"You do not have consent to search my person or my effects," Marcus stated clearly, turning his head slightly so his voice would be picked up by Bennett's body camera. "This is a violation of the Fourth Amendment."
Bennett opened the wallet, ignoring the credit cards and cash. He pulled out the Tennessee driver's license.
"Marcus Thorne," Bennett read aloud, mocking the pronunciation. "Well, Marcus, you’re about to have a very bad day."
"I believe you are the one making a mistake, officer. If you look in the other pocket—"
"I don’t care what’s in your other pocket!" Bennett interrupted, his voice cracking. "You wanted to play lawyer? Fine. You’re under arrest."
"For what offense?"
"Disorderly conduct. Failure to obey a lawful order. Resisting arrest." Bennett rattled off the standard 'contempt of cop' charges that poorly trained officers used when they had nothing else.
"I haven’t resisted," Marcus pointed out, his voice infuriatingly level. "I have complied with every physical command. Verbal disagreement is not resistance. Freedom of speech is not disorderly conduct."
Bennett didn't answer. He grabbed Marcus's right wrist and twisted it violently behind his back, applying a pain-compliance hold that was completely unnecessary for a fully compliant subject. Marcus grunted, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips as his shoulder joint flared in agony.
"Stop resisting!" Bennett yelled for the benefit of his camera, despite Marcus standing perfectly still.
"I am not resisting," Marcus said through gritted teeth. "I am a Senior Auditor for the Department of Homeland Security, Office of Inspector General. You are currently assaulting a federal official. That is a felony violation of Title 18, U.S. Code, Section 111."
"You're a liar," Bennett spat. He slapped the heavy steel handcuffs onto Marcus's wrists, ratcheting them down until the cold metal bit deeply into the skin. He double-locked them, but not before squeezing them one malicious notch too tight.
The ride to the Shelby County precinct was made in suffocating silence. Bennett drove aggressively, taking turns too fast in a pathetic display of dominance. In the cramped, plastic-lined back seat, Marcus Thorne simply breathed through the pain in his wrists, memorizing the badge numbers, the time of day, and the route they were taking.
When they arrived at the precinct, Bennett dragged Marcus by the handcuffs through the rear sally port. The booking area was a drab, fluorescent-lit room smelling of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner.