"We've had thefts in this neighborhood," he said.
"I see."
"And you can't identify yourself."
"I have identified myself."
"Without identification."
Arthur took a slow breath.
He recognized the situation immediately.
He had spent decades studying police behavior, interviewing suspects, and training agents to recognize escalating encounters.
Rollins wasn't looking for information.
He was looking for confirmation of something he had already decided.
Arthur looked toward Miller.
"Officer, I recommend you run the address."
Miller hesitated.
Rollins stepped forward.
"Don't tell us how to do our job."
Arthur said nothing.
Then Rollins grabbed his arm.
The movement was sudden.
Arthur could have resisted.
He didn't.
The handcuffs appeared seconds later.
Metal closed around his wrists.
Miller stared.
"Derek, come on."
"He's refusing to cooperate."
"He hasn't fought you."
Arthur looked directly at Rollins.
His voice remained quiet.
"You are making a serious mistake."
Rollins pushed him toward the cruiser.
"Save it."
Arthur dropped the newspaper.
It landed on the driveway.
Miller watched as the pages opened across the concrete.
He suddenly felt uncomfortable.
There was something about the man's composure that didn't make sense.
Most people arrested on suspicion of trespassing protested.
Some became angry.
Some pleaded.
Some became frightened.
Arthur Pendleton did none of those things.
He simply walked to the police car.
Before getting inside, he looked once toward his house.
Then he looked at Rollins.
"Officer, before this goes any further, I suggest you verify who I am."
Rollins smiled.
"You'll get your chance at the station."
The cruiser drove away.
Behind it, the Sunday newspaper remained scattered across the driveway.
And inside the house, a secure government phone was about to begin ringing.
The ride to the precinct took less than fifteen minutes.
Arthur spent most of it looking through the window.
Bethesda passed outside in a blur of trees, brick buildings, coffee shops, and Sunday traffic.
He said almost nothing.
Rollins seemed pleased with himself.
"I've seen your type before," he said.
Arthur didn't respond.
"People think money and nice houses put them above the law."
Still nothing.
Rollins looked at him through the rearview mirror.
"You should have cooperated."
Arthur finally spoke.
"I did cooperate."
"You refused to identify yourself."
"I gave you my name."
"You refused to show identification."
"Because it was inside my house."
Rollins shook his head.
"You really think you're going to talk your way out of this?"
Arthur looked directly into the mirror.
"No."
The answer seemed to irritate Rollins.
"Then what are you doing?"
"Waiting."
"For what?"
Arthur turned toward the window.
"For you to finish making your decisions."
Greg Miller said nothing.
But the sentence stayed with him.
At the precinct, Arthur was escorted through the rear entrance.
The Sunday shift was relatively quiet.
A dispatcher worked behind a glass partition. Two officers were drinking coffee. Someone was watching a television mounted high on the wall.
Sergeant Omali sat at the booking desk.
He looked up as Rollins entered.
"What have you got?"
"Possible burglary. Trespassing. Refusal to identify himself."
Omali looked at Arthur.
"Burglary?"
"That's what we're investigating."
Arthur said nothing.
Omali studied him.
There was something unusual about the prisoner.
Not arrogance.
Not fear.
Composure.
"Remove the cuffs."
Rollins hesitated.
"He's—"
"Remove them."
Rollins obeyed.
Arthur rubbed his wrists.
The red marks were obvious.
Omali frowned.
"You hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"Name?"
"Arthur Pendleton."
Omali typed.
The computer displayed no immediate result.
Rollins smiled.
"See?"
Arthur looked at him.
"That search isn't sufficient."
Rollins laughed.
"You want to run the police database yourself?"
"No."
Arthur turned toward Omali.
"I would like to make my phone call."
"Of course."
Rollins pushed a desk phone toward him.