the distance, and sped toward the downtown
precinct. Adrian sat in the cramped, plastic
back seat, his hands throbbing behind his
back. He stared out the window, his mind
locking away the grief of his brother’s funeral,
replacing it entirely with the icy, calculated
focus of a General preparing for war.
❦
CHAPTER 6
THE REVEAL
The Ridgefield Police Department
precinct was a tired, cinderblock building that
smelled permanently of floor wax, stale
donuts, and unwashed bodies. Prescott
marched Adrian through the heavy metal back
doors, his grip tight on the prisoner's bicep,
Holt, trailing behind them, opened his
mouth to correct the fabricated charges, but a
sharp glare from Prescott quickly silenced
him.
They shoved Adrian into a small,
windowless holding room to the side of the
booking desk and forced him to sit on a steel
bench bolted to the floor. Prescott removed the
handcuffs, leaving deep red welts encircling
Adrian’s wrists. The officer pulled Adrian’s
wallet and cell phone from his pockets, tossing
them carelessly onto the small metal table in
the center of the room.
"Empty your pockets. Take off your
shoelaces and your belt," Prescott ordered,
pulling out a standard intake form.
Adrian slowly massaged his bruised
wrists, his face an impassive mask. He looked
directly at the desk sergeant, ignoring Prescott
entirely. "I am allowed one phone call. I would
like to make it now."
Prescott laughed. "You’ll get your call
when I’m done with my paperwork. Sit down
and shut up."
"Under South Carolina code of laws, I am
entitled to legal counsel and communication
upon detainment," Adrian stated, his voice
echoing loudly in the small room. It wasn’t a
request; it was a command. "I require my cell
phone."
Sergeant Miller, perhaps sensing that
something was deeply off about this particular
suspect's demeanor, sighed and nodded to
Prescott. "Just let him make the call, Wade. Get
it over with so we can process him."
Prescott snatched the cell phone from
the table and practically threw it at Adrian’s
chest. "Make it quick. I don't care if you call
Johnny Cochran."
Adrian caught the phone, unlocked the
screen, and navigated past dozens of unread
messages from high-ranking military officials
and government dignitaries. He dialed a
direct, encrypted eleven-digit number. He did
not call a local defense attorney. He did not
call the ACLU. He called the direct line of the
United States Secretary of Defense.
The phone rang exactly twice before it
was answered.
"I have been detained without cause,
physically assaulted, and denied attendance to
my brother’s funeral," Adrian continued, his
eyes locked dead onto Prescott’s face. "I need
you to contact the Governor of South Carolina
immediately. Inform him that the commander
of the United States Armed Forces Joint Task
Force is sitting in a holding cell in his state.
And then, I want you to patch me through to
the Chief of this department."
Prescott, who had been leaning against
the doorframe with a smirk, suddenly froze.
The smirk melted away, replaced by a
profound, sickening confusion. "What kind of
garbage are you spouting?" he demanded,
taking a step forward.
Adrian ignored him. He lowered the
phone, placed it flat on the metal table, and
activated the speakerphone. For thirty
agonizing seconds, the room was completely
silent, save for the hum of the overhead
fluorescent lights.
Then, the heavy wooden door to the
holding area slammed open. The Chief of
Police, a man named Harris, sprinted into the
room, his face drained of all color, his uniform
shirt partially untucked. He was practically
hyperventilating, holding his own cell phone
with trembling hands.
Chief Harris stopped dead in his tracks
when he saw the tall, bruised Black man in the
torn suit sitting on the bench. He looked from
Adrian to the intake form in Prescott’s hand,
and then to the red, raw marks on Adrian’s
wrists.