Higgins stopped three feet away. The contempt in his eyes was blindingly obvious. He didn't see a public servant or a resident. He saw a hoodie, a large Black man in an affluent neighborhood, and an opportunity to flex the total authority granted to him by a badge and a gun.
"Mayor?" Higgins scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. And let me guess, this whole town belongs to you?"
"It does," Beatatrice said quietly, his voice hardening by a barely perceptible fraction. "And I would appreciate it if you addressed me with appropriate professional courtesy."
That was the trigger.
Higgins’s face flushed a blotchy, violent red. In his worldview, respect was not an exchange between citizens and civil servants; it was an absolute surrender demanded by the uniform, particularly from people who looked like the man standing in front of him.
"Turn around!" Higgins snapped, his hand darting down to unclip the retention strap on his Taser. "Put your hands on the fence! Do it now!"
"Officer, this is a profound mistake," Beatatrice said, standing his ground without making any sudden movements. "You are escalating a non-existent threat."
"Last warning!" Higgins screamed, stepping into Beatatrice's personal space.
Beatatrice let out a long, slow breath. He realized in that instant that logic, reason, and title were useless against the wall of unprovoked aggression standing before him. He turned around slowly, placing his open palms against the cold iron of the chain-link fence. He would comply. He would let the procedure play out without physical resistance. And when the sun fully rose, Officer Brad Higgins would receive a masterclass in accountability.
But Higgins was not interested in passive compliance. He wanted absolute, physical submission.
Officer Brad Higgins had been a member of the Oak Creek Police Department for roughly six months. He had quietly transferred from a neighboring county force following a series of internal "administrative reviews"—a police department euphemism for swept-under-the-rug excessive force complaints that the previous municipality had settled out of court to avoid public embarrassment. Higgins liked Oak Creek. It was wealthy, low-crime, and generally quiet, but he harbored a deep, toxic resentment toward the residents who treated him like a hired security guard rather than an authority figure.
He stepped up behind Beatatrice, grabbing the mayor's left wrist, yanking it downward, and twisting it sharply behind his spine.
"Easy," Beatatrice winced as a sharp spike of pain shot through his shoulder socket. "I am not resisting."
"Stop tensing up!" Higgins lied loudly, projecting his voice for the benefit of any nonexistent onlookers while driving his forearm into the back of Beatatrice’s neck. He slammed Beatatrice’s face directly into the hard metal links of the fence.
The wire mesh cut into Beatatrice’s cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. "I am completely still," Beatatrice rasped, his face pressed against the wire. "Officer, my wallet is in my rear right pocket. My executive credential card is inside. Verify it."
"Shut your mouth!" Higgins kicked Beatatrice’s feet apart, forcing him into an awkward, painful posture. "You don't give me orders. You're under arrest for loitering, attempted destruction of city property, and resisting an officer."
"Resisting?" Beatatrice echoed, his voice filled with disbelief. "My hands are resting on the fence."
Higgins despised the total absence of panic in the man’s voice. He hated the measured articulation, the lack of fear. It made him feel small, diminished. He wanted to hear the man plead. He wanted the satisfying thrill of total control.
"I said keep your mouth shut!" Higgins roared. He grabbed Beatatrice’s right arm, yanked it behind his back, and slammed the steel jaw of a pair of handcuffs around his wrist. He didn't engage the double-lock mechanism; instead, he squeezed the metal cuff down until it bit deeply into the soft tissue above Beatatrice's hand, crushing the nerves against the bone.
Beatatrice clamped his jaw shut, taking a slow, ragged breath through his nose. "Officer Higgins, I am instructing you one final time to pull my identification. If you transport me to the precinct in this manner, the consequences for your career will be catastrophic. Not because I intend to seek personal vengeance, but because you are committing severe violations of departmental procedure and civil rights law."
Higgins spun Beatatrice around by his collar. He grabbed the thick fabric of the gray hoodie with both hands, bunching it into his fists and shoving Beatatrice hard against the fence.
"Are you threatening me, boy?"
The word hit the morning air like a drop of poison. Boy.
Beatatrice’s eyes went dead cold. The mayor vanished; the raw, unyielding man remained. He looked down at Higgins from his full height, his gaze devoid of anger, containing only steel and cold pity.
"I am stating a fact," Beatatrice said. "I am Mayor Beatatrice Sterling. And you have just destroyed your professional life."
Higgins snapped. The calm authority, the absolute refusal to bow, shattered what remained of his self-control. Without a word of warning, Higgins pulled his right fist back and drove it with full force into Beatatrice’s exposed abdomen.
The blow landed right beneath Beatatrice’s ribcage. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. His vision blurred at the margins, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees on the sharp gravel of the park border, coughing violently as he struggled to draw breath.
"Stop it! Leave him alone!"
A shrill voice shrieked from across the street. Higgins spun around, his hand flying back to his sidearm holster.
Standing on the porch of a nearby home was Mrs. Gable, an eighty-two-year-old widow who had lived on Elm Street for four decades. She stood clutching her floral bathrobe around her shoulders, pointing a trembling finger at the officer. "What are you doing to him? That's Beatatrice! That's the mayor!"
"Get back inside your house, lady!" Higgins screamed back, his voice crackling with high-voltage adrenaline. "Stay out of this or you'll be charged with obstruction!"
He turned back to Beatatrice, who was still on his knees, wheezing, trying to expand his bruised diaphragm. "You want to play tough guy?" Higgins hissed, grabbing the chain of the handcuffs and wrenching Beatatrice upward by his bound wrists.
A sharp groan escaped Beatatrice’s lips as his shoulder joints were forced into an unnatural angle. Higgins dragged him across the grass toward the waiting cruiser, shoving him violently against the rear door. Before opening it, Higgins gripped the back of Beatatrice’s head and slammed his cheek against the steel roof frame of the vehicle.
He threw open the back door and shoved Beatatrice inside. Beatatrice landed awkwardly across the hard, molded plastic backseat, his ribcage throbbing with deep pain, his cheek bleeding onto the vinyl upholstery. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing into a slow, controlled rhythm.