Malcolm watched her.
Deputy Lena Ruiz opened the rear door.
Malcolm stepped out.
She noticed the handcuffs.
“Vehicle offense?”
“He got argumentative.”
Ruiz’s eyes flicked toward the sheriff.
Then back to Malcolm.
He said nothing.
Inside, they inventoried his wallet.
Harlan placed the two broken halves of the driver’s license on the counter.
Ruiz picked them up.
She examined the front.
Then the back.
Her expression changed.
“These holograms look current.”
Harlan said, “They’re not.”
“You ran it?”
“Yes.”
“What came back?”
“Mismatch.”
Malcolm spoke for the first time since arriving.
“No one has told me what mismatched.”
Harlan turned.
“You're not part of this conversation.”
Malcolm almost smiled.
“It appears to be about me.”
Ruiz looked toward him.
The corner of her mouth moved but disappeared immediately.
Harlan noticed.
“Book him.”
Ruiz stopped.
“Charge?”
“Driving without valid identification.”
“That’s not normally custodial.”
Harlan stared.
Ruiz added quickly:
“Unless there’s another offense.”
“Obstruction.”
“What obstruction?”
Harlan’s voice lowered.
“Deputy.”
Ruiz looked away.
“Yes, Sheriff.”
Malcolm watched her.
Not ally.
Not yet.
Just someone who recognized friction between what she knew and what she was being told.
That distinction mattered.
They took Malcolm’s belt and shoelaces.
His wallet.
Phone.
Watch.
Everything went into a clear property bag.
The briefcase remained in the truck.
Malcolm asked three times that it be secured rather than inventoried because it contained attorney work product and sealed court materials.
Harlan smiled.
“We’ll see.”
“That is privileged material.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“I’m putting you on notice.”
“Congratulations.”
Malcolm looked at Ruiz.
“Please document that I object to any search of the briefcase without a warrant or applicable exception.”
She met his eyes.
“I heard you.”
“Thank you.”
Harlan laughed.
“You two done?”
Malcolm was placed in a holding cell for forty-six minutes.
He knew because the wall clock was directly across from the bars.
11:31.
11:47.
12:06.
12:17.
No one interviewed him.
No one brought paperwork.
At 12:19 Ruiz returned.
“The sheriff says you can make a call.”
Malcolm stood.
“Only one?”
“He said one.”
“Recorded?”
She hesitated.
“The phone area is monitored.”
“Audio?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at him strangely.
Most detainees did not ask about recording architecture.
Harlan was waiting beside the wall phone.
Arms crossed.
Sunglasses now resting on top of his head.
Malcolm walked toward the receiver.
Harlan pointed.
“Local calls only.”