"My wallet is inside the house," Roland replied, his voice dropping into the commanding tone he used inside the Hoover Building. "I would be happy to retrieve it for you."
"You aren't going anywhere," Jenkins snapped, grabbing Roland's forearm. "You're going to stand right here while I run your name. What is it?"
Roland looked down at the hand gripping his arm. The violations were stacking quickly, one after another.
"Officer," he said softly, dangerously, "I strongly suggest you remove your hand from my person. You have no reasonable suspicion to detain me, let alone put hands on me on my own property."
Jenkins' face flushed red. He hated when suspects used legal language; it challenged his authority.
"Oh, we've got a roadside lawyer. Gallagher, grab his other arm. He's resisting."
"I am not resisting," Roland said, standing perfectly still.
Gallagher hesitated. "Jenkins, maybe we should just let him get his wallet."
"I said grab his arm, rookie!" Jenkins roared.
Before Gallagher could move, Jenkins unclipped his handcuffs, twisted Roland's arm behind his back, and shoved the older man against the brick pillar of his own mailbox. The cuffs ratcheted tight, biting into his wrists.
Roland did not struggle. He did not yell. He let his cheek rest against the warm brick.
"You're making a—"
"Shut up," Jenkins hissed, patting him down aggressively. Finding no weapon and no wallet, he shoved Roland toward the cruiser. "You're going downtown for loitering, prowling, and resisting arrest. Let's see how smart you sound in a holding cell."
Across the street, Mrs. Higgins, Roland's wealthy elderly neighbor, peeked through her silk curtains. She gasped and reached for her telephone.
The drive to the Fourth District Precinct was suffocatingly tense. A Plexiglas barrier separated the front seats from the back, but the silence pressed in like a held breath. Jenkins drove with one hand on the wheel, bragging to his quiet partner.
"See, Gallagher, that's proactive policing. You see something out of place, you act on it. You don't ask permission. You take control of the streets. Guy thought he could fast-talk me with all that articulable suspicion garbage."
Gallagher sat rigid, staring straight ahead. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. What unsettled him was not only the arrest, which he already suspected was a serious violation, but the man in the back seat.
Suspects usually behaved one of three ways: furious and screaming, terrified and crying, or rambling and confused. Roland Pendleton did none of these things. He sat perfectly upright, hands cuffed behind his back, his expression unreadable. He was not looking out the window. He was staring directly at the back of Jenkins's head—the cold, patient stare of a man who had interrogated a thousand liars.
"Sir," Gallagher finally said, turning slightly, "if you just tell us your name, we can clear this up at the station."
Roland shifted his gaze to the young rookie. He saw the hesitation, the doubt flickering in the boy's eyes.
"My name," Roland said quietly, "is going to be the least of your partner's problems."
Jenkins barked a laugh. "Tough guy. I love it when they act tough. We'll see how tough you are sitting in booking."
Ten minutes later, the cruiser pulled into the parking lot of the Fourth District Precinct. Jenkins hauled Roland out, gripping his bicep, and marched him through the heavy doors into the chaotic booking area. Phones rang, officers shouted over one another, and a few minor offenders sat handcuffed to metal benches along the wall.
Behind the elevated booking desk sat Sergeant Thomas O'Malley, a 20-year veteran two years from retirement with zero patience for nonsense. He did not look up from his paperwork as Jenkins paraded his catch to the desk.
"Got a live one for you, Tommy," Jenkins announced proudly, shoving Roland forward until his chest bumped the desk. "Prowling, failure to identify, resisting. Caught him casing the Mitchell estate on Foxhall."
O'Malley sighed and finally looked up. He studied Roland's dignified posture, his calm demeanor, the complete absence of criminal panic, and frowned.
"He doesn't look like a prowler, Jenkins. He looks like a guy who was doing yard work."
"He refused to ID," Jenkins insisted, crossing his arms.
Roland cleared his throat. "Sergeant," he said, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the noise of the room, "before this officer files paperwork that will end his career, I am legally entitled to a phone call. I would like my cell phone, which your officer unlawfully removed from my pocket."
Jenkins rolled his eyes. "He wants to call his public defender. Let him use the precinct line."