Now everyone believed it.
She turned toward the younger officer.
“Did dispatch confirm my address?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“When?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Before the arrest?”
She waited.
The senior officer looked at him sharply.
The younger officer swallowed.
“Not before the cuffs.”
“When did you request verification?”
The younger officer hesitated.
The sergeant said, “That will be part of the review.”
The attorney looked at him.
“I did not ask you.”
The younger officer answered.
“Right after you gave us the address.”
“And?”
He glanced toward his partner.
“Senior Officer canceled the request.”
Silence.
The sergeant’s eyes closed briefly.
The attorney looked toward the senior officer.
He said, “I believed we had probable cause.”
“For what?”
He did not answer.
The federal attorney nodded once.
“Preserve the radio traffic.”
The sergeant said, “We will.”
She looked at him.
“Preserve everything.”
“Yes.”
“Body cameras.”
“Yes.”
“Dash cameras.”
“Yes.”
“CAD.”
“Yes.”
“Dispatch audio.”
“Yes.”
“GPS logs.”
“Yes.”
“Supervisor communications.”
He hesitated.
She noticed.
“Supervisor communications.”
“Yes.”
“Incident drafts.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Any later revisions.”
The sergeant looked at her differently now.
Not merely as the victim.
As the lawyer.
She hated that distinction.
Then she started walking home.
Nobody stopped her.
The three blocks felt longer than the four miles she had planned to run.
Her face burned.
Shoulder throbbed.
Cars slowed when they passed.
People had seen cruisers.
Somebody would post something.
By the time she reached her street, her ordinary Saturday was already ending.
At her house, the front door was exactly as she had left it.
Inside, her wallet sat on the kitchen counter.
Beside it lay her government credential.
She stared at the badge-shaped federal identification case for almost a minute.
Four feet.
That was roughly how far it had been from where she set down her water glass before leaving.
Four feet between an ordinary jogger and the identity that would have made the officers behave differently.
She hated it.
She showered.
The water against her shoulder hurt.
When she saw her face in the mirror afterward, a red patch marked the cheek that touched the cruiser.
She photographed it.
Then her wrists.
Then shoulder mobility.
Her prosecutor’s brain was unbearable.
Preserve.
Document.
Record.
Her personal self wanted to throw the phone.
Instead she opened a notebook.
Time of departure.
Route.
First cruiser sighting.
Commands.
Exact phrases.
The slap.