Rollins stiffened.

“What?”

“Call your dispatcher.”

Rollins's expression hardened.

“Excuse me?”

“Run the address.”

Arthur pointed toward the house.

“The vehicle in my garage is registered to me. The property is registered to me. Your dispatcher can verify it.”

Rollins stepped closer.

“I said identification.”

“I don't carry my wallet while I'm gardening.”

“You don't have a phone?”

“Inside.”

Rollins laughed.

“So you expect me to believe that?”

Arthur looked at him.

“You don't have to believe me.”

“Then tell me who owns this property.”

“Arthur Pendleton.”

Rollins stared.

“That's you?”

“Yes.”

“You own this house?”

“Yes.”

Rollins shook his head.

“Right.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Rollins crossed his arms.

“I know this neighborhood.”

Arthur said nothing.

Rollins continued.

“You don't look like someone who lives here.”

There it was.

The sentence Arthur had heard in different forms throughout his career.

Not the first time.

Probably not the last.

But something about hearing it from a police officer standing on his own property felt different.

Arthur kept his voice controlled.

“Officer, you are making an assumption based on information you have not verified.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“I strongly suggest you check before this goes any further.”

Rollins stepped forward.

“Don't tell me how to do my job.”

Arthur looked at Miller approaching from the cruiser.

Miller was already shaking his head.

“Derek, come on.”

But Rollins had decided.

His hand shot forward.

He grabbed Arthur's arm.

Arthur's body reacted automatically.

Every instinct developed through decades of training screamed at him to move.

But he didn't.

He deliberately relaxed.

He knew exactly what would happen if the FBI director physically resisted a local police officer.

So he allowed Rollins to twist his arm behind his back.

The Sunday newspaper fell onto the driveway.

“Put your other hand back.”

Arthur complied.

The cuffs clicked.

Tight.

Too tight.

Arthur didn't react.

Miller stared at him.

“Derek, he isn't resisting.”

“He refused to identify himself.”

“He said he lives here.”

“He couldn't prove it.”

Miller looked toward the enormous house.

“Then verify the address.”

Rollins ignored him.

He pushed Arthur toward the cruiser.

Arthur turned his head slightly.

“Officer Rollins.”

“What?”

“You are making a catastrophic mistake.”

Rollins smirked.

“Save it for the judge.”

He pushed Arthur into the back seat.

The door slammed.

Miller stood beside the cruiser, staring at the fallen newspaper.

Something about the scene felt wrong.

Very wrong.

But Rollins was already behind the wheel.

“Let's go.”

The cruiser pulled away.

And with it went the FBI director.

Arthur sat quietly behind the plexiglass partition.

He wasn't panicking.

He wasn't shouting.

He wasn't begging.

He was observing.

The tight handcuffs.

The lack of probable cause.

The failure to verify the address.

The absence of meaningful investigation.

The physical force.

The officer's language.

Arthur mentally recorded everything.

Miller looked at him through the rearview mirror.

Their eyes met.

Miller looked away.

He knew.

Something was terribly wrong.

Rollins, however, was smiling.

He thought he'd just found the arrest that would change his career.

He had no idea he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.

 The Cell

The police cruiser arrived at the precinct twenty minutes later.

Arthur had said almost nothing during the drive.

Rollins interpreted the silence as guilt.

Miller interpreted it differently.

The man in the back seat looked completely composed.

Too composed.

Arthur's posture remained straight despite the uncomfortable plastic seat.

He watched every turn.

Every street.

Every building.

Every procedural mistake.

Rollins glanced into the mirror.

“You're awfully quiet now.”

Arthur didn't answer.

“Lost your confidence?”

Still nothing.

Miller looked at Rollins.

“Just stop.”

Rollins laughed.

“I'm talking to him.”

“He's handcuffed.”

“So?”

“So maybe leave him alone.”

The cruiser entered the secured parking area behind the precinct.

Rollins opened the rear door.

“Out.”

Arthur stepped into the sunlight.

Rollins grabbed his arm.

Arthur gently pulled away.

“I can walk.”

Rollins frowned.

“Don't make this difficult.”

Arthur looked directly into his eyes.

“You are making this difficult.”

Rollins shoved him forward.

Inside, Sergeant Omali was working the booking desk.

Omali had thirty years of police experience.

He had seen everything.

Or at least he thought he had.

Rollins marched Arthur toward the desk.

“Got one from Elmwood Estates.”

Omali looked up.

“What's the charge?”

“Trespassing. Failure to identify. Resisting.”

Miller interrupted.

“He didn't resist.”

Rollins shot him a look.

“He refused to comply.”

Omali looked at Arthur.

“Identification?”

“I don't have my wallet.”

Rollins smirked.

“He claims he owns the house.”

Omali looked toward the report.

“What address?”

“442 Elmwood Estates.”

Omali frowned.

“That’s one of the Pendleton properties.”

Rollins laughed.

“He says he's Pendleton.”

Omali looked at Arthur.

“Your name?”

“Arthur J. Pendleton.”

Something about the answer made Omali pause.

He had heard the name before.

But he couldn't place it.

“Empty your pockets.”

Arthur raised his cuffed hands slightly.

“My hands are behind my back.”

Omali looked at Rollins.

“Take the cuffs off.”