arrived in her small blue car, stepped out, and froze when she saw the police vehicles.
Then she saw me.
My hair was still tied back, but several strands had come loose. My white skirt was dusty, one side of my jacket had been marked by broken glass, and my wrists were red where the handcuffs had pressed against them.
Camille's face changed.
"Maya?"
I took a step toward her.
She rushed forward.
"What happened?"
For a moment, I couldn't answer.
I'd spent the previous hour forcing myself to stay calm.
Asking questions.
Requesting documentation.
Watching the officers.
Remembering details.
But when my sister wrapped her arms around me, the professional distance I'd been maintaining collapsed.
I began crying.
Not loudly.
Not uncontrollably.
Just enough that I could no longer pretend my body wasn't frightened.
Camille held me.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I've got you."
I closed my eyes.
For several seconds, I rested my forehead against her shoulder.
Then I looked toward the damaged car.
I thought about my mother again.
The driveway.
The engine running.
The helplessness in her eyes.
And I realized that what happened to me was not made less serious because I happened to have credentials in my handbag.
The officer had already made the decision to break my window.
My job title hadn't prevented it.
It had only changed his behavior after he discovered it.
That night, while Camille drove me home, I made a decision.
I would not use my new position to personally investigate the officer who hurt me.