“Give me that.”
Isaiah turned slightly away.
Cleary grabbed the receiver.
“This is Sheriff Cleary. Who the hell is this?”
A pause.
Cleary’s expression changed.
He listened.
Then frowned.
“I don’t care what office you’re calling from.”
Isaiah watched him.
Rachel’s fingers had stopped over the keyboard.
Cleary continued.
“This man presented suspicious documents during a lawful traffic stop.”
Another pause.
“No.”
“He’s not being released because some voice on a telephone tells me—”
The person on the other end said something.
Cleary’s face reddened.
“Then send whoever you want.”
He slammed the receiver down.
The entire room became silent.
Isaiah looked at him.
“That was unnecessary.”
Cleary pointed.
“You don’t speak unless I ask.”
Isaiah nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
The sheriff walked away.
Rachel looked toward Isaiah.
“What number did you call?”
Isaiah said nothing.
Cleary turned.
“He called some government office pretending he’s important.”
Mooney spoke from the hallway.
“Sheriff, maybe we should verify this.”
Cleary laughed.
“There’s nothing to verify.”
Isaiah looked at Rachel.
Then Mooney.
Then the clock.
3:58 p.m.
He wondered how long it would take.
He did not know.
But he knew the call had connected.
And that was enough.
Cleary put Isaiah in a holding cell.
The cell contained a metal bench, a stainless-steel toilet, and a scratched plexiglass window.
Isaiah sat.
He had spent nights in worse places.
Far worse.
But those places made sense.
This did not.
He closed his eyes.
Danielle would be wondering where he was.
He had promised to arrive by five.
She would give him until five-thirty.
Then six.
Then she would call.
His phone sat in an evidence tray twenty feet away.
Isaiah had spent years reassuring family members that delays were normal.
This was the first delay of civilian life.
He almost laughed at the irony.
Instead, he thought about Sheriff Cleary.
There was a temptation to imagine men like Cleary as fearless.
They rarely were.
People obsessed with control were often terrified of losing it.
That fear created the aggression.
Every question became disrespect.
Every correction became humiliation.
Every challenge became rebellion.
Isaiah had met versions of that personality in almost every institution he had ever entered.
The difference was that most institutions eventually placed limits around such people.
Cleary had spent too long without one.
At 4:17, Deputy Mooney appeared outside the cell.
He stood awkwardly.
Isaiah looked at him.
“You need something?”
Mooney hesitated.
“Was that ID real?”
“Yes.”
“You really retired two days ago?”
“Yes.”
Mooney looked toward the hall.
“Sheriff says the card format didn’t look right.”
“It changed last year.”
Mooney nodded slowly.
“I thought so.”
Isaiah stared.
“You’ve seen one?”
“My cousin retired from the Air Force.”
Isaiah’s expression changed.
Mooney looked ashamed.
“I should’ve said something.”
“Yes.”
The deputy winced.