Briggs immediately raised his voice.
"Don't move."
Isaiah stopped.
"My identification is in my wallet."
"Keep your hands where I can see them."
"My wallet is in my back pocket."
"Turn around."
"Officer—"
"Turn around."
Isaiah looked around.
The park was empty.
Across the street, a woman had opened her curtains.
Isaiah knew exactly how quickly a misunderstanding could become something much worse.
So he turned.
He placed his hands on the fence.
"I am complying."
Briggs grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
Isaiah's shoulder twisted.
"You're hurting me."
"Stop resisting."
"I'm not resisting."
Briggs pulled his arm higher.
"I told you to stop."
"My wallet is in my back pocket."
"I don't care."
Isaiah closed his eyes for a second.
He had learned long ago that arguing with someone who had already decided you were guilty rarely helped.
"Please check my identification."
Briggs shoved him against the fence.
Isaiah's cheek struck the metal.
Pain flashed across his face.
Across the street, the elderly woman stepped onto her porch.
"Officer!"
Briggs ignored her.
"That's the mayor!"
Briggs turned.
"What did you say?"
The woman pointed.
"That's Mayor Whitaker!"
Briggs looked back at Isaiah.
For a fraction of a second, doubt crossed his face.
Then pride erased it.
"You think you can threaten me with some story?"
Isaiah's voice remained low.
"I'm not threatening you."
"You've been warned."
"I am the mayor."
Briggs grabbed his other arm.
The handcuffs clicked shut.
Isaiah winced.
The metal was painfully tight.
"I am not resisting," he said loudly.
The elderly woman was still shouting.
Briggs turned Isaiah around.
"What's your name?"
"Isaiah Whitaker."
"Wrong answer."
"My identification is in my wallet."
"Shut up."
Isaiah looked directly into his eyes.
"You are making a serious mistake."
Something in those words angered Briggs.
He pulled his fist back.
Then he struck.
The punch landed in Isaiah's stomach.
His body folded.
His knees hit the gravel.
For several seconds, he could not breathe.
Briggs stood over him.
"Get up."
Isaiah struggled for air.
"I am not resisting."
"Get up."
Briggs pulled him to his feet.
The elderly woman screamed again.
"You can't do that!"
Briggs shouted back.
"Go inside!"
Isaiah's cheek was bleeding.
His wrists burned.
His stomach felt as though someone had driven a piece of iron into it.
But beneath the pain, something else had begun.
He was memorizing everything.
Time.
Location.
Officer's name.
Badge number.
Witness.
Words.
Actions.
He had learned as mayor that documentation could matter more than anger.
Briggs dragged him toward the cruiser.
"You're going to booking."
Isaiah said nothing.
The rear door opened.
Briggs pushed him inside.
Then slammed the door.
As the cruiser pulled away, Isaiah looked through the window.
The elderly woman was still standing on her porch.
Her phone was in her hand.
She was recording.
The ride to the police station took twelve minutes.
Isaiah spent every second trying to breathe normally.
Briggs sat in front.
He seemed relaxed.
That frightened Isaiah more than the punch.
The officer did not look like a man who realized he had made a mistake.
He looked like a man who believed he had done exactly what he wanted to do.
Briggs picked up the radio.
"Dispatch, Unit Seven-Adam. One male suspect in custody. Possible vandalism at Mason Park. Resisted arrest."
Isaiah looked toward the rearview mirror.
"My name is Isaiah Whitaker."
Briggs ignored him.
"Subject refused identification."
Isaiah's jaw tightened.
"Check my wallet."
Briggs smiled.
"You'll get processed."
The cruiser turned into the police station.
The metal gate opened.
Then closed behind them.
Isaiah was taken inside.
The booking room was already busy.
Officers moved between desks.
Phones rang.
Printers hummed.
Someone was arguing in a holding cell.
Briggs pushed Isaiah forward.
"Got another one."
Sergeant Harold Mercer looked up.
"Name?"
"John Doe."
Mercer frowned.
"Identification?"
"Refused."
Isaiah looked at Mercer.
"My name is Isaiah Whitaker."
Mercer stared at him.
Something changed.
He stood slowly.
"Mr. Mayor?"
Briggs froze.
The room went silent.
Mercer stepped closer.
"Mayor Whitaker?"
Briggs turned.
"What?"
Mercer looked at him.
"That's Mayor Isaiah Whitaker."
Briggs stared at Isaiah.
Then at Mercer.
Then back at Isaiah.
The color drained from his face.
"No."
Mercer pointed toward the wallet.