Warren’s training activated before his anger.
He had spent decades in courtrooms learning that the fastest way to lose control of a situation was to let another person decide the speed of your thoughts.
He breathed once.
Slowly.
“I would like to know whether I am being detained.”
Brennan’s expression hardened.
“You want to make this difficult?”
“No.”
“Then empty your pockets.”
Holloway spoke for the first time.
“Sir, we received a theft report from a premium retail store farther down the concourse.”
Warren looked at her.
“Thank you.”
Then at Brennan.
“What was stolen?”
“Wallet.”
“What description did the complainant provide?”
Brennan took a step closer.
“Are you a lawyer?”
Warren almost smiled.
Not because the question was funny.
Because answering it honestly would have created complications he was not ready to introduce.
“I asked what description was provided.”
“Black male.”
“You already said that.”
“Medium build.”
“Yes.”
“Dark clothing.”
Warren looked down at his navy sweater.
“Anything else?”
Brennan said nothing.
Warren nodded.
“All right.”
He removed his possessions slowly.
Phone.
Reading glasses.
Wallet.
Small notebook.
A pen.
He placed them on a narrow metal ledge beside the pillar.
Brennan immediately picked up the wallet.
Warren noticed Holloway’s eyes move toward him.
Perhaps she expected an objection.
He gave none.
Brennan opened it.
Driver’s license.
Credit cards.
Health insurance card.
Library card.
A membership card from a university club he almost never used.
His official federal credentials were not in the ordinary wallet.
They were inside a separate black leather case in the inner pocket of his jacket.
Years earlier, a marshal had advised him not to carry judicial credentials exposed beside ordinary financial cards because lost wallets happened.
Brennan looked through the credit cards.
Then looked at Warren.
“Where’d you get all this?”
The question took Warren a second to understand.
“All what?”
“These cards.”
“My bank.”
Holloway looked uncomfortable.
Brennan held one up.
Black metal.
Premium travel card.
“This yours?”
“My name is printed on it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It answers it exactly.”
A few people walking past slowed.
The officer’s face tightened.
He returned the card.
“Bag.”
“What about it?”
“Open it.”
Warren looked at the black leather carry-on.
“No.”
Brennan stared.
“Excuse me?”
“I have not consented to a search of my bag.”
“You match a description.”
“A broad one.”
“I said open it.”
“And I said I do not consent.”
Warren kept his tone calm.
That mattered to him.
Not because he believed calmness was morally superior.
Because he knew every word spoken beside an officer wearing a body camera might become evidence later.
Brennan reached for the zipper.
Warren said clearly, “I am not consenting to that search.”
The officer opened the bag anyway.
Holloway shifted.
“Brennan.”
“What?”
“Maybe wait for the complainant confirmation.”