Closed.
Unable to substantiate.
There were more.
None, by itself, proved a department-wide problem.
That was why Iris was in Ridgemont.
Her assignment did not begin as a prosecution.
It began as an assessment.
The Civil Rights Compliance Division had received complaints from attorneys, community organizations, former officers, and ordinary residents.
The allegations varied.
Selective enforcement.
Retaliatory arrests.
Use of force after verbal disagreement.
Improper searches.
Poor complaint investigations.
One former officer wrote an anonymous letter describing a culture in which certain senior officers treated legal questions as personal challenges.
The letter contained one sentence Iris had underlined twice.
In Ridgemont, the fastest way to make a stop worse is to ask why it is happening.
She wanted to know if that was true.
Her supervisor, Deputy Director Marcus Ellison, had suggested arriving with an announced team.
Iris refused.
“If they prepare for us, we inspect the performance.”
Marcus had leaned back in his chair.
“And if you go alone?”
“We inspect the habit.”
He disliked it.
She could tell.
“You are not undercover.”
“I know.”
“You are not conducting stings.”
“I know.”
“You are observing.”
“Yes.”
“And if an officer contacts you?”
“I identify myself if necessary.”
Marcus had stared at her.
“Iris.”
She smiled.
“I know how to behave during a police encounter.”
“That is not the part I am worried about.”
She understood.
Marcus had worked civil-rights cases for twenty-seven years.
He knew that knowledge did not guarantee safety.
“Field camera?”
“Authorized.”
“Emergency contact?”
“Programmed.”
“Local U.S. Attorney knows you’re there?”
“Only the office chief.”
“Ridgemont?”
“Chief Keller knows a federal review is coming this week. He does not know I arrived early.”
Marcus sighed.
“You enjoy making my blood pressure worse.”
“Your doctor said you need excitement.”
“My doctor absolutely did not say that.”
Now, standing on Main Street, Iris almost smiled at the memory.
She began walking toward the courthouse.
The Ridgemont County Courthouse sat four blocks away.
Her first appointment was not with police.
It was with an attorney named Elena Morales, who represented three people whose complaints had been dismissed.
Iris planned to review court filings before entering police headquarters that afternoon.
She passed a bookstore.
A bakery.
A sporting-goods shop.
Two men unloading produce.
A woman walking a terrier.
Normal morning.
Then she noticed the patrol vehicle.
Black SUV.
Parked half on the curb near a coffee shop.
Engine running.
Officer inside.
Iris kept walking.
The driver’s door opened.
A broad man stepped out.
Large shoulders.
Close-cropped brown hair going gray.
Dark uniform fitted tightly across his chest.
Sergeant chevrons on both sleeves.
He looked at Iris.
Then at the backpack.
Then back at her.
Iris knew who he was before she saw the nameplate.
Wade Hollister.
Photographs were attached to personnel files.
He was forty-eight.
Seventeen years with Ridgemont.
Seven commendations.
Three department awards.
Six formal complaints in the review period.
Eleven more stretching farther back.
Most closed.
Hollister walked directly into her path.
“Where are you going?”
Iris stopped.
Not because the question required obedience.
Because walking around him would create an unnecessary ambiguity.
“To the courthouse.”