"Failure to comply?" Dez raised an eyebrow. "I'm answering your questions."
"You're resisting," Harlan shouted, playing to the imaginary audience, or perhaps the neighbors he knew were watching. "Turn around now."
Dez weighed his options. He could disarm Harlan in less than 2 seconds. He could break the officer's wrist, sweep his leg, and have him pinned before the spit from Harlan's shout hit the pavement. But that would ruin his life. Dez had spent 20 years fighting for a country that was currently trying to put him in handcuffs on his own driveway. He had to play the long game.
"All right," Dez said softly. "You're making a mistake, Officer, a big one."
"Shut up," Harlan said, grabbing Dez's wrist and spinning him around. He shoved Dez against the pristine quarter panel of the Charger. That was the first mistake. You don't slam a man like Darius Cain, and you certainly don't scratch his car.
The sound of Dez's chest hitting the metal was a dull thud, followed by the sharp clink of handcuffs being pulled from a belt. Across the street, Loretta Voss was peering through her blinds, phone still in hand, whispering to the 911 operator. "He's caught him. The officer caught the burglar."
Harlan was rough. He wasn't just applying the cuffs. He was wrenching Dez's arms upward, testing the limits of the shoulder joints. It was a move designed to inflict pain, to force submission.
But Dez's shoulders were thick with muscle and scar tissue. He barely registered the torque. He simply adjusted his stance, widening his feet slightly to maintain balance, absorbing Harlan's erratic shoving.
"You're tight on the left one," Dez stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Check the spacing."
"I said shut your mouth," Harlan hissed into Dez's ear. He clicked the cuffs shut, ratcheting them down until they bit into the skin. He patted Dez down, his hand slapping aggressively against Dez's cargo pockets. He pulled out a wallet, a heavy set of keys, and a folded piece of paper. Harlan threw the items on the trunk of the Charger.
He opened the wallet. He saw the driver's license, Darius T. Cain, 422 Maple Ridge. Harlan paused for a fraction of a second.
The reality of the situation flickered in his mind. The ID matched the house. The suspect lived here. But Harlan was too deep in the adrenaline now to back down.
To admit he was wrong was to admit weakness, and in the toxic culture of the Oak Haven precinct, weakness was worse than incompetence. He had to find something else. He had to justify the stop.
He looked at the folded paper. It was a receipt from a hardware store, but underneath it was a small black laminate card. Harlan squinted at it. It didn't look like a normal ID. It had no state seal, just a series of clearance codes and a holographic chip.
"What is this?" Harlan asked, holding up the card. "Fake ID? You trying to impersonate a fed?"
"Look at the back," Dez said calmly. "There's a number. Call it."
"I'm not calling your buddy to bail you out," Harlan sneered. He shoved the wallet into his own pocket, a violation of protocol, but Harlan didn't care. He grabbed Dez by the arm and yanked him away from the car. "You're coming in. We'll sort out your fake IDs at the station."
"Officer," Dez said, planting his feet. He didn't move. Harlan tugged, but it was like trying to pull a rooted oak tree. "There is a camera on my porch.
There is a camera on your dash. You are currently arresting a homeowner on his own property for no crime. If you put me in that car, you end your career."
Harlan's face turned crimson. He unholstered his taser. "Get in the car or I will light you up. You understand me? I will ride the lightning on you right here."
Dez looked at the taser. He calculated the distance, the spread of the prongs, the voltage. He knew he could take the hit. He'd been tased during SERE training. He'd been electrocuted by faulty wiring in a Baghdad bunker. This was nothing.
"Do what you have to do," Dez said, "but make sure your body camera is on. I want the judge to see exactly how you operate."
Harlan hesitated. He glanced down at his chest. The green light was blinking. He hated that light.
"Get in the car."
Harlan shoved Dez toward the cruiser. This time, Dez allowed himself to be moved. He had seen the neighbor across the street. He saw another neighbor, a teenager two houses down, holding up an iPhone. The audience was assembling.
Dez ducked his head, a reflex of habit, and slid into the cramped back seat of the cruiser. The hard plastic seat was uncomfortable, smelling of stale vomit and industrial cleaner. Harlan slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood. As Harlan stomped around to the driver's seat, Dez shifted his weight. His hands were numb, but his mind was racing. He needed to make a call, but his phone was in his front pocket, currently inaccessible.
Harlan got in the front, breathing heavy. He keyed the radio. "Dispatch, I have one in custody, uncooperative. Transporting to station for processing. Possible forgery and possession of forged government documents."