Omali frowned, noticing the tight cuffs. "Rollins, take the handcuffs off and let him empty his pockets." Rollins hesitated, then begrudgingly unlocked the cuffs. Arthur brought his arms forward, rubbing his raw wrists deliberately, ensuring the red welts were visible to the desk cameras.
He reached into his sweatpants pockets and placed a single brass house key on the counter. Nothing else. "No wallet, no phone," Rollins noted triumphantly. "Who walks around with no phone?" "A man watering his own garden on a Sunday morning," Arthur stated clearly, looking directly into Omali's eyes.
"Sergeant, your officer assaulted me on my own property. I am respectfully requesting my guaranteed phone call, and I suggest that you preserve the dashcam footage from Officer Rollins's vehicle immediately." Omali stopped chewing his gum.
A cold prickle of unease started to crawl up the back of his neck. The man standing before him was entirely too calm. He used the phrase "preserve dashcam footage" with the casual fluency of a seasoned prosecutor. Rollins scoffed loudly. "Listen to this guy. He thinks he is a lawyer now. Go ahead, make your call. Call your public defender. Maybe they can explain how breaking and entering works," Rollins scoffed. "Give him the phone, Derek," Omali ordered softly, his eyes never leaving Arthur.
Rollins shoved a heavy desk phone across the counter toward Arthur. "Dial nine for an outside line." Arthur picked up the receiver with a steady hand. He didn't need to look up a number. He had the direct encrypted cell phone line of the deputy director of the FBI memorized.