Tyler had uploaded the video to TikTok with the caption, "Neighbor gets arrested for fixing his own car. Cop goes crazy. #policebrutality #oakhaven #caron. Within minutes, the video had thousands of views. By the time Harlan left the station with the K9 unit, it had crossed a million.
The comments were a landslide of outrage. Veterans recognized the tattoos. Mechanics recognized the car. Locals recognized Officer Harlan, who apparently had a reputation for harassing teenagers at the local skate park.
@VetLife76 commented, "That's a 75th Ranger Regiment tat on his arm. This cop has no idea who he's messing with." @LegalEagle wrote, "Clear Fourth Amendment violation. No probable cause. Lawsuit incoming."
Inside the station, the phones began to ring. First, it was local concerned citizens. Then, it was local news stations. Then, CNN and Fox News producers were on the line asking for a statement regarding the Oak Haven incident. Dez was still in Thorn's office when the dispatcher knocked on the door, looking terrified.
"Captain," she whispered, "there are news vans pulling up and the phone lines are jammed. The mayor is on line one."
Thorn put his head in his hands. "Stall them."
Meanwhile, back at 422 Maple Ridge, Harlan pulled up in his cruiser. He had a German Shepherd in the back named Buster. He also carried confiscated marijuana that he had never logged into evidence, intending to use it as a false pretext if the search failed. It was his insurance policy.
Harlan was sweating. He knew the captain was wavering. He needed a win. He needed to prove that Dez was a criminal.
He got out of the car. The neighborhood was quiet, but different. People were on their porches. They were watching. Loretta Voss was still at her window, but now she looked confused. Why were there so many cars?
Harlan walked up to the Charger. "All right, Buster. Seek," he muttered, pulling the dog toward the car. The dog sniffed around the tires.
It wagged its tail. It didn't signal. There were no drugs. Harlan gritted his teeth.
He looked around. The coast seemed clear. He reached toward his pocket, preparing to introduce the unlogged marijuana into the scene and make it appear connected to the Charger.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice boomed from the sidewalk. Harlan jumped, dropping the packet onto the gravel driveway. He spun around. Standing there wasn't a neighbor.
It was a man in an immaculately tailored navy blue suit holding a briefcase. Next to him was a camera crew from Channel 5 News. Their lens pointed directly at Harlan's hand.
"Officer," the man in the suit shouted, walking up the driveway with the confidence of a shark entering a school of tuna. "Step away from the vehicle immediately."
"Who are you?" Harlan stammered, trying to cover the baggy with his boot.
"I am Harrison Lang," the man said. The name hit Harlan like a physical blow. Harrison Lang was the most feared civil rights attorney in the state. He didn't just sue police departments, he dismantled them. He had bankrupted three counties in the last five years.
"I am representing Mr. Darius Cain," Lang announced, playing to the news camera, "and we just caught you attempting to plant evidence on live television."
Harlan looked at the camera. The red light was on. He looked down at his boot. The corner of the packet was still visible. "I found this," Harlan lied, his voice cracking. "It fell out of the car."
"We have been filming for 2 minutes, officer," the reporter said, stepping forward. "We saw you pull it out of your pocket."
Harlan panicked. He backed up. "This is an active crime scene. Get back."
"The only crime being committed here is by you," Lang said, his voice projecting so the neighbors could hear. "You are tampering with evidence. You are fabricating a crime to cover up an illegal arrest, and you are doing it to a decorated war hero."
Lang held up his phone. "I just spoke with the district attorney. He has ordered a stand-down. You are to return to the precinct immediately. Do not touch that car. Do not touch that evidence."
Harlan stood frozen. His world was collapsing. The narrative he had built, the drug dealer, the thug, was dissolving.
Back at the precinct, the doors swung open. It wasn't the press. It was two men in dark suits and sunglasses, followed by a man in an Army service uniform with the rank of colonel. Colonel Vance had arrived, and he wasn't alone. The two men in suits flashed badges that said, "Federal Bureau of Investigation, Public Corruption Unit."
They walked past the desk sergeant, past the dispatcher, and kicked open the door to Captain Thorn's office.