“I am standing on property that belongs to me. You have my name. I have not threatened you, resisted you, concealed evidence, or prevented you from checking anything.”
Harlan moved closer.
“Last chance.”
Sloane felt anger rise.
She pushed it down.
“Officer, do not turn a simple property verification into an arrest because you don’t like being questioned.”
His right hand shot out.
He grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
Sloane’s body moved before thought.
Not resistance.
Balance.
She shifted one foot because his pull dragged her forward.
Quinn said, “Harlan, wait.”
Harlan twisted Sloane’s arm.
She gasped.
“Other hand.”
Sloane turned her head.
“Do not do this.”
“Other hand.”
“I’m not resisting.”
“Stop pulling away.”
“I’m balancing because you’re twisting my arm.”
Harlan pushed her toward the porch railing.
Her hip struck wood.
Pain flashed along her side.
The green watering can sat near his boot.
He kicked it away.
Water spilled across the boards and down the steps.
Sloane stared at it.
Something about that pointless gesture made the encounter suddenly clearer.
The kick had nothing to do with safety.
Nothing to do with evidence.
Nothing to do with control.
It was contempt.
Sloane’s phone was on the porch bench.
She turned her head toward it.
Harlan saw.
He grabbed it first.
“What’s this?”
“My phone.”
She reached slightly.
“Leave it.”
He slapped it from his own hand toward the porch floor.
The phone struck wood, bounced, and slid beneath the bench.
Quinn flinched.
Across the street, Sloane saw Lillian Vaughn standing beside her mailbox.
Watching.
A teenager two houses down had raised a phone.
Recording.
Good.
The thought came automatically.
Evidence.
Harlan pulled both of Sloane’s wrists behind her.
The cuffs clicked.
Too tight.
Sloane closed her eyes once.
Then opened them.
Her voice changed.
Not louder.
More precise.
“Officer Harlan.”
He paused because she had read his name.
“Preserve your body-camera footage.”
He snorted.
“You lawyers on television have everybody convinced they understand the Constitution.”
Sloane looked directly at him.
“You think I’m a lawyer?”
“Everybody becomes one when cuffs come out.”
Interesting.
Sloane said nothing.
Harlan pulled her toward the steps.
Her bare foot hit spilled water and almost slipped.
Quinn reached out instinctively to steady her.
Harlan saw.
“She’s fine.”
Sloane regained balance.
Quinn looked embarrassed.
“Ma’am, do you want shoes?”
Harlan answered for her.
“She wants to cooperate.”
Sloane turned.
“Yes. I want shoes.”
Quinn hesitated.
Harlan pulled her down another step.
“We’re not waiting.”
Sloane looked toward her front door.
Unlocked.