"Do not search closed compartments without consent," Maya said.
Cole straightened. "Now you're giving me orders?"
"I'm stating that I do not consent to a search."
He turned toward her with the registration still in his hand. "You've been confrontational from the beginning."
Ramos said, "She's been calm."
Cole's head snapped toward him. "I didn't ask you."
That was the moment the air changed. Until then, Maya had believed she was dealing with an officer whose suspicion had outrun his judgment. Now she understood she was watching something else: a man defending his authority against facts that embarrassed him. She had seen the same pattern in depositions. The witness caught in a contradiction did not become more careful; sometimes he became more certain.
"Officer Cole," Maya said, "you are holding a registration that identifies me as the owner. The plate returns to me. I have given you my full legal name and address. There is no factual basis to continue this detention."
He walked back to her, close enough that she could smell coffee on his breath. "You don't decide when the detention ends."
"No, but the Constitution has something to say about it."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"The attitude."
Maya felt heat rise behind her eyes. Not fear yet. Anger. A controlled, familiar anger she had learned to carry like a hot glass: carefully, with both hands, without spilling it where someone else could use it against her.
"What attitude would you prefer?" she asked. "Gratitude?"
Cole's face hardened. "You're under arrest for obstruction."
Ramos stepped forward. "Cole, wait. Obstruction for what?"
"Interfering with an investigation."
"By answering questions?"
Cole grabbed Maya's arm. "Get in the car."
Maya planted her feet only long enough to stay balanced. "I am not resisting. I am walking under my own power."
"Nobody said you were resisting."
"Good. Then make sure your report doesn't."
He pushed her toward the rear door.
As she ducked into the patrol car, Maya saw Ramos standing beside the open sedan, his face troubled. She also saw the man on the sidewalk still filming. That mattered. She memorized his red backpack, the bicycle helmet clipped to it, the silver stripe on his shoes. Details were anchors. When power shifted the ground beneath you, details helped you remember where you had been standing.
The ride to Central Station took nine minutes. Maya counted them by turns. Left on Ninth. Right at the courthouse plaza. Straight past the public library where she had spoken at a youth program two months before. Cole did not speak. His body camera blinked red on his chest.
That small light gave her more comfort than it should have. She knew cameras were imperfect witnesses. Angles failed. Audio cut out. Files disappeared behind bureaucratic language like "retention error" or "technical malfunction." Yet the blinking light meant there was at least supposed to be a record.
Maya leaned forward as far as the seat belt allowed. "Officer Cole, please confirm your body camera is recording."
He looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Sit back."
"Is it recording?"
"Sit back."
"I'll take that as a yes."
At Central Station, a desk sergeant named Linda Park looked up from a computer when Cole walked Maya through the side entrance. Park was in her fifties, with silver strands threaded through black hair and the tired eyes of someone who had spent too many years solving problems created by other adults.
"What've we got?" Park asked.
"Obstruction during vehicle burglary investigation."
Park looked at Maya, then at Cole. "Burglary?"
"Suspicious person call. Possible break-in."
"Any damaged vehicle?"
"Still investigating."
Maya said, "The vehicle is mine. Officer Ramos confirmed the plate is registered to me. Officer Cole also read my registration."
Park's eyebrows rose.
Cole tightened his grip on Maya's elbow. "She doesn't stop talking."
"I am represented by myself for the moment," Maya said, "and I am requesting the cuffs be removed because they are causing numbness in my left hand."
Park glanced down. "How long has she been cuffed?"
"Not long."
"How long?"
Cole exhaled. "Fifteen, twenty minutes."
Park walked around the desk and checked the cuffs. Her mouth tightened. "They're too tight."
She removed them. Maya flexed her fingers. Purple-red indentations circled both wrists.
"Photograph these," Maya said.
Cole laughed from behind her. "You really think you're building a case, don't you?"
Maya turned. "No. I think you are."
Park looked between them. "Everybody calm down."
"I am calm," Maya said.
"She's been like this the whole time," Cole replied.
Park pointed toward a bench near the processing desk. "Sit there. Cole, with me."
They moved a few feet away, but not far enough. Maya could hear most of the conversation.
"You arrested her after the registration matched?" Park asked.
"She obstructed."
"What did she do?"
"Wouldn't follow instructions, kept challenging everything."
"Did she refuse a lawful order?"
"She was argumentative."
"That's not obstruction."
"I know the statute."
Park's voice dropped. "Then tell me the act."
Cole muttered something Maya could not hear. Park rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Maya watched the station around her. A printer hummed. A wall clock clicked too loudly. Through a glass partition, a young officer was laughing at something on his phone. On the far side of the room, a handcuffed man in work boots stared at the floor. No one in the station recognized her yet, which was unusual but not impossible. Central Station handled city patrol cases; Maya's work kept her more often in federal buildings, county offices, and the state capital two hours away.
Her phone and purse were still in the car on Jefferson Avenue. So was the encrypted state laptop in her briefcase. That laptop held no open evidence without multi-factor authentication, but its existence raised another issue. The sealed folder beneath it contained affidavits connected to an ongoing state investigation into unlawful street stops by officers assigned to the Central District.
Maya almost laughed at the absurdity.
She was not leading that investigation. She had been brought in because the Civil Rights Enforcement Bureau needed an experienced litigator to handle emergency court applications while the investigative team interviewed residents. Three officers from Central District had already been named in complaints. Cole was not one of them.
At least, not yet.
Park returned to the desk. "Ms. Holloway, do you have identification somewhere we can access without conducting a search you object to?"
"Yes. My driver's license is in the card holder inside my purse, which is on the front passenger floor of my sedan. You may retrieve the purse solely for the purpose of handing it to me, or you may ask Officer Ramos to bring it here. I do not consent to any search beyond what is necessary to obtain the identification I've described."
Park nodded. "Fine."
Cole scoffed. "She wants to run the room now."
Park turned on him. "Go write your report."
"Sergeant—"
"Now."
He walked away.
Park picked up the phone, then paused. "You said you're an attorney. What kind?"
Maya held her gaze. "Senior counsel, State Attorney General's Office. Civil Rights Enforcement Bureau."
The phone remained in Park's hand.
"Say that again."
"State Attorney General's Office."
Park stared at her for a full second, then another. "Do you have a credential?"