Rollins pushed Arthur toward the heavy steel doors of the precinct's rear entrance. The booking area was a flurry of low-level Sunday morning activity. A few officers were typing at their desks, drinking coffee, and complaining about the upcoming shift changes. Fluorescent lights buzzed harshly overhead. At the elevated booking desk sat Sergeant Omali, a red-faced veteran with a thick mustache and tired eyes.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Rollins announced loudly, shoving Arthur toward the booking desk. "I caught him creeping around Elmwood Estates. He refused to identify himself—trespassing, resisting, the works."
Omali looked down from his perch, chewing slowly on a piece of gum. He looked at Arthur's calm, impassive face, the gray sweatpants, the Georgetown hoodie. "No identification?" Omali asked, his voice gravelly.
"Claimed it was inside the house," Rollins sneered. "He claimed he owned the place. A $6 million estate, Sarge. The guy must think we are idiots."
"Empty your pockets," Omali instructed, looking at Arthur. "My hands are cuffed behind my back, Sergeant," Arthur replied evenly. His voice cut through the background noise of the station. Several officers looked up from their keyboards. There was an undeniable cadence of command in Arthur's tone.