"No," Roland said firmly. "I will use my own secure device. Now."
There was something in Roland's tone that made Sergeant O'Malley pause. It was the undeniable voice of a commander, the kind that did not ask twice. O'Malley looked at Jenkins.
"Give him his phone, Brad."
"Are you kidding me?" Jenkins scoffed. "He's a suspect."
"Give him the damn phone," O'Malley growled. "Let him call his lawyer. Saves us the headache."
Grumbling, Jenkins fished Roland's sleek government smartphone out of an evidence bag and slammed it onto the desk. He unlocked one cuff, leaving Roland's left hand chained to the booking rail so he could dial.
Roland picked up the phone. He did not call a lawyer. He pressed a single speed-dial button. The call connected on the first ring.
"Director," a sharp, professional voice answered. It was Special Agent Christian Hayes, head of Roland's protective detail, sitting inside a black armored Suburban at the perimeter of the estate.
"Christian," Roland said, his voice eerily calm. "I have encountered a situation."
Hayes sat up instantly. "Sir, is there a threat?"
"I have been detained by a local patrol officer," Roland continued, ignoring Jenkins, who leaned against the desk smirking. "I am currently at the Fourth District County Precinct."
Hayes' blood ran cold. "You were arrested? Sir, we are two minutes away."
"Stand down on any tactical breach, Christian," Roland ordered smoothly. "But bring the detail to the station and patch in Deputy Director David Croft. Tell him to scramble a Civil Rights Division response team from the Washington Field Office. Tell them the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is currently handcuffed to a booking desk."
Jenkins, close enough to hear Roland's side of the call, burst out laughing.
"Director of the FBI? Are you out of your mind, Tommy? This guy is a total nutjob. Put him in psych."
But Sergeant O'Malley was not laughing. While Roland had been speaking, O'Malley had already pressed Roland's right index finger onto the digital biometric scanner to begin the booking process.
The computer beeped. It did not pull up a local rap sheet. The screen flashed solid red. A high-level warning banner appeared. A system override connected directly to the National Crime Information Center and the federal database.
CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET / SCI
AGENCY: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
TITLE: DIRECTOR
NAME: PENDLETON, ROLAND
O'Malley's face drained of all color. His ruddy complexion turned the shade of wet ash. His eyes darted from the glaring red screen to the calm man standing in front of him.
"Jenkins," O'Malley whispered, his voice trembling so violently it cracked.
"What?" Jenkins asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Has he got warrants? I knew it."
"Jenkins," O'Malley said again, standing slowly, his hands shaking as he reached for the keys to the handcuffs. "You didn't arrest a prowler." He swallowed hard, looking Roland dead in the eyes, terror settling into his voice. "You arrested the Director of the FBI."
The silence that fell over the booking room was absolute. The ringing phones seemed to fade into the background. The chaotic shuffling of officers and suspects came to a dead halt. Every eye turned first to the glaring red screen, then to the older Black man handcuffed to the rail.
Jenkins let out a nervous, dismissive chuckle. His mind violently rejected what stood in front of him.
"Tommy, come on. The machine's glitching, or he stole someone's identity. You think the Director of the FBI is wearing dirty sweatpants on Foxhall Crescent?"
O'Malley did not answer. His hands shook so badly he dropped his keyring twice before finally fitting the small silver key into the lock on Roland's wrist. The heavy cuffs clicked open.
"Director Pendleton," O'Malley stammered, his voice stripped of its usual gruff authority. "Sir, I apologize. I had no idea."