No probable cause, no reading of Miranda rights, excessive use of force, and a complete failure to verify identity before detention. In the driver's seat, Rollins was practically glowing with self-satisfaction. He tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to check on his prisoner. "See, Miller," Rollins boasted, speaking loudly enough for Arthur to hear. "This is how you keep a neighborhood safe. Proactive policing. The man could not keep his story straight. He said he lived there but could not produce identification—classic burglar behavior, probably waiting for the real owners to leave for church," Rollins boasted. Miller, sitting in the passenger seat, looked physically ill. He kept stealing glances at Arthur in the mirror.
There was something deeply unsettling about the man in the back seat. Criminals usually protested. They yelled. They cried. They made threats.
Or they tried to bargain. This man was entirely silent, sitting with a posture so straight and composed it felt like he was the one in charge of the vehicle. "Derek," Miller whispered, leaning toward his partner. "Did you even run the address? Did you call it in?" "I do not need to call it in. I caught him trespassing," Rollins replied, taking a hard right turn that sent Arthur sliding slightly across the plastic bench. "Sergeant Omali is going to love this. We've had that string of package thefts on the east side. I bet you anything this is our guy." Arthur remained silent. He closed his eyes, already calculating his next moves. He needed to contact his inner circle.
Specifically, he needed to reach Thomas Hayes, the deputy director of the FBI. Arthur knew that if he revealed his identity right now, Rollins might panic and attempt to cover his tracks, perhaps even escalating the violence out of fear. It was tactically safer to let the process play out until he was in a secure, recorded environment. Ten minutes later, the cruiser pulled into the gated rear lot of the local precinct. It was a sturdy, brutalist brick building that had stood since the late 1970s.
Rollins parked the car, stepped out, and opened the rear door, grabbing Arthur roughly by the bicep. "Out!" Rollins barked. Arthur stepped out into the bright midmorning sun, finding his footing gracefully despite having his hands bound. He towered over Rollins by three inches, a physical fact that clearly irritated the younger officer.