“I turned because you twisted my arm.”
His knee pressed behind her thigh.
The younger officer said, “She’s not going anywhere.”
The senior officer snapped, “Watch the perimeter.”
Perimeter.
An empty suburban street.
The woman with the stroller was still standing across from them.
Now holding her phone.
Recording.
The federal attorney breathed slowly.
In.
Out.
Her heartbeat hammered beneath her ribs.
She knew every recommendation she had given frightened witnesses over the years.
Do not argue more than necessary.
Keep your hands visible.
Narrate what you are doing.
Remember details.
Stay alive first.
Everything else comes later.
Those instructions sounded different with a knee against your leg.
The senior officer reached toward his cuffs.
Metal opened.
She heard it.
She spoke quietly.
“Your badge number is 4182.”
He stopped.
The younger officer looked at her.
She continued.
“And yours is 5337.”
The younger officer’s eyes widened.
The senior officer tightened his grip.
“You memorize badge numbers for fun?”
“No.”
“How do you know mine?”
She could have told him.
She almost did.
Lead federal civil-rights attorney.
Six-month investigation.
Seven complaints.
Late cameras.
Repeated allegations.
She could have watched his face change.
She could have invoked authority and possibly ended the encounter immediately.
She said nothing.
Why?
Partly strategy.
Partly anger.
Partly principle.
Because she wanted to know something terrible and important.
Would he stop only if he discovered she possessed more institutional power than he did?
The handcuff closed around her right wrist.
Then her left.
Too tight.
She winced.
“Cuffs are tight.”
“They’re supposed to be secure.”
“They can be secure without compressing the wrist joint.”
The senior officer leaned near her ear.
“You really can’t stop yourself, can you?”
She stared across the street.
The woman filming had not moved.
Good.
“Preserve your body camera.”
The senior officer gave a short laugh.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He pulled her upright.
She turned enough to look at his chest.
The camera’s activation light was visible.
But she had not noticed it earlier.
When had it started?
Important.
The younger officer’s camera had been active when he exited the cruiser.
She remembered the light.
The senior officer guided her toward the rear passenger door.
“You people watch a few courtroom shows and think you know everything.”
She stopped walking.
“You think I’m a lawyer?”
“Everybody becomes one once the cuffs come out.”
The younger officer’s radio crackled.
“Unit twelve, confirm detained subject name.”
He lifted the microphone.
She gave her name again.
He repeated it.
Dispatch responded.
“Stand by.”
The senior officer opened the cruiser door.
She looked inside.
Plastic seat.
Metal partition.
A tiny scratched window.