Something in Franklin's language makes Hayes pause: the precision, the lack of defensiveness, the way he stands—grounded, not submissive.
"What do you do for work, Mr. Torres?"
Here. This moment. Franklin could deflect, could say "city management," but he's tired. Tired of watching his daughter cry. Tired of being treated like a threat in his own driveway.
"I work for the city, officer."
"City of Portland?"
"Yes."
"What department?"
"Portland Police Bureau."
Hayes's expression shifts—subtle, but Franklin catches it. Twenty years reading faces. "What's your position?"
"Administration." Not a lie; technically accurate, just incomplete.
Hayes keys his radio: "Dispatch, can you confirm employment for Franklin Torres with Portland Police Bureau?"
A longer pause. Franklin imagines dispatch pulling records, seeing the badge number, the rank.
"Stand by."
Thirty seconds crawl like thirty minutes. Franklin watches Hayes's discomfort grow, watches other officers sense something shifted, watches Patricia standing confident, waiting for vindication.
Dispatch comes back, voice different now—more formal: "Unit 447, be advised: that's Deputy Chief Franklin Torres, Badge 101, Administrative Division, Portland Police Bureau."
Time stops.