Derek ignored her.
"Get out of the chair," Derek demanded. "You are under arrest for resisting a lawful order and assaulting an officer."
Harlan slowly righted himself in his seat. The jolt had sent pain through his lower back, but his mind was crystal clear. He did not raise his voice. He did not swing his arms.
He looked at the hand Derek still had clamped on his armrest, then slowly looked up into the officer's eyes.
"Assaulting an officer?" Harlan repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "You put your hands on me, son. You have just made a mistake that you will not be able to undo."
"Shut your mouth!" Derek yelled.
He grabbed the front of Harlan's light-blue shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist.
"Show me your hands. Give me your ID now."
A small crowd was beginning to form on the sidewalks. Cell phones were being drawn from pockets, camera lenses pointing toward the intersection. Officer Caleb Voss was paralyzed by indecision, his hand hovering near his radio, his face pale.
"I am not resisting," Harlan stated clearly, ensuring his voice carried to the recording bystanders. "My identification is in my inner left breast pocket. Since you have my right arm pinned, I suggest you retrieve it yourself."
He paused.
"But I advise you to read it very carefully before you make your next move."
Derek scoffed, pulled Harlan forward one last time, then shoved him back against the seat.
"Don't give me advice."
He reached into Harlan's jacket and roughly searched the breast pocket before his fingers closed around a thick leather wallet.
Derek pulled it out, a triumphant smirk twisting his face.
"Let's see who we're dealing with here. Let's see what kind of warrants you've got hiding."
He flipped the leather wallet open.
Derek expected a standard state driver's license, perhaps an expired ID.
Instead, the sunlight caught the unmistakable gleam of a heavy gold federal badge.
It was not something you could buy in a costume shop. It was thick, meticulously crafted, and carried the weight of the federal government. Recessed into the black leather next to it was a rigid photo identification card.
The stark white background contrasted with the stern photograph of the man sitting in the wheelchair.
Printed across the top of the card in bold letters were the words:
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Below that:
Special Agent in Charge, Counterterrorism Division.
And finally, a red notation across the bottom:
Retired. Full Credentials Retained.
The air seemed to leave Derek's lungs.
The ugly smirk froze on his face, rapidly morphing into an expression of pure panic. The color drained from his skin, and his thick fingers holding the wallet began to visibly tremble.
He stared at the badge.
Then at the man in the wheelchair.
Then back at the badge.
The realization hit him all at once.
He had not simply mistreated a disabled civilian. He had just put his hands on a retired, high-ranking federal agent in broad daylight, in front of a growing crowd of witnesses holding cameras.
Harlan watched the bully crumble in real time.
He felt no pity.
"Read it aloud, Officer," Harlan commanded.
It was no longer a request.
"I..." Derek stammered, his mouth suddenly dry.
He couldn't form the words.
"Read it aloud," Harlan repeated, his voice cutting across the silent intersection.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Derek whispered, his voice cracking. "Special Agent Harlan Whitaker."
Harlan calmly reached up and took the wallet from Derek's shaking fingers. He tucked it back into his pocket with deliberate slowness.
"You have a very poor understanding of the law, Officer," Harlan said, his eyes drilling into Derek, "and an even poorer understanding of human decency. You targeted a disabled man over a shattered jar of honey. Then you invented crimes to justify your aggression."
"Sir, I... I thought..." Derek babbled, taking a frantic step backward.
"I didn't know who you were."
"That is exactly the point," Harlan said, leaning slightly forward, his voice dropping to a quiet register. "You thought I was a nobody. You thought I was someone you could mistreat without consequence. Your respect is conditional based on the power you perceive the other person to hold."
He held Derek's gaze.
"That makes you a coward, son. And cowards have no business wearing a badge."
Harlan turned his attention to the terrified rookie standing by the cruiser.
"Officer, what is your name?"
Caleb practically snapped to attention.
"Voss, sir. Caleb Voss."
"Officer Voss," Harlan said clearly, "radio your watch commander. Tell him to contact Chief Victor Thorpe immediately. Tell him Harlan Whitaker requires his presence at the intersection of Fourth and Elm. Tell him one of his officers has just committed a serious abuse of authority."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
Caleb scrambled back to the cruiser and grabbed the radio microphone.
Derek looked wildly around.
The crowd of bystanders had grown. Lila Bennett was holding her phone up, recording every second. Other people were murmuring and pointing.
Derek looked back at Harlan, sheer desperation replacing his previous arrogance.
"Agent Whitaker, please," Derek pleaded. "My career. I have a family. I made a mistake. I was having a bad day. We don't need to bring Chief Thorpe into this. I'll apologize. I'll clean up the glass myself."
Harlan just looked at him, his expression completely devoid of sympathy.