Behind the Badge
Central Precinct smelled of stale coffee, disinfectant, and old paperwork.
Danielle had entered police stations hundreds of times.
Usually she had walked through the front doors carrying a briefcase.
Usually officers knew her name.
Usually people stood when she entered.
This time, she was led through a side door.
Mulligan removed the handcuffs only after nearly twenty minutes.
Danielle flexed her fingers.
Pain shot through both wrists.
“These were unnecessary,” she said.
Mulligan ignored her.
He sat behind a desk and began filling out paperwork.
Danielle watched him.
“You haven't run the plates.”
He continued writing.
“You haven't verified the registration.”
Nothing.
“You haven't checked my identity.”
Mulligan finally looked up.
“Are you finished?”
“No.”
He leaned back.
“Then start talking.”
“I have been talking since the parking lot.”
“And I've been listening.”
“No,” Danielle replied. “You've been deciding.”
His expression hardened.
“You're still making accusations.”
“You arrested me without verifying the ownership of the vehicle.”
“You didn't have identification.”
“My identification was in the vehicle.”
“Which you claim belongs to you.”
“It does.”
He smiled.
“Of course.”
Danielle took a slow breath.
“My name is Danielle Lawson. I am the state attorney. You can verify that in less than five minutes.”
Mulligan shook his head.
“You really like that title.”
“It isn't a title I'm using to get special treatment. It's my occupation.”
“Sure.”
“Officer, why won't you verify my identity?”
“Because I don't answer to suspects.”
“You answer to procedure.”
He laughed.
“Not to you.”
Danielle leaned forward.
“You have access to my license plate database. You have access to the vehicle registration system. You have access to my name. You could confirm this in minutes.”
Mulligan stood.
“Careful.”
“I'm being careful.”
“You're making this harder than it needs to be.”
“No,” Danielle said. “You are.”
His face tightened.
For a moment she thought he might say something worse.
Instead, he walked away.
Danielle sat alone.
The fluorescent lights buzzed above her.
A printer rattled somewhere behind a glass partition.
Officers walked past carrying coffee.
Phones rang.
People laughed.
Life inside the station continued as if nothing unusual had happened.
That indifference frightened her more than Mulligan's hostility.
Because hostility was visible.
Indifference was institutional.
Nearly an hour passed.
Then the younger officer from the parking lot appeared.
He was carrying a clipboard.
“Ms. Lawson?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Do you need anything?”
“I need someone to run the plates on my SUV.”
His expression became uncomfortable.
“I thought Officer Mulligan was handling it.”
“He isn't.”
The young officer hesitated.
“Maybe I can—”
“Mason.”
Mulligan's voice came from behind him.
The younger officer turned.
“Don't interfere.”
“But, Officer—”
“Go finish your report.”
The young officer nodded and left.
Danielle watched him disappear.
She remembered his hesitation.
He knew something was wrong.
But knowing and acting were two different things.
A little later, an older officer entered.
He looked exhausted, with gray hair and deep lines around his eyes.
He studied Danielle.
“What's going on?”
Mulligan answered.
“Attempted vehicle theft.”
The older officer looked at Danielle.
“Her vehicle?”
“She claims it is.”
“Did you run the plates?”
Mulligan sighed.
“I'll get to it.”
The older officer stared at him.
Then he looked back at Danielle.
For a moment, something passed across his face.
Maybe recognition.
Maybe doubt.
Maybe shame.
“Run the plates,” he said quietly.
Mulligan didn't answer.
The older officer walked away.
Danielle stared after him.
Even now, nobody wanted to challenge Mulligan directly.
She understood why.
Power protected itself.
Eventually, Mulligan returned.
“All right,” he said. “You get one phone call.”
He removed her restraints.
Danielle stood and rubbed her wrists.
“Thank you.”
“Make it quick.”
She walked to the phone.
There was only one person she needed.
Mark Edwards.
She dialed from memory.
Two rings.
“Mark Edwards.”
“Mark.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Danielle?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Central Precinct.”
“Why?”
“I was arrested.”
“What?”
“They think I stole my own vehicle.”
There was a long silence.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did they verify the vehicle?”
“No.”
“Did they run the plate?”
“No.”
Mark's voice became dangerously calm.
“I'm coming.”
“Thank you.”
“Don't discuss anything else until I arrive.”
“I won't.”
She hung up.
Mulligan was standing in the doorway.
“Who was that?”
“My lawyer.”
He smiled.
“Big-time lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Someone important?”
Danielle looked at him.
“He will be here soon.”
Mulligan folded his arms.
“You think having a lawyer changes anything?”
“No,” Danielle said.
“What does?”
“The facts.”
He laughed.
But this time, Danielle didn't react.
She had stopped trying to convince him.
Something else had begun.
She was documenting him.
Every word.
Every refusal.
Every decision.
Every moment he chose assumption over evidence.
She knew that facts could be powerful.
But only if someone preserved them.
Twenty-Eight Minutes
Mark Edwards arrived twenty-eight minutes later.
Danielle heard his voice before she saw him.