The driver seemed irritated.
Then he looked toward Garrett.
For a fraction of a second, the two men exchanged an expression I couldn't interpret.
The driver returned to his truck.
He did not leave.
He remained parked several yards away, watching.
I looked at Brooks.
"Lieutenant."
She turned.
"I think somebody wants access to that vehicle."
She followed my gaze toward the tow truck.
Her expression hardened.
"I noticed."
The ambulance arrived at 3:09 p.m.
Two paramedics examined my wrists, shoulder, and back.
They recommended further evaluation at a hospital, particularly because I had experienced numbness after the handcuffs were tightened and had been held against the pavement with pressure on my back.
I agreed.
But before leaving, I needed one thing confirmed.
I asked Lieutenant Brooks whether my supervisor had been contacted.
She nodded.
"An Army CID duty representative is coordinating with state communications. Your agency is sending personnel."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Relief moved through me.
Not because I believed Army CID could simply take over a local traffic investigation.
It couldn't.
The possible civil-rights violations, assault, property damage, and misconduct involved state and potentially federal civilian law-enforcement authorities.
But my agency could verify my identity, safeguard authorized equipment, document my condition, and coordinate information relevant to the investigation I'd been conducting.
Those steps mattered.
Especially if the stop was connected to that investigation.
I looked toward the Rolls-Royce.
The windshield was ruined.
The driver's-side glass was fractured.
The door was dented.
The once-perfect paint reflected the sun in broken, uneven lines.
I felt a sharp ache that had nothing to do with my wrists.
My mother had once ridden in that car with me.
Not long before she died, we'd taken it along a coastal highway on a clear Sunday morning. She'd sat in the passenger seat wearing enormous sunglasses and laughed at the way the dashboard seemed designed for royalty.
"You better enjoy this thing," she'd told me.
"I do."
"No, I mean really enjoy it. Don't spend all your time apologizing for what you've earned."
I'd promised her I wouldn't.
Now I looked at the damage and remembered her voice.
For a moment, tears filled my eyes.
I wiped them away before anyone noticed.
Then Ruth put her hand over mine.
"It's just a car, sweetheart."
I looked toward her.
She shook her head.
"I know. But it was your car. And nobody had a right to do that to you."
That distinction mattered.
The vehicle could be repaired or replaced.
The dignity Garrett tried to strip away from me could not be measured in repair estimates.
But the fact that I owned something expensive did not make his behavior less serious.