“I expect you to investigate.”
The officer stared.
She continued.
“That is supposed to be your job.”
His grip tightened.
She winced.
“Watch your tone.”
“There is a body camera recording you hurting my shoulder because you dislike my tone.”
His eyes dropped instinctively toward the camera mounted on his chest.
For the first time, something passed through his face.
Not fear.
Awareness.
The woman saw it.
So did his partner.
The lead officer straightened slightly.
“Stop trying to turn this into something it isn't.”
“What is it?”
“You match a description.”
“Of a crime?”
He did not answer.
“What crime was reported?”
“Suspicious activity.”
“That isn't a crime.”
“You a lawyer now?”
The younger officer looked toward her again.
She did not answer immediately.
Then her breathing slowed.
Something inside her changed.
Not because she had become less angry.
Because she realized the conversation had crossed the point where persuasion mattered.
The body camera was recording.
The cruiser microphone was probably recording.
At least one neighbor was recording.
The younger officer had already placed the dispatch details over radio.
The evidence existed.
She stopped trying to convince the lead officer.
That unsettled him.
“Name again.”
She looked directly toward the camera on his chest.
“I already gave it.”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What did you say?”
“You have it recorded.”
He pulled her wrist slightly higher.
She sucked in a breath.
“I said tell me your name.”
“You're hurting me.”
“Name.”
She turned her eyes toward the badge on his vest.
Then toward the small identification number.
She read it aloud.
The officer froze.
The younger officer stopped with the radio halfway toward his face.
She read his name too.
Then the younger officer's.
Then his badge number.
The lead officer stared.
“How do you know that?”
She shifted her gaze back to the body camera.
“Because both of you are in federal files.”
The street seemed to become quieter.
The younger officer lowered the radio.
The lead officer's grip remained on her wrist, but the pressure stopped increasing.
“What federal files?”
She answered without raising her voice.
“For six months, I have been the lead federal civil-rights attorney assigned to the investigation of your department.”
The lead officer blinked once.
Then laughed.
But the sound was different now.
Forced.
Thin.
“Sure you are.”
The woman did not look at him.
She looked at his body camera.
“Preserve this recording.”
His smile vanished.
She continued.
“Preserve the cruiser microphone.”
The younger officer's face had gone pale.
“Preserve dispatch audio from the original call.”
The lead officer released pressure on her arm by perhaps an inch.
She felt it immediately.
“And call your lieutenant.”
Nobody spoke.
She turned her eyes toward the younger officer.
“Now.”
The younger officer raised his radio.
The lead officer snapped:
“Don't.”
The younger officer looked at him.
Then at the woman.
Then back.
“She knows our numbers.”
“So?”
“She knew the lieutenant.”
“Anybody can know—”
“She knew my badge number without seeing the front of my vest.”
Silence.
The younger officer keyed his radio.
“Dispatch, request supervisor.”