Robert continued.
"Perhaps you can explain to me why my 19-year-old son, an art student with no criminal history, was arrested tonight because an officer decided his palette knife was a concealed weapon."
The silence deepened.
Robert could almost hear the chief trying to understand what had happened.
"Governor, I had no idea," Brody stammered. "I'm not at the precinct. I haven't been briefed on the night's arrests."
"Then I suggest you get briefed, Chief, and I suggest you do it quickly."
Robert stood.
"I am on my way to your station now. I expect my son to be out of that holding cell, unharmed, and I expect a complete explanation."
"Yes, Governor."
"Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal clear. I'm leaving now. I'll handle it personally."
Robert ended the call.
He grabbed his coat and walked out of his office.
The political mask was gone.
The calm negotiator had been replaced by something more focused.
A father whose child had been treated unjustly.
The Northwood Police Department had arrested a 19-year-old student.
They were about to meet his father.
Back at the precinct, nobody yet understood the storm moving toward them.
Officer Cade Miller sat at his desk typing his incident report with a self-satisfied expression.
He embellished the account with practiced ease.
A simple traffic stop became proactive policing.
Leo's confusion became evasiveness.
His objections became belligerence.
The palette knife became a concealed blade discovered inside the vehicle.
Every sentence was another layer of justification.
A wall of words protecting the decision Miller had already made.
Ben Carter sat at the adjacent desk staring at a blank screen.
He had not written a single line of his supplementary report.
The unease in his stomach had become nausea.
Every sentence Miller typed felt like another brick in a wall of lies.
And Carter knew that if he repeated those lies, he would be sealed inside that wall too.
"You should get that report done," Miller said without looking away from his monitor. "Sooner it's filed, sooner we can forget about this kid."
"I'm thinking," Carter muttered.
"Don't think too hard," Miller replied. "It was a good arrest. End of story."
At the front desk, Sergeant Peterson was halfway through a crossword puzzle when the phone rang.
The chief's administrative line.
Unusual at that hour.
Peterson answered.
"Peterson."
The dispatcher spoke rapidly.
"Sergeant, the chief is on his way to the station. ETA five minutes. He's asking for the arrest report on a Leo Nash."
Peterson frowned.
"Nash?"
Then he remembered.
"The artist kid Miller brought in?"
"That's the one."
"What does the chief want with him?"
"I don't know, but he sounds very upset. He wants Miller and Carter in his office the second he arrives."
Peterson hung up, confused.
He walked toward Miller.
"Hey, Miller. Chief's on his way in. Wants to see you and Carter about your arrest tonight. Nash."
Miller looked away from his report.
Annoyance flickered across his face.
"What, did the kid's mother call to complain? It's one in the morning. What's so important?"
"Beats me."
Peterson turned away.
"But he didn't sound happy."
For the first time, unease entered Miller's mind.
He dismissed it quickly.
Chief Brody was obsessed with procedure.
Maybe he wanted every detail documented.
Then the main precinct line rang.
Peterson answered again.
His irritated expression disappeared.
His eyes widened.
He held the phone slightly away from his ear.
Carter noticed.
"Who is it?"
Peterson swallowed.
"That was Colonel Jennings's office. State police."
Now Miller stood.
"State police? What about?"
"They wanted confirmation that Leo Nash is in our custody."
Peterson's voice had fallen almost to a whisper.
"And they informed me that Governor Robert Nash is personally on his way to this precinct."
The name hit the room like a physical blow.
Governor Robert Nash.
Miller stared at Peterson.
His mind resisted the connection.
Nash.
The boy in the cell.
Carter felt the blood drain from his face.
He remembered the registration information.
Leonora Nash.
Leo's mother.
Suddenly every piece connected.
Carter looked at Miller.
The older officer's confidence had vanished.
His face had turned gray.
"Cade," Carter whispered. "His dad..."
Tires came to a stop outside.
A door slammed.
Fast footsteps crossed the pavement.
Peterson looked close to panic.
Miller stood motionless beside his half-finished report.
The fabricated narrative still glowed on the monitor.
A digital monument to what was rapidly becoming the worst decision of his career.
Then the precinct doors flew open.
Chief Frank Brody entered.
His face was flushed with fury and panic.
He scanned the room and found the three officers.
"Where is he?"
His voice filled the station.
"Where is Governor Nash's son?"
Brody was usually controlled.
Measured.
Political.
Seeing him this furious sent a shock through the room.
He did not wait for an answer.
He moved past the booking desk toward the holding-cell hallway.
"Get him out of there now."
Sergeant Peterson grabbed his keys.
His hands shook badly enough that he struggled to find the correct one.
Brody followed him.
Miller and Carter remained frozen in the bullpen.
The sound of the cell door unlocking echoed down the hallway.
Leo looked up.
He saw Peterson first.
Behind him stood a man in a suit whose face carried a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and urgency.
"Leo Nash?" Chief Brody asked.
His voice was suddenly softer.
"I'm Chief Brody. There has been a serious mistake. Please come with me."
Leo stood slowly.
His mind struggled to catch up.
They led him from the holding cell into the main station.
Then Leo saw Miller and Carter.
Both men stood like statues.
Their faces were pale.
Miller's eyes met Leo's for less than a second.