“That’s why we have body cameras.”
Vance instinctively glanced downward.
Brooks saw.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Is yours recording?”
Vance did not answer fast enough.
“Officer.”
He looked down.
The body camera indicator was dark.
Brooks’s expression changed again.
“When did you deactivate it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why is it off?”
“Battery.”
Ruiz looked at him.
Vance snapped:
“What?”
She said nothing.
Brooks spoke into her radio.
“Supervisor to dispatch. Preserve all terminal camera feeds from Concourse B, Gate B17 through B23, 7:55 through present. Also preserve radio traffic and officer-device logs.”
Vance’s face tightened.
Marcus watched.
He had not requested it.
Brooks did it automatically.
That mattered.
She turned toward Carter.
“Mr. Carter, Captain Hayes is free to leave. We will need a statement.”
Marcus said:
“You’ll have one.”
Brooks looked at him.
“I apologize for the delay.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Do not apologize before you know what happened.”
Brooks seemed surprised.
He continued:
“Preserve the record first.”
Then he looked at Vance.
“Let the record decide the rest.”
That line would later appear in newspapers.
Marcus would eventually hate it.
At that moment, it was simply what he believed.
Nathan Carter picked up the sea bag.
Marcus reached for it.
Carter shook his head.
“I have it.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“Captain, I am trying very hard not to say what I’m thinking right now.”
Marcus looked at him.
“That makes two of us.”
They walked away.
Passengers parted.
Some lowered phones.
Others kept recording.
One woman said:
“Captain, I got the whole thing.”
Marcus stopped.
She was perhaps thirty-five, Asian American, holding a silver phone.
“What’s your name?”
“Grace Kim.”
“Ms. Kim, please don’t edit it.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“If anyone asks for it, give them the entire recording.”
“Not just the part with cuffs.”
She nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Vance heard.
Marcus continued walking.
At the end of the concourse, a man in Navy Service Dress Blues was waiting.
Older.
Silver at the temples.
One star on each shoulder.
Rear Admiral Charles Whitaker.
Marcus almost laughed.
Of course.
The one person whose presence would make the scene even worse for airport police.
Whitaker looked at Marcus’s wrists.
Then past him toward the cluster of officers.
His jaw tightened.
“Captain.”
“Admiral.”
“You all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re late.”
Marcus looked at him.
Whitaker held the expression for two seconds.
Then smiled faintly.