He hung up.
Nobody said anything for three seconds.
Then Harlan asked:
“Who is she?”
Sloane rubbed one wrist.
Captain Reeves stared at him.
“She’s Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division.”
Harlan blinked.
“What division?”
Reeves looked almost offended by the question.
“The United States Attorney’s Office.”
Silence.
Quinn closed his eyes briefly.
Denton exhaled.
Harlan’s face changed in stages.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Fear.
Then defense.
“I didn’t know.”
Sloane looked at him.
“No.”
Harlan gestured helplessly.
“She didn’t tell me.”
Sloane’s voice remained calm.
“I told you my name.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I told you how to verify ownership.”
“You refused ID.”
“My identification was inside the house.”
“You kept challenging me.”
“I asked you to verify facts.”
Harlan’s face reddened.
“You were acting like you knew better.”
Sloane held his gaze.
“I did.”
Captain Reeves stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Harlan turned toward him.
“Captain, this is getting blown out of proportion because she’s federal.”
Sloane’s eyes sharpened.
“Actually, Officer, that is exactly the concern.”
Everyone looked at her.
She continued.
“If the only reason your conduct becomes unacceptable is because you discovered my title, then your department has a larger problem than what happened to me.”
Reeves looked away.
Harlan said nothing.
Sloane extended her hand toward Denton.
“My property.”
Denton retrieved her phone and the few items taken during intake.
Then he hesitated.
“Ma’am, your wallet wasn’t brought in.”
“It’s at home.”
“Yes.”
Sloane looked at Reeves.
“I need transportation back to my residence.”
“Absolutely.”
“And copies of all paperwork generated so far.”
Reeves nodded.
“I can arrange that.”
“And I want a written preservation notice issued before any officer has the opportunity to upload, classify, annotate, or amend footage.”
Harlan’s head snapped toward her.
“You think I’d tamper with evidence?”
Sloane looked at him.
“I think evidence preservation is standard procedure when facts may become disputed.”
He opened his mouth.
She added:
“You should know that.”
That ended the conversation.
Deputy U.S. Attorney Michael Walsh arrived twenty-five minutes later.
He was fifty-three, white, perpetually tired, and had supervised Sloane long enough to know when she was angry.
She was always calmer when furious.
He entered the booking area, took one look at her wrists, and stopped.
“What happened?”
Sloane glanced toward Harlan.
The officer had been moved to a nearby interview room pending command review.
“Property dispute.”
Walsh stared.
“That’s your joke?”
“It’s what they called it.”
“You were arrested at your own house.”
“Yes.”
“For burglary.”
“Initially.”
Walsh removed his glasses.
“Sloane.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that before making three agencies miserable.”
Captain Reeves approached.
“Deputy U.S. Attorney Walsh.”
Walsh turned.
“Captain.”
“I want to apologize on behalf of—”
Sloane interrupted.