He picked up his radio. "Dispatch, this is 3-Bravo-7. I have one female suspect in custody. Trespassing, attempted burglary, and resisting. On route to the precinct."
"Copy that, 3-Bravo-7." the dispatcher crackled back. Harrison threw the car into drive and began the 15-minute journey to the downtown precinct. He glanced at Holly in the rearview mirror, his eyes glinting with a smug, self-satisfied superiority. "You know, you people always think you can talk your way out of it," Harrison said, his voice dripping with condescension, "throwing around legal terms you heard on some TV show.
Reasonable suspicion. Probable cause. You don't even know what those words mean." Holly sat in the back, her wrists throbbing in pain, and took a slow, deep breath. Do not engage, her training screamed.
Let him dig his grave. You think because you're in a nice neighborhood, you can just take what you want, Harrison continued, taking a sharp turn that threw Holly against the hard plastic door panel. We get a lot of you out here, coming up from the south side, looking for easy targets. Well, not on my watch. Holly stared at the back of his neck.
In her mind, she was already drafting the internal affairs complaint. She was compiling the list of civil rights violations. Violation of the Fourth Amendment, unreasonable search and seizure, false imprisonment, detaining her without lawful justification, assault and battery, the physical force used without cause, failure to properly identify and de-escalate. What? No more fancy legal jargon?
Harrison taunted, noticing her silence. Cat got your tongue now that reality is setting in? I am invoking my right to remain silent, Holly said evenly, her voice like ice. And I strongly advise you to do the same, Officer Harrison, because every word you are saying right now is going to be read back to you in a very public, very uncomfortable setting. Harrison let out a loud, barking laugh.
Oh, I'm terrified. The squatter is going to sue me. Look around, sweetheart. You're in the back of my car, in handcuffs. You have no power here.
They pulled into the gated rear entrance of the 14th District Precinct. The imposing brick building was a place Holly knew well. She had walked through its front doors dozens of times to interview detectives, prep witnesses, and sign off on warrants, but she had never been brought through the sally port in the back. She had never been dragged out of a cruiser by a junior officer who treated her like a piece of garbage. Harrison yanked her out of the car by her arm, ignoring her wince of pain.
He marched her through the heavy steel doors into the booking area. The precinct was buzzing with the chaotic energy of a Tuesday night phones ringing, officers typing away at ancient keyboards, holding cells clanging shut. "Look what the cat dragged in." Harrison announced loudly as he marched Holly toward the booking desk. A few officers looked up, their faces a mix of boredom and mild curiosity.
"Caught her red-handed breaking up in Oakridge. Tried to tell me she owned a million-dollar house." A few of the younger officers chuckled. Holly stood before the high wooden counter of the booking desk. Her sweatshirt was bunched up, her hair had fallen out of its bun, and she was in sweatpants.
She didn't look like the polished, tailored attorney they were used to seeing in the courtroom. Context is everything in law enforcement. Without her suit, without her briefcase, the officers in the room just saw another arrestee. But, Holly knew something Harrison didn't. She knew that the man currently running the booking desk was Sergeant O'Malley.
And while O'Malley hadn't looked up from his paperwork yet, Holly had successfully prosecuted a massive organized crime ring 2 years ago alongside O'Malley's brother, a lead detective in narcotics. "All right, let's get you processed." Harrison said, roughly pushing her shoulder to square her to the desk. "Empty your pockets." "Oh, wait.
You don't have anything because you're a prowler." Holly simply stared at the top of Sergeant O'Malley's graying head. She waited. The silence stretched for agonizing moment, filled only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the clacking of keys. Sergeant Liam O'Malley was a 30-year veteran of the force.
He was a man who had seen everything twice and was thoroughly exhausted by most of it. He didn't like rookies with chips on their shoulders, and he particularly didn't like Bradley Harrison, whom he viewed as a liability waiting for a lawsuit. O'Malley finally sighed, put down his pen, and slowly looked up from his incident reports. All right. Harrison.
What do we got here? His voice trailed off. O'Malley's eyes locked onto the woman standing on the other side of the booking desk. He blinked once, then twice, taking in the handcuffs, the disheveled sweatpants, and the furious, unblinking glare of the woman wearing them. The blood drained from O'Malley's face so fast he actually swayed on his stool.
Harrison, O'Malley said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, breathy whisper. Who is this? Jane Doe for now, Sarge. Harrison said proudly, leaning against the counter and chewing a piece of gum. Refused to ID herself at the scene.
Found her breaking into a car in Oakridge. Claimed she owned the house. Total nutjob. O'Malley didn't look at Harrison. His eyes remained fixed on Holly.
Miss Jenkins? He asked, his voice trembling slightly. Holly nodded once, a slow, deliberate movement. Good evening, Sergeant O'Malley. It's been a while since the Moretti trial.
Harrison frowned, looking back and forth between his sergeant and his prisoner. Wait. You know this prowler? Take the cuffs off her, O'Malley commanded. It wasn't a request.